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| SONNET 98 |
| 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 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: |
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