Classic Poem

In wonted walkes, since wonted fancies change,
Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise;
For in each thing whereto mine eye doth range
Part of my paine me-seemes engraued lyes.
The rockes, which were of constant mind the marke,
In clyming steepe now hard refusall show;
The shading woods seeme now my sunne to darke;
And stately hilles disdaine to looke so low;
The restfull caues now restlesse visions giue;
In dales I see each way a hard ascent;
Like late-mowne meades, late cut from ioy I liue;
Alas, sweete brookes do in my teares augment
Rockes, woods, hilles, caues, dales, meads, brookes answer me:
Infected mindes infect each thing they see.