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 everything,
    That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
    Yet not 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 lilies white,
    Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
    They were but sweet, but figures of delight
    Drawn after you-you pattern of all these.
    Yet seemed it winter still and you away,
    As with your shadow I with these did play.




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