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 thingPuts on the semblance here of sorrowing.Sick is the land to th’ heart; and doth endureMore 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’dIn 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.