THOSE hours, that
with gentle work did frame |
|
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, |
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Will play the tyrants to the very same |
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And that unfair which fairly doth excel; |
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For never-resting time leads summer on |
5 |
To hideous winter, and confounds him there; |
|
Sap checkd with frost, and lusty leaves
quite gone, |
|
Beauty oersnowd and bareness
every where: |
|
Then, were not summers distillation
left, |
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A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, |
10 |
Beautys effect with beauty were bereft, |
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Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was: |
|
But flowers distilld, though
they with winter meet, |
|
Leese but their show; their substance
still lives sweet. |
|