How chance thou hotter shin’st, and draw’st more near?
Sure thou somewhere some worthy sight hast spied,
That in one place for joy thou canst not bide:
And you, dead swallows, that so lively now,
Through the slit air your winged passage row;
How could new life into your frozen ashes flow?
Ye primroses and purple violets,
Tell me, why blaze ye from your leafy bed,
And woo men’s hands to rent you from your sets,
As though you would somewhere be carried,