Menaphon to Pesana

Fair fields, proud Flora's vaunt, why is't you smile
Whenas I languish?
You golden meads, why shine you to beguile
My weeping anguish?
I live to sorrow, you to pleasure spring,
Why do ye spring thus?
What, will not Boreas, tempests' wrathful king.
Take some pity on us?
And send forth Winter in her rusty weed.

To wail my bemoanings,
While I distress'd do tune my country reed
Unto my groanings?
But heaven and earth, time, place, and every power
Have with her conspired
To turn my blissful sweet to baleful sour,
Since I this desired.
The heaven whereto my thoughts may not aspire,
Aye me unhappy!
It was my fault t' embrace my bane the fire
That forceth me die.
' Mine be the pain, but her's the cruel cause
Of this strange torment:
Wherefore no time my banning prayers shall pause
Till proud she repent.