Sap, flower, leaves

Sonnets, [5]. “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 fairly doth excel;/ For never-resting time leads summer on/ To hideous winter and confounds him there,/ Sap check’d with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,/ Beauty o’ersnow’d and bareness everywhere./ Then were not summer’s distillation left/ A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,/ Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,/ Nor it nor no remembrance what it was./ But flower distill’d, though they with winter meet,/ Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.”


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