You may be sure no moist'ning lacks that bride,
50Who lies with winter thawing by her side.
She should be fruitful too as fields that join
Unto the melting waste of Apennine.
Whilst the cold morning-drops bedew the rose,
It doth nor leaf, nor smell, nor colour lose;
Then doubt not, Sweet! Age hath supplies of wet
To keep You like that flower in water set.
Dripping catarrhs and fontinells are things
Will make You think You grew betwixt two springs.