[XLVIII. So farre from my delight]
So farre from my delight
So farre from my delight, what cares torment me, what
cares torment me, what cares torment me,
fieldes do record it, and vallyes and woods and mountaines, and woods and
mountaynes, and running ryuers and reposed fountaynes,
where I crye out, and to the heauens lament me, none other
sounds but tunes of my complayning, Nymph of the groues or pleasant
byrd once heareth, still recount I my griefe, & her disdayning,
to euery plant that groweth, to euery plant that groweth, or blossome
beareth, or blossome beareth.