The (Most) Nabobist

O, Lily of the Valley.
Doesn't come but to the hill.
  Eponymous anonymous.

I, sitt and scoff, Blenheim Bouquet,
For breath to break the fell.
  Stillness stillness.

Sonnet 98

FROM you have I been absent in the spring     
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,     
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,     
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.     
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell         
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,     
Could make me any summer's story tell,     
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:     
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,     
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;     
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,     
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.     
  Yet seem'd it winter still, and you away,     
  As with your shadow I with these did play.