Sweet Summer! Spring! that breatheth life and growing
In weeds, as into herbs and flowers;
And sees of service, divers sorts in sowing,
Some haply seeming, and some being yours:
Rain on your herbs and flowers that truly seem!
And let your weeds lack dew, and duly starve!
A Dialogue.
Humour, say! What mak'st thou here
In presence of a Queen?
Thou art a heavy leaden mood!
Chorus. But never Humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you!
Princes hold conceit most dear,
All conceit in Humour seen;
Humour is Invention's food.
Chorus. But never Humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you!
O, I am as heavy as earth,
Say, then, who is Humour now?
Why, then, 'tis I am drowned in woe?
Chorus. But never Humour yet was true,
But that which only pleaseth you!
I am now inclined to mirth,
Humour I, as well as thou!
No, no Wit is cherished so.