Sonnet 15

SWeet Brook, in whose cleare Christall I my eyes
Have oft seen great in labour of their teares,
Enamell'd Banke whose shining gravell beares
These sad Characters of my miseries;
High Woods, whose mounting tops menace the Sphears,
Wild Citizens, Amphions of the Trees,
You gloomy Groves at hottest Noons which freeze,
Elysian shades which Phoebus never cleares;
Vaste solitary Mountaines, pleasant Plaines,
Embroydred Meads that Ocean-waies you reach;
Hills, Dales, Springs, All whom my sad cry constraines
To take part of my plaints, and learne woes speech,
Will that remorselesse faire e're pity show?
Of grace now answer if ye ought know: No.