You'ld be so lean, that blasts of January
Would blow you through and through. Now, [my fair'st friend],
I would I had some flowers o' the spring that might
Become your time of day; and yours, and yours,
That wear upon your virgin branches yet
Your maidenheads growing: O Proserpina,
For the flowers now, that frighted thou let'st fall
From [Dis's] waggon! [daffodils],
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim