- From you have I been absent in the spring,
- When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,
- Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
- That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.
- Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
- Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
- Could make me any summer’s story tell,
- Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
- Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
- Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
- They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
- Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
- Yet seem’d it winter still, and you away,
- As with your shadow I with these did play.