I believe



Oh Love what need is it that thou should'st die?
Oh Faith what need that thou shouldest wax so cold—
Seeing that good returneth presently—
And all things are as in that year of old.
Nay--tis a passing cloud that dims the sun
If Love be for a season full of pain,
A passing woe that swiftly is fordone,
A passing cloud that melteth in sweet rain.
Have patience for a little, and the end
Shall pay thy patience and thy hour's dismay
When Woe's remembrance sweets to Joy doth lend,
And night's black memory brightens the new day.—
Oh Love faint not if she whose slave thou art
Being most maidenlike know not her heart