Edmund Spenser

Amoretti

LII
So oft as homeward I from her depart,
I go like one that having lost the field,
Is prisoner led away with heavy heart,
Despoiled of warlike arms and knowen shield.
So do I now myself a prisoner yield,
To sorrow and to solitary pain:
From presence of my dearest dear exiled,
Longwhile alone in languor to remain.
There let no thought of joy or pleasure vain,
Dare to approach, that may my solace breed:
But sudden dumps and dreary sad disdain,
Of all worlds gladness more my torment feed.
So I her absence will my penance make,
That of her presence I my mead may take.