A Winter’s Tale Act IV Scene IV
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' 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, From the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett'st 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 Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength,—a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one.—O, these I lack, To make you garlands of; and, my sweet friend, To strew him o'er and o'er! |
