Sonnet 70

Fresh Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,

In whose cote-armour richly are displayed

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

In goodly colours gloriously arrayed–

o to my love, where she is careless laid,

Yet in her winters bower not well awake;

Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid,

nless she doe him by the forelock take;

Bid her therefore herself soon ready make,

To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew;

Where everyone, that misses then her make,

Shall be by him amearest with penance dew.

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

For none can call again the passed time.