Each tree did boast the wishèd spring-time's pride
When solitary in the vale of love
I hid myself, so from the world to hide
The uncouth pa**ions which my heart did prove,
No tree whose branches did not bravely spring,
No branch whereon a fine bird did not sit,
No bird but did her shrill notes sweetly sing,
No song but did contain a lovely dit.
Trees, branches, birds, and songs were framèd fair,
Fit to allure frail mind to careless ease;
But careful was my thought, yet in despair
I dwelt, for brittle hope me cannot please.
For when I view my love's fair eyes' reflecting
I entertain despair, vain hope rejecting.