"Where my high steeples whilom usde to stand, On which the lordly faulcon wont to towre, There now is but an heap of lyme and sand For the shriche-owle to build her balefull bowre: 130 And where the nightingale wont forth to powre Her restles plaints, to comfort wakefull lovers, There now haunt yelling mewes and whining plovers.