Sonnet 37

NYmphs, Sister Nymphs which haunt this christall Brook,
And happy in these floting Bowers abide,
Where trembling Roofes of Trees from Sun you hide,
Which make Idaean woods in every Crook;
Whether ye garlands for your locks provide,
Or pearly letters seek in sandy Book,
Or count your Loves when Thetis was a Bride,
Lift up your golden heads and on me look.
Read in mine Eyes my agonizing Cares,
And what ye read, recount to her againe:
Faire Nymphs say all these streames are but my Teares,
And if she aske you how they sweet remaine,
Tell that the bitt'rest teares which Eyes can poure,
When shed for her can be no longer sowre.