Chapter LXXVI

With every day that summer doth conceive
(Like some good mother, happily confined)
My love its simple homily doth find
In nature’s soft rejoicing, and receive
From winter’s sorrowing a just reprieve,
And think on thee with joy and pain combined,
When thou art absent, and of thy free mind
Return my sentiment, I do believe.
A sweet condition to my soul is this,
Bringing the blessedness of love from thee,
Commingling with my own long-felt desire;
And giving something of thyself to me.
Ah, seal this thought with one delicious kiss;
And let my heart to happiness aspire!