Dull to my selfe, and almost dead to these My many fresh and fragrant Mistresses: Lost to all Musick 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 wo'd come again, And Charles here Rule, as he before did Raign; If smooth and unperplext the Seasons were, As when the Sweet Maria lived here: I sho'd delight to have my Curles halfe drown'd In Tyrian Dewes, and Head with Roses crown'd. And once more yet (ere I am laid out dead) Knock at a Starre with my exalted Head. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPRING BLIZZARD by JAMES GALVIN LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER by ALFRED TENNYSON THE PERSIANS (PERSAE): THE BATTLE OF SALAMIS by AESCHYLUS PSALM 67 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE AT THE PLAY by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN FOURTH BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 19 by THOMAS CAMPION |