Dull to myself, and almost dead to these, <br />My many fresh and fragrant mistresses; <br />Lost to all music now, since every thing <br />Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing. <br />Sick is the land to th' heart; and doth endure <br />More dangerous faintings by her desperate cure. <br />But if that golden age would come again, <br />And Charles here rule, as he before did reign; <br />If smooth and unperplex'd the seasons were, <br />As when the sweet Maria lived here; <br />I should delight to have my curls half drown'd <br />In Tyrian dews, and head with roses crown'd: <br />And once more yet, ere I am laid out dead, <br />Knock at a star with my exalted head.<br /><br />Robert Herrick<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-bad-season-makes-the-poet-sad/
