|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.
|If not from my loues breath,the purple pride, (smels
Which on thy soft cheeke for complexion dwells?
In my loues veines thou hast too grosely died,
The Lillie I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marierom had stolne thy haire,
The Roses fearefully on thornes did stand,
Our blushing shame,an other white dispaire:
A third nor red,nor white,had stolne of both,
And to his robbry had annext thy breath,
But for his theft in pride of all his growth
A vengfull canker eate him vp to death.
More flowers I noted,yet I none could see,
But sweet,or culler it had stolne from thee.
|Spendst thou thy furie on some worthlesse songe,
Darkning thy powre to lend base subiects light.
Returne forgetfull Muse,and straight redeeme,
In gentle numbers time so idely spent,
Sing to the eare that doth thy laies esteeme,
And giues thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise resty Muse,my loues sweet face suruay,
If time haue any wrincle grauen there,
If any,be a Satire.to decay,
And make times spoiles dispised euery where.
Giue my loue fame faster then time wasts life,
So thou preuentst his sieth,and crooked knife.