Sonnet 57

WHat doth it serve to see the Suns bright Face?
And Skies enamell'd with the Indian Gold?
Or the Moone in a fierce Chariot rold,
And all the Glory of that starry Place?
What doth it serve Earths Beauty to behold?
The Mountaines pride, the Meadows flowry grace,
The stately comlinesse of Forrests old,
The Sport of Flouds which would themselves embrace?
What doth it serve to heare the Sylvans Songs,
The cheerefull Thrush, the Nightingales sad straines,
Which in darke shades seems to deplore my Wrongs?
For what doth serve all that this World containes?
Since she, for whom those once to me were deare,
Can have no part of them now with me here.