Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

THE EARTH, late choked with showers,

Is how array’d in green;

Her bosom springs with flowers,

The air dissolves her teen,

The heavens laugh at her glory:

Yet bide I sad and sorry.

The woods are deckt with leaves,

And trees are clothèd gay

And Flora, crown’d with sheaves,

With oaken boughs doth play:

Where I am clad in black,

The token of my wrack.

The birds upon the trees

Do sing with pleasant voices,

And chant in their degrees

Their loves and lucky choices:

When I, whilst they are singing,

With sighs mine arms am wringing.

The thrushes seek the shade,

And I my fatal grave;

Their flight to heaven is made,

My walk on earth I have:

They free, I thrall; they jolly,

I sad and pensive wholly.