How jocund is Spring if thou art missing?
The nightingales' songs are sweetly sung,
Yet, unwarranted, disrupt my musing
On which thine apparition is up hung.

And what is Summer lacking thee, my dear?
Oft too hot he beams, like a wild fever,
Mellowed not by thy fountain pure of love;
Without thy fairness his humor is rough.

Wherefore we hail Autumn if not with thee?
Her fruits taste sour, after thy sweet lips;
Her fruitful harvest is no guarantee,
While thou leave'st more to give than stubble-strips.

And Winter- O Winter, the worst of four-
Yet, if thou art near, what is that to fear
Of her? Her freezing breath and frozen tears?
Thy love would the most stiffened passion thaw.

Thou art from Heaven an exclusive gift,
Absent which as fifth look the four amiss.
But come to me, my love, and let them weep-
In my chest thou wilt be safe in thy sleep.