What doth it serue to see sunne's burning face,
And skies enamell'd with both the Indies' gold,
Or moone at night in jettie charriot roll'd,
And all the glorie of that starrie place?
What doth it serue earth's beautie to behold,
The mountaines' pride, the meadowes' flowrie grace,
The statelie comelinesse of forrests old,
The sport of flouds, which would themselues embrace?
What doth it serue to heare the Syluans' songs,
The wanton mearle, the nightingalle's sad straines,
Which in darke shades seeme to deplore my wrongs?
For what doth serue all that this world containes,
Sith shee for whome those once to me were deare,
No part of them can haue now with me here?