If spicy-fringed pinks that blush and pale 
With passions of perfume, -- if violets blue 
That hint of heaven with odor more than hue, -- 
If perfect roses, each a holy Grail 
Wherefrom the blood of beauty doth exhale 
Grave raptures round, -- if leaves of green as new 
As those fresh chaplets wove in dawn and dew 
By Emily when down the Athenian vale 
She paced, to do observance to the May, 
Nor dreamed of Arcite nor of Palamon, -- 
If fruits that riped in some more riotous play 
Of wind and beam that stirs our temperate sun, -- 
 If these the products be of love and pain, 
 Oft may I suffer, and you love, again.