‘Perdita. Out, alas!
You’d be so lean, that blasts of January
Would blow you through and through. Now, my fairest friend,
I would I had some flowers o’ th’ spring, that might
Become your time of day: O Proserpina,
For the flowers now, that, frighted, you let fall
From Dis’s waggon! Daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,