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 everything Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing. Sick is the land to th' heart, and doth endure More dangerous faintings by her desp'rate 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. My many fresh and fragrant mistresses; Lost to all music now, since everything Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing. Sick is the land to th' heart, and doth endure More dangerous faintings by her desp'rate 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. |
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