Air, water, earth, now breathe of love alone,
And every creature plans again to woo.
Ah me! but now return the heaviest sighs,
Which my heart from its last resources yields
To her that bore its keys to heaven away.
And songs of little birds and blooming fields
And gracious acts of ladies, fair and wise,
Are desert land and uncouth beasts of prey.
(Sonnet 269.)
The nightingale, who maketh moan so sweet