Page:Elizabethan sonnet-cycles.djvu/169

 With kisses kind she gratifies my pain,

Protesting never rigour more to show.

Happy was I this good hap to obtain;

But drowsy slumbers flying to their cell,

My sudden joy converted was to bale;

My wonted sorrows still with me do dwell.

I lookèd round about on hill and dale,

But I could neither my fair Chloris view,

Nor yet the satyr which erstwhile I slew.