Ah Demades, no wonder though I wail,
For even the spring is winter unto me!
Look as the sun the earth doth then avail,
When by his beams her bowels warmèd be;
Even so a saint more sun-bright in her shining
First wrought my weal, now hastes my winter's pining.
Which lovely lamp withdrawn from my poor eyes,
Both parts of earth and fire drowned up in woe
In winter dwell. My joy, my courage dies;
My lambs with me that do my winter know
For pity scorn the spring that nigheth near,
And pine to see their master's pining cheer.
The root which yieldeth sap unto the tree
Draws from the earth the means that make it spring;
And by the sap the scions fostered be,
All from the sun have comfort and increasing
And that fair eye that lights this earthly ball
Kills by depart, and nearing cheereth all.
As root to tree, such is my tender heart,
Whose sap is thought, whose branches are content;
And from my soul they draw their sweet or smart,
And from her eye, my soul's best life is lent;
Which heavenly eye that lights both earth and air,
Quells by depart and quickens by repair.