Another Sonnet

In wonted walks since wonted fancies change,
Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise.
For in each thing whereto my mind doth range
Part of my pain meseems engraved lies.

The rocks which were of constant mind, the mark
In climbing steep, now hard refusal show;
The shading woods seem now my sun to dark,
And stately hills disdain to look so low.

The restful caves now restless visions give;
In dales I see each way a hard ascent;
Like late-mown meads, late cut from joy I live;
Alas, sweet brooks! do in my tears augment.
Rocks, woods, hills, caves, dales, meads, brooks answer me:
Infected minds infect each thing they see.