And happy days, with thee come not again!
The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair,
But she whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air
Is gone—nor gold, nor gems can her restore,
Neglected virtue—seasons, go and come,
When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.