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Dry your sweet cheek, long drown'd with sorrow's rain, Since, clouds dispers'd, suns gild the air again. Seas chafe and fret, and beat, and overboil, But turn soon after calm as balm or oil. Winds have their time to rage; but when they cease The leafy trees nod in a still-born peace. Your storm is over; lady, now appear Like to the peeping springtime of the year. Off then with grave clothes; put fresh colours on, And flow and flame in your vermilion. Upon your cheek sat icicles awhile; Now let the rose reign like a queen, and smile.

Love on a day, wise poets tell, Some time in wrangling spent, Whether the violets should excel, Or she, in sweetest scent. But Venus having lost the day, Poor girls, she fell on you: And beat ye so, as some dare say, Her blows did make ye blue.