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From you haue I beene abſent in the ſpring,
When proud pide Aprill (dreſt in all his trim)
Hath put a ſpirit of youth in euery thing:
That heauie Saturne laught and leapt with him.
Yet nor the laies of birds,nor the ſweet ſmell
Of different flowers in odor and in hew,
Could make me any ſummers ſtory tell:
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the Lillies white,
Nor praiſe the deepe vermillion in the Roſe,
They weare but ſweet,but figures of delight:
Drawne after you, you patterne of all thoſe.
   Yet ſeem’d it Winter ſtill,and you away,
   As with your ſhaddow I with theſe did play.

Zie ook het online-facsimile van de oorspronkelijke uitgave (site helaas niet altijd bereikbaar).