Sonnet 47

ARe these the flowry banks? Is this the Mead
Where she was wont to passe the pleasant houres?
Was't here her Eyes exhal'd mine eyes salt show'rs,
And on her lap did lay my wearied Head?
Is this the goodly Elme did us o'respread,
Whose tender Rine, cut forth in curious flow'rs
By that white hand, containes those flames of Ours?
Is this the murmuring Spring us musick made?
Deflourisht Mead, where is your heavenly hue?
And Banke, that Arras did you late adorne?
How look'st thou Elme all withered and forlorne?
Only sweet Spring nought altered seems in you.
But while here chang'd each other thing appears,
To salt your streames take of mine Eyes these tears.