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 Saturn¹ laugh'd and leap'd with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue², 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, Drawn³ 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.