Sonnet

I walk within this wood to vent my woes, Remembering all my griefs and endless groans; While growing joys deep sad conceits o'ergoes, And loads my heart with love, my mind with moans. The pleasant singing birds my plaints expones; My tears from springs and wells seem to descend; Yea both the highest hills and hardest stones If ear they have, an ear to me extend. Then at the oaks and alders that perpend My plaints, I speir what way they will me feed, If for to stay with them I condescend: "On green," say they, for green does hope aye breed, Which feeds the wretches, as by proof they prove, And brings despairing souls some ease in love.