Come again:
Sweet love doth now invite,
Thy graces that refrain,
To do me due delight,
To see, to hear, touch, to kiss, to die
With thee again in sweetest syphaty.

Come again
That I may cease to mourn,
Through thy unkind disdain:
For now left and forlorn,
I sit, I sigh, I weep, I faint, I die
In deadly pain and endless misery.

All the day
The sun that lends me shine,
By frowns do cause me pine,
And feeds me with delay.
Her smiles my spring, that make my joys to grow.
Her frowns the Winter of my woe.

All the night
My sleeps are full of dreams,
My eyes are full of streams,
My heart takes no delight...
(First Booke of Songes, 1597, no. 17)