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From you have I been absent in the spring,When proud-pied April, dressd in all his trim,Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him.Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell.Of different flowers in odour and in hue,Could make me any summers story tell,Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grewNor did I wonder at the lilys 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 seemed it winter still, and you away,As with your shadow I with these did play.Thank you.
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