Behold, dear mistress, how each pleasant green
Will now renew his summer's livery:
The fragrant flowers which have not long been seen
Will flourish now ere long in bravery.
But I, alas, within whose mourning mind
The grafts of grief are only given to grow,
Cannot enjoy the spring which others find,
But still my will must wither all in woe.
The lusty Ver that whilom might exchange
My grief to joy, and my delight increase,
Springs now elsewhere and shows to me but strange;
My winter's woe, therefore, can never cease.
In other coasts his sun doth clearly shine,
And comfort lend to every mould but mine.