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XCVIII.
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 every thing,
That heavy Saturn
laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor 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 lily's white,
Nor
praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but
sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you
pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter still,
and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did
play.
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