When as the third day's sun, three hours or more,
Our zenith has behind him left, hither
Return, and I will meet thee; not before'.
'My thoughts', quoth he, 'do in your absence wither,
Pinched with the sharpest blasts cold winter breathes,
1280But your, your looks, my heart with blossoms wreathes.
That foolish glass, which measures time with sand,
Enough of gravel has to meet a year.
With lesser trouble I could Hermes' wand,
Than the sad torture of your absence, bear: