Was none but brakes and brambles to be mown.
"My boughs with blooms that crowned were at first,
And promised of timely fruit such store,
Are left both bare and barren now at erst;
The flattering fruit is fallen to ground before,
And rotted ere they were half mellow ripe;
My harvest, waste, my hope away did wipe.
"The fragrant flowers, that in my garden grew,
Be withered, as they had been gathered long:
Their roots be dried up for lack of dew,