Are these the flow'ry banks, is this the mead,

[ZaunköniG]

Are these the flow'ry banks, is this the mead,
Where she was wont to pass the pleasant hours?
Did here her eyes exhale mine eyes' salt show'rs,
When on her lap I laid my weary head?
Is this the goodly elm did us o'erspread,
Whose tender rind, cut out in curious flow'rs
By that white hand, contains those flames of ours?
Is this the rustling spring us music made?
Deflourish'd mead, where is your heavenly hue?
Bank, where that arras did you late adorn?
How look ye, elm, all withered and forlorn?
Only, sweet spring, nought altered seems in you;
But while here chang'd each other thing appears,
To sour your streams take of mine eyes these tears.