Blooms with the brambles and the thorns that grow
Into my soul: the lofty hill doth heed
Nowise my sorrows; and the plain below
Of hearing is awearied: in my need
No solace, e'er so small, to assuage my ill
I find in stream or plain, in mead or hill.
I thought the fire that sets the heart aflame,
Lit by the wingèd boy, the cunning net,
Within whose mesh he doth the gods entame,
The strangling noose, the arrow he doth whet