Sonnet 56

SWeet Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly traine,
Thy head with flames, thy Mantle bright with flow'rs,
The Zephires curle the green Locks of the Plaine,
The Clouds for joy in Pearls weep down their show'rs.
Dost returne sweet Youth? but ah my pleasant houres,
And happy daies with thee come not againe,
The sad Memorials only of my paine
Do with thee turne, which turne my Sweets to Sow'r…
Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, faire,
But she whose Breath embaulm'd thy wholesome Aire
Is gone; Nor Gold, nor Gems can her restore.
Neglected Vertue, Seasons go and come,
When thine forgot lie closed in a Tombe.