And bow your ears unto my doleful ditty.
And, Pan! thou shepheards’ god, that once didst love,
Pity the pains that thou thyself didst prove.
“Thou barren ground, whom winter’s wrath hath wasted,
Art made a mirror to behold my plight:
Whilome thy fresh spring flower’d, and after hasted
Thy summer proud, with daffodillies dight;
And now is come thy winter’s stormy state,
Thy mantle marr’d wherein thou maskedst late.
“Such rage as winter’s reigneth in my heart,
My life-blood freezing with unkindly cold;
Such stormy stoures do breed my baleful smart,
As if my year were waste and waxen old;
And yet, alas! but now my spring begun,
And yet, alas! it is already done.
“You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,
Wherein the birds were wont to build their bower,
And now are cloth’d with moss and hoary frost,
Instead of blossoms, wherewith your buds did flower;
I see your tears that from your boughs do rain,
Whose drops in dreary icicles remain.
“All so my lustful leaf is dry and sere,
My timely buds with wailing all are wasted;
The blossom which my branch of youth did bear,
With breathed sighs is blown away and blasted;
And from mine eyes the drizzling tears descend,
As on your boughs the icicles depend.
“Thou feeble flock! whose fleece is rough and rent,
Whose knees are weak through fast and evil fare,
Mayst witness well, by thy ill government,
Thy master’s mind is overcome with care:
Thou weak, I wan; thou lean, I quite forlorn:
With mourning pine I; you with pining mourn.
4
