The Solitary Shepherd's Song

O shady vales, O fair enrich'd meads,
O sacred woods, sweet fields, and rising mountains;
O painted flowers, green herbs where Flora treads,
Refresh'd by wanton winds and wat'ry fountains.

O all you winged choristers of wood.
That perch'd aloft your former pains report,
And straight again recount with pleasant mood
Your present joys in sweet and seemly sort.

O all you creatures whosoever thrive,
On mother earth, in seas, by air, by fire.
More blest are you than I here under sun:
Love dies in me, whenas he doth revive
In you; I perish under beauty's ire.
Where after storms, winds, frosts, your life is won.