William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

O PROSERPINA,

For the flowers now, that frighted, thou let’st fall

From Dis’s wagon! daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,

But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,

Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses,

That die unmarried, ere they can behold

Bright Phœbus in his strength, a malady

Most incident to maids; bold ox-lips, and

The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The flower-de-luce being one! O, these I lack,

To make you garlands of; and my sweet friend,

To strew him o’er and o’er!