Sonnet 16

WIth flaming Horns the Bull now brings the yeare,
Melt do the Mountains rouling flouds of Snow,
The silver Rivers in smooth Channels flow,
The Late-bare Woods green Anadeams do weare.
The Nightingall forgetting Winters woe,
Cals up the lazy Morne her notes to heare,
Spread are those Flow'rs which names of Princes beare,
Some red, some azure, white, and golden grow.
Here lowes a Heifer, there be-wailing strayes
A harmelesse Lambe, not far a Stag rebounds;
The Shepheards sing to grazing flocks sweet Layes,
And all about the Ecchoing Aire resounds.
Hils, Dales, Woods, Flouds, & ev'ry thing doth change,
But She in rigour, I in Love am strange.