68. THE BAD SEASON MAKES THE POET SAD

Dull to myself, and almost dead to these, My many fresh and fragrant mistresses; Lost to all music now, since every thing Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing. Sick is the land to th' heart; and doth endure More dangerous faintings by her desperate cure. But if that golden age would come again, And Charles here rule, as he before did reign; If smooth and unperplex'd the seasons were, As when the sweet Maria lived here; I should delight to have my curls half drown'd In Tyrian dews, and head with roses crown'd: And once more yet, ere I am laid out dead, Knock at a star with my exalted head.