LITMIR.BIZ

           How like a winter hath my absence been

           From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

           What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,

           What old December's bareness everywhere!

           And yet this time removed was summer's time:

           The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,

           Bearing the wanton burden of the prime

           Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:

           Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me

           But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;

           For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

           And, thou away, the very birds are mute;

           Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,

           That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

           When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes

           I all alone beweep my outcast state,

           And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

           And look upon myself, and curse my fate;

           Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

           Featured like him, like him with friends possest,

           Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,

           With what I most enjoy contented least;

           Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,

           Haply I think on Thee—and then my state,

           Like to the lark at break of day arising

           From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;

           For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings

           That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

           O never say that I was false of heart,

           Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:

           As easy might I from my self depart

           As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie;

           That is my home of love, if I have ranged,

           Like him that travels, I return again,

           Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,

           So that myself bring water for my stain.

           Never believe, though in my nature reign'd

           All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

           That it could so preposterously be stain'd

           To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:

           For nothing this wide universe I call,

           Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.

           To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,

           For as you were when first your eye I eyed

           Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold

           Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;

           Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd,

           In process of the seasons have I seen,

           Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,

           Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green.

           Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,

           Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;

           So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

           Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:

           For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,—

           Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.

              Diaphenia like the daffadowndilly,

              White as the sun, fair as the lily,

            Heigh ho, how do I love thee!

              I do love thee as my lambs

              Are belovéd of their dams;

           How blest were I if thou would'st prove me.

              Diaphenia like the spreading roses,

              That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,

            Fair sweet, how do I love thee!

              I do love thee as each flower

              Loves the sun's life-giving power;

           For dead, thy breath to life might move me.

              Diaphenia like to all things blesséd

              When all thy praises are expresséd,

            Dear joy, how do I love thee!

              As the birds do love the spring,

              Or the bees their careful king:

           Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!

           Like to the clear in highest sphere

           Where all imperial glory shines,

           Of selfsame colour is her hair

           Whether unfolded, or in twines:

            Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

           Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,

           Resembling heaven by every wink;

           The Gods do fear whenas they glow,

           And I do tremble when I think

            Heigh ho, would she were mine!

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