Sonnet LVIII. Fair Clytie doth flourish with the Spring

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

FAIR CLYTIE doth flourish with the Spring;

And, eftsoons, withered like thy golden Hair!

And IO’s violets grow flourishing,

But soon defaced; which thine Eyes semblance bear!

Anemone with hyacinth, Spring’s pride,

(Like to thy Beauty!) lose their lovely gloss:

So will thy Cheeks, with graces beautified,

Return to wrinkles, and to Nature’s dross!

Roses, as from thy lips, sweet odours send,

Which herbs (in them whilst juice and virtues rest)

From some diseases’ rigour, life defend:

These (as Thyself!) once withered, men detest!

Then love betimes! These withered flowers of yore

Revive! Thy beauty lost, returns no more!