| 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 excel; | |
| For never-resting time leads summer on | 5 |
| To hideous winter, and confounds him there; | |
| Sap check’d with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, | |
| Beauty o’ersnow’d and bareness every where: | |
| Then, were not summer’s distillation left, | |
| A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, | 10 |
| Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft, | |
| Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was: | |
| But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet, | |
| Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet. |