Sonnet LXX

Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty king,

In whose coat-armour richly are displayed

All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,

In goodly colours gloriously arrayed;

Go to my love, where she is careless laid,

Yet in her winter's bower not well awake;

Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed,

Unless she do him by the forelock take;

Bid her therefore herself soon ready make,

To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew;

Where every one, that misseth then her make,

Shall be by him amerced with penance due.

Make haste, therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime;

For none can call again the passed time.