Mee thought the time to sadnes moued mee
On drouping daies not half such mirth haue wee,
As when the time of yeare and wether’s fayre,
So moue our mindes as mocions moue the ayre.
The wearye nightes approched on apace
With darksom shades which somewhat breedeth care,
The Sun hath take more neere the earth his race,
In Libra than his greatest swinge he bare,
For pardy then the daies more colder are,
Then fades the greene fruite timely, herbes are don,