And then the spring of my unstain'd affection,
With roses drest, and lilies sweetly grew,
Whose ruddy look gave it a fair complexion,
Till frowning Winter gave't another hue.
But stay, thou know'st already why I sing,
And why my heavy verse so gently move thee,
For that alone I did these sonnets bring,
That by these plaints thou may'st perceive I love thee:
For out of nothing, nothing can be brought,
And that which is, can ne'er be turn'd to nought.
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