A Song of Dowland’s on the Stereo

I saw my lady weep and sorrow proud
  To be advanced so
In those fair eyes where all affections keep.
  What ground of sympathy
Below the lute’s fretwork, the tenor’s
  Fine, full-throated pride
Of voice at rendering such woe
  Delicate, decorous,
Which else were no theme for his song.
  ”She is the rosin on his bow,”
I thought to say, but you were sleeping,
  Tired past speech
From your day’s labor clearing boughs
  Where creeper and fox grape
Wound like wire in a strictness of design
  Which was desire,
Which moved my hand also as I filled this page
  Where again you raised
The mattock, swung, swung again, until
  Vines held the blade;
You could not work it free. You cried out then
  As if in rage or grief
Or at some lie. And you did not know
  I saw, or made these lines.