O sacred woods, sweet fields, and rising mountains;
O painted flowers, green herbs where Flora treads,
Refreshed by wanton winds and watery fountains!
O all ye winged choristers of wood,
That perched aloft, your former pains report;
And straight again recount with pleasant mood
Your present joys in sweet and seemly sort!
O all you creatures whosoever thrive On mother earth, in seas, by air, by fire; More blest are you than I here under sun! Love dies in me, whenas he doth revive In you; I perish under Beauty's ire, Where after storms, winds, frosts, your life is won.
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