Next morning, when the golden sunne was risen,And new had bid good morrow to the mountaines;When night her silver light had lockt in prison,Which gave a glimmering on the christall fountaines:Then ended sleepe, and then my cares began,Ev'n with the uprising of the silver swan.Oh, glorious sunne! quoth I, viewing the sunne,That lightenst everie thing but me alone:Why is my summer season almost done,My spring-time past, and ages autumne gone?My harvest's come, and yet I reapt no corne:My love is great, and yet I am forlorne.
