text: Lyke as the Culver on the bared bough,
  Sits mourning for the absence of her mate:
  And in her songs sends many a wishfull vow,
  For his returne that seemes to linger late,
  So I alone now left disconsolate,
  Mourne to my selfe the absence of my love:
  And wandring here and there all desolate,
  Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove:
  Ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove,
  Can comfort me, but her owne joyous sight:
  Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
  In her unspotted pleasauns to delight.
  Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
  And dead my life that wants such lively blis.