Fayre Clytie doth florish with the spring
And eftsonnes withered like thy golden heare,
And Ioes vyolettes grow florishing,
But soone defac'd which thine eyes semblance beare:
Anemone, with hyacinthe springs pryde,
Like to thy bewtie loose their louely glosse,
So will thy cheekes with graces bewtified
Returne to wrinckles, and to natures drosse:
Roses (as from thy lippes) sweet odours send,
Which herbes in them whilst iuyce, and vertues rest,
From some diseases rigour, life defend:
These (as thy selfe) once withred, men detest:
Then loue betimes, these withered flowers of yore
Reuiue: thy bewtie lost returnes no more.