How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarre’d the benefit of rest?
When day’s oppression is not eas’d by night,
But day by night and night by day oppress’d,
And each, though enemies to either’s reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion’d night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild’st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger.
In plain English
The speaker is exhausted and can't escape his misery—day wears him out with work and worry, but night brings no relief. Instead, night torments him differently, keeping him awake thinking about his distance from the fair youth. Day and night have become strange allies, each taking turns to hurt him in their own way.
He tries to cope by flattering both. He tells the daytime that the youth outshines the sun itself, brightening even cloudy skies. At night, he tells the darkness that the youth glows brighter than the stars. But these little games don't help. Day just stretches his sorrow longer, and night makes that grief feel heavier and more unbearable.
