Sonett-Forum

Nymphs, sister nymphs, which haunt this crystal brook,
And, happy, in these floating bowers abide,
Where trembling roofs of trees from sun you hide,
Which make ideal woods in every crook;
Whether ye garlands for your locks provide,
Or pearly letters seek in sandy hook,
Or count your loves when Thetis was a bride,
Lift up your golden heads and on me look.
Read in mine eyes mine agonising cares,
And what ye read recount to her again:
Fair nymphs, say, all these streams are but my tears,
And if she ask you how they sweet remain,
Tell that the bitterest tears which eyes can pour,
When shed for her do cease more to be sour.