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Robert Herrick - The Bad Season Makes The Poet Sad
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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.
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