Sonnet viii

My Lute, bee as thou wast when thou didst grow
With thy greene Mother in some shadie Grove,
When immelodious Windes but made thee move,
And Birds on thee their Ramage did bestow.
Sith that deare Voyce which did thy Sounds approve,
Which us’d in such harmonious Straines to flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune those Spheares above,
What art thou but a Harbenger of Woe?
Thy pleasing Notes be pleasing Notes no more,
But orphane Wailings to the fainting Eare,
Each Stoppe a Sigh, each Sound draws forth a Teare,
Be therefore silent as in Woods before,
Or if that any Hand to touch thee deigne,
Like widow’d Turtle, still her losse complaine.