Those hours, that with gentle work did frame

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame,

The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,

Will play the tyrants to the very same.

And that unfair which unfairly doth excel,

For never-ending time leads summer on,

To hideous winter and confounds him there:

Sap checked with frost; and bareness everywhere

Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness everywhere

Then were not summer's distillation left,

A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,

Beauty's effect with beauty were bereth.

Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:

But flowers distill'd, though they with winter met,

Lesse but their snow; Their substance still lives sweet.