XCVII.

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 every where !
And yet this time removed was fummer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,

Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:

Yet this abundant iffue feem'd to me

But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;

For fummer and his pleasures wait on thee,

And, thou

away, the very

birds are mute:

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

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

XCVIII.

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dreff'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 fummer's ftory 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 feem'd it winter ftill, and, you away,

As with your shadow I with these did play.