Though regions far divided
And tedious tracts of time,
By my misfortune guided
Make absence thought a crime;
Though we were set asunder
As far as East from West,
Love still would work this wonder,
Thou shouldst be in my breast.

How slow alas are paces
Compared to thoughts that fly
In moment back to places
Whole ages scarce descry.
The body must have pauses,
The mind requires no rest.
Love needs no second causes
To guide thee to my breast.

Accept in that poor dwelling
But welcome, nothing great,
With pride no turrets swelling,
But lowly as the seat;
Where, though not much delighted,
In peace thou mayst be blest,
Unfeasted yet unfrighted
By rivals, in my breast.

But this is not the diet
That doth for glory strive;
Poor beauties seek in quiet
To keep one heart alive.
The price of this ambition,
That looks for such a guest,
Is, hopeless of fruition,
To beat an empty breast.

See then my last lamenting:
Upon a cliff I'll sit,
Rock Constancy presenting
Till I grow part of it;
My tears a quicksand feeding,
Whereon no foot can rest,
My sighs a tempest breeding
About my stony breast.

Those arms wherein wide open
Love's fleet was wont to put,
Shall laid across betoken
That haven's mouth is shut.
Mine eyes no light shall cherish
For ships at sea distrest,
But darkling let them perish,
Or split against my breast.

Yet if I can discover
When thine before it rides,
To show I was thy lover
I'll smooth my ragged sides,
And so much better measure
Afford thee than the rest,
Thou shalt have no displeasure
By knocking at my breast.