But this for all, I list no more to saie, (30) Farewell faire proude, not lifes, but loues decaie.
T He gentle season of the yeere, +Hath made my blooming branch appeere, And beautified the land with flowres, The aire doth sauor with delight, (5) The heauens doe smile, to see the sight, And yet mine eies, augments their showres.
The meades are mantled all with greene, The trembling leaues, haue cloth’d the treene, The birds with feathers new doe sing, (10) But I poore soule, when wrong doth wrack, Attyres my selfe in mourning black, Whose leafe doth fall amid his spring.
And as you see the skarlet Rose, In his sweete prime, his buds disclose, (15) Whose hewe is with the Sun reuiued, So in the Aprill of mine age, +My liuely colours doe asswage, Because my Sun-shine is depriued.
My hart that wonted was of yore, (20) Light as the winde abroad to sore, Amongst the buds when beautie springs, Now onely houers ouer you, As doth the birde thats taken new, And mourns when all hir neighbours sings.
(25) When euery man is bent to sport, Then pensiue I alone resort, Into some solitarie walke, As doth the dolefull Turtle doue, Who hauing lost hir faithfull loue, (30) Sits mourning on some withered stalke. +