Sonnet 28

DEare Quirister, who from those shadows sends
Ere that the blushing Morne dare shew her Light,
Such sad lamenting straines, that Night attends
(Become all Eare) Stars stay to heare thy plight.
If one whose griefe even reach of thought transcends,
Who ne're [not in a Dreame] did taste Delight,
May thee importune who like case pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in Woes despight.
Tell me (so may thou Fortune milder try,
And long long sing) for what thou thus complaines,
Since Winter's gone, and Sun in dapled skie
Enamour'd smiles on Woods and flowry Plaines?
The Bird, as if my questions did her move,
With trembling wings sigh'd forth I love, I love.