Sonnet XLVIII. The tender buds whom cold hath long kept in

Thomas Watson (1555–1592)

THE TENDER buds whom cold hath long kept in,

And winters rage inforst to hide their head:

Will spring and sprowt as they doe now begin,

That euerie one will ioy to see them spread.

But cold of care so nips my ioies at roote,

There is no hope to recouer what is lost:

No sunne doth shine that well can doe it boote,

Yet still I striue but loose both toile and cost.

For what can spring that feeles no force of ver,

What flower can flourish where no sunne doth shine:

These balles deare loue, within my brest I beare,

To breake my barke and make my pith to pine.

Needs must I fall, I fade both root and rinde,

My branches bowe at blast of euerie winde.