XVII <br /> <br /> <br />Lawrence of vertuous Father vertuous Son, <br />Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire, <br />Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire <br />Help wast a sullen day; what may be Won <br />From the hard Season gaining: time will run <br />On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire <br />The frozen earth; and cloth in fresh attire <br />The Lillie and Rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. <br />What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, <br />Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may rise <br />To hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voice <br />Warble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre? <br />He who of those delights can judge, and spare <br />To interpose them oft, is not unwise.<br /><br />John Milton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-17/
