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 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.

-Robert Herrick

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