Fair Summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore,
   So fair a Summer look for never more.
All good things vanish less than in a day,
   Prace, plenty, pleasure suddenly decay.
Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year;
   The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.


What, shall those flowers that decked thy garland erst,
   Upon thy grave by wastefully dispersed?
O trees, consume your sap in sorrow's source;
   Streams, turn to tears your tributary course.
Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year;
   The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.