Whereat amaz'd, as one that unaware
Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood,
Or 'stonish'd as night-wanderers often are,
Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood;
⁠Even so confounded in the dark she lay,
⁠Having lost the fair discovery of her way.

And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,
That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,
Make verbal repetition of her moans;
Passion on passion deeply is redoubled:
⁠'Ay me!' she cries, and twenty times, 'Woe, woe!'
⁠And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.

She marking them, begins a wailing note,
And sings extemporally a woeful ditty;
How love makes young men thrall and old men dote;
How love is wise in folly foolish-witty:
⁠Her heavy anthem stili concludes in woe,
⁠And still the choir of echoes answer so.

Her song was tedious, and outwore the night,
For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short:
If pleas'd themselves, others, they think, delight
In such like circumstance, with such like sport:
⁠Their copious stories, oftentimes begun,
⁠End without audience, and are never done.

For who hath she to spend the night withal,
But idle sounds resembling parasites;