Sonnet 58

MY Lute, be as thou wert when thou did grow
With thy green Mother in some shady Grove,
When immelodious Winds but made thee move,
And Birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that deare voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious Straines to …low,
Is re…t from Earth to tune those spheares above,
What art thou but a Harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing Notes he pleasing Notes no more,
But Orphans wailings to the fainting Eare,
Each Stroke a sigh, each Sound draws forth a Teare,
For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee daigne,
Like widow'd Turtle still her losse complaine.