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 everything,
That heavy Saturn laughd and leapd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summers story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the Lilys white,
Nor praise the deep vermillion in the Rose;
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.