Sonnet

Not when the buxom form which nature wears
Is pregnant with the lusty warmth of spring;
Nor when hot summer, sunk with what she bears,
Lies panting in her flowery offering;
Nor yet when dusty Autumn sadly fares
In tattered garb, through which the shrewd winds sing,
To bear her treasures to the griping snares
Hard Winter set for the poor bankrupt thing'
Not even when winter, heir of all the year,
Deals, like a miser, round his niggard board
The brimming plenty of his luscious hoard;
No, not in nature, change she howsoe'er,
Can I find perfect type or worthy peer
Of the fair maid in whom my heart is stored.