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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=507408" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Bad Season Makes The Poet Sad</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=507408" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">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.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Robert+Herrick">Robert Herrick</a></strong></div>

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