The stately comeliness of forests old,
The sport of floods which would themselves embrace?
What doth it serve to hear the sylvans’ songs,
The cheerful thrush, the nightingale’s sad strains,
Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs?
For what doth serve all that this world contains,
Since she for whom those once to me were dear,
Can have no part of them now with me here?
William Drummond, 1585–1649.