Astrophel and Stella: 108

When sorrow (vsing mine owne fiers might)Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest,Through that darke fornace to my heart opprest,There shines a joy from thee my only light;But soone as thought of thee breeds my delight,And my young soule flutters to thee his nest,Most rude dispaire my daily vnbidden guest,Clips streight my wings, streight wraps me in his night,And makes me then bow downe my head, and say,Ah what does Phœbus gold that wretch auaile,Whom iron doores do keepe from vse of day?So strangely (alas) thy workes in me preuaile,That in my woes for thee thou art my joy,And in my joyes for thee my onely annoy.