Alas, so all things now do hold their peace, Heaven and earth disturbèd in no thing; The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease; The nightes car the stars about doth bring. Calm is the sea, the waves work less and less. So am not I, whom love, alas, doth wring, Bringing before my face the great increase Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing In joy and woe, as in a doubtful ease. For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring, But by and by the cause of my disease Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting, When that I think what grief it is again To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.
Sonnet 7 [The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings]
The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale; The nightingale with feathers new she sings; And turtle to her make hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs; The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; The buck in brake his winter coat he flings; The fishes flete with new repairèd scale; The adder all her slough away she slings; The swift swalllow pursueth the flies small; The busy bee her honey now she mings; Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.