Content thy selfe with patience perforce:
And quenche no love with droppes of darcke mistrust:
Let absence have no power to divorce,
Thy faithfull friend which meaneth to be just.
Beare but a while thy constance to declare,
For when I come one ynche shall breake no square.
I must confesse that promise dyd me binde,
For to have sene thy seemely selfe ere now:
And if thou knewest what griefes did gaule my minde,
Bicause I coulde not keepe that faithfull vowe,
My just excuse, I can my selfe assure,
With lytle paine thy pardon might procure.
But call to minde how long Ulisses was,
In lingring absence, from his loving make:
And howe she deigned then hir dayes to passe,
In solitary silence for his sake.
Be thou a true Penelope to me,
And thou shalt sone thine owne Ulisses see.
What sayd I? sone? yea sone I saye againe,
I wyll conne sone and soner if I maye:
Beleeve me nowe it is a pinching payne,
To thinke of love, when lovers are awaye.
Such thoughts I have, and when I thinke on thee,
My thoughtes are there, whereas my bones would bee.
The longing lust which Priames sonne of Troye,
Had for to see his Cresside come againe:
Could not exceede the depth of mine anoye,
Nor seeme to passe the patterne of my payne.
I fryse in hope, I thaw in hote desire,
Farre from the flame, and yet I burne like fire.
Wherfore deare friend, thinke on the pleasures past.
And let my teares, for both our paines suffise:
The lingring joyes, when as they come at last,
Are bet then those, which passe in posting wise.
And I my selfe, to prove this tale is true,
In hast, post hast, thy comfort will renew.