SONNET. LXXXIX. Lyke as the Culuer 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 loue: and wandring here and there all desolate, seek with my playnts to match that mournful doue: Ne ioy of ought that vnder heauen doth houe, can comfort me, but her owne ioyous sight: whose sweet aspect both God and man can moue, in her vnspotted pleasauns to delight. Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis, and dead my life that wants such liuely blis.