Take view of the meadows, how neatly they spread,
The Spring-primped lily, that royal lass of the fields,
The claret rose, who his sweet smell to the air yields –
The running brooks in scented dale; country full with green and bird:
Yet all these, barren of Springtime, oft lose their coloured season,
And a worse ugliness is born, more bare than Arabian deserts;
And those bowers before that gave cool shade, now lose their hats –
And what sweet-talking waters the brooks did brook, now do pass on!
So I, proud Shindara, barren of that love which grows in me,
With my life lose that dearer life in the miscarriage;
And bear no more fresh leaves of hope to cool my Age:
But in youth grow bare, like darling buds of the gods, plucked ere their prime!
But you are my Spring rains, that make my love ever-green,
And should you cease, Summer comes in front, you leave me behind, dying!