O sweet woods the delight of solitarinesse,
O how much do I love your solitarinesse.
From fames desire, from loves delight retir'd,
In these sad groves an Hermits life I led,
And those flase pleasures which once I admir'd,
With sad remembrance of my fall, I dread.
To birds to trees, to earth, impart I this,
For shee less secret, and as senceless is.
O sweet woods the delight of solitarinesse,
O how much do I love your solitarinesse.
Experience which repentance only brings,
Doth bid mee now my hart from love estrange,
Love is disdained when it doth looke at Kings,
And love loe placed, base and apt to change:
The power doth take from him his liberty,
His want of worth makes him in cradell die.
O sweet woods the delight of solitarinesse,
O how much do I love your solitarinesse.
You men that give false worship unto Love,
And seke that which you never shall obtaine,
The endlesse worke of Sisisphus you procure,
Whose end is this, to know you strive in vaine,
Hope and desire which now your Idols bee,
You needs must loose and feele dispaire with mee.
O sweet woods the delight of solitarinesse,
O how much do I love your solitarinesse.
You woods in you the fairest Nimphs have walked,
Nimphs at whose sight all harts did yeeld to Love.
You woods in whom deere lovers oft have talked,
How doe you now a place of mourning prove,
Wansted my Mistres saith this is the doome,
Thou art loves Childbed, Nursery, and Tombe.
O sweet woods the delight of solitarinesse,
O how much do I love your solitarinesse.
