The Fifth Decade. Sonnet IV. You secret vales! you solitary fields!

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

YOU secret vales! you solitary fields!

You shores forsaken! and you sounding rocks!

If ever groaning heart hath made you yield,

Or words half spoke that sense in prison locks;

Then, ’mongst night shadows, whisper out my death!

That when myself hath sealed my lips from speaking,

Each tell-tale echo with a weeping breath,

May both record my truth and true love’s breaking.

You pretty flowers! that smile for summer’s sake,

Pull in your heads! before my wat’ry eyes

Do turn the meadows to a standing lake,

By whose untimely floods, your glory dies!

For lo, mine heart, resolved to moistening air,

Feedeth mine eyes, which double tear for tear.