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Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers !
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies !
How silently, and with how wan a face !
What! may it be, that e’en in heav'nly place
Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover's case ;
I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace
Then, ev’n of fellowship, O moon, tell me,
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess ? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
Sir Philip SIDNEY.
ODES AND SONNETS.
As I have seen the lady of the May
Each simple flower, which she had nursed in dew, Anemones, that spangled every grove,
The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.
Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
And dress with humid hands her wreaths again.
Are the fond visions of thy early day,
Bid all thy fairy colours fade away!