Sonnet 97: Dian, That Fain Would Cheer

Dian, that fain would cheer her friend the Night, Shows her oft at the full her fairest race, Bringing with her those starry nymphs, whose chase From heav'nly standing hits each mortal wight. But ah, poor Night, in love with Phoebus' light, And endlessly despairing of his grace, Herself (to show no other joy hath place) Silent and sad in mourning weeds doth dight: Ev'n so (alas) a lady, Dian's peer, With chice delights and rarest company Would fain drive clouds from out my heavy cheer. But woe is me, though Joy itself were she, She could not show my blind brain ways of joy While I despair my Sun's sight to enjoy.