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V.
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
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
Sap
cheque'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,
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.
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