V

    Those hours, that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, Will play the tyrants¹ to the very same And that unfair which fairly doth excel； For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous² winter, and confounds him there； Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where： Then were not summer's distillation³ left, A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft⁴, Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was： But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show； their substance still lives sweet.