Sonnet. IIII.

You secrete vales, you solitarie fieldes,
you shores forsaken, and you sounding rocks:
if euer groning hart hath made you yeeld,
or words halfe spoke that sence in prison locks,
Then mongst night shadowes whisper out my death;
that when my selfe hath seald my lips from speaking,
each tell-tale eccho with a weeping breath,
may both record my trueth, & true loues breaking.
You prettie flowers that smile for Sommers sake,
pull in your heads before my watrie eyes
doe turne the Medowes to a standing lake:
by whose vntimely floodes your glory dies.
For loe, mine hart resolu'd to moystning ayre,
Feedeth mine eyes, which doubles teare for teare.