Those hours that with gentle work did frame,
    The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
    Will play the tyrants to the very same,
    And that unfair which fairly doth excell:
    For never resting time leads summer on,
    To hideous winter  and confounds   him there,
    Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone.
    Beauty  ore-snowed and bareness everywhere.
    Then were not summer's distillation   left,
    A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
    Beauty's effect  with beauty were bereft,
    Not it nor no remembrance what it was,
    But flowers distilled   though they with winter meet,
    Leese  but their show-their substance still lives sweet.


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