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.