A Canzon Pastoral in honour of her Majesty

Alas! what pleasure, now the pleasant Spring
Hath given place
To harsh black frosts the sad ground covering.
Can we, poor we, embrace.
When every bird on every branch can sing.

Nought but this note of woe, Alas?
Alas! this note of woe why should we sound?
With us, as May, September hath a prime;
Then, birds and branches, your Alas is fond.
Which call upon the absent summer-time.

For did flowers make our May,
Or the sunbeams your day.
When night and winter did the world embrace,
Well might you wail your ill and sing Alas.

Lo, matron-like the earth herself attires,
In habit grave;
Naked the fields are, bloomless are the briars,
Yet we a summer have.
Who in our clime kindleth these living fires.

Which blooms can on the briars save.
No ice doth crystallize the running brook,
No blast deflowers the flower-adorn'd field.
Crystal is clear, but clearer is the look
Which to our climes these living fires doth yield.

Winter, though everywhere.
Hath no abiding here:
On brooks and briars she doth ride alone.
The sun which lights our world is always one.