WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
(**)
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 everything, That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, 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, Drawn 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.
168 (xiv)
MY love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming ; 1 love not lesb, though less the show appear.
That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;
As Philomel in Summer's front doth sing
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the Summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue, Because I would not dull you with my song.
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