FROM you have I been
absent in the spring |
|
When proud-pied April, dressd in all
his trim, |
|
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, |
|
That heavy Saturn laughd and leapd
with him. |
|
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet
smell |
5 |
Of different flowers in odour and in hue, |
|
Could make me any summers story tell, |
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Or from their proud lap pluck them where
they grew: |
|
Nor did I wonder at the lilys white, |
|
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; |
10 |
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, |
|
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. |
|
Yet seemd it winter still,
and you away, |
|
As with your shadow I with these
did play. |
|