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| Those hours, that with gentle work did frame | 1 |
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| 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 |
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| To hideous winter, and confounds him there; |
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| Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, |
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| Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where: |
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| Then were not summer's distillation left, |
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| A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, | 10 |
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| Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, |
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| Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was: |
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 But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet, |
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| Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet. |
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