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| From you have I been absent in the spring, | 1 |
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| When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, |
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| Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, |
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| That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. |
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| Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell | 5 |
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| Of different flowers in odour and in hue, |
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| Could make me any summer's story tell, |
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| Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: |
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| Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, |
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| Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; | 10 |
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| They were but sweet, but figures of delight, |
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| Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. |
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 Yet seem'd it winter still, and you away, |
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| As with your shadow I with these did play. |
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