Dull to myself, and almost dead to
My many fresh and fragrant mistresses;
Lost to all music now, since
Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing.
Sick is the land to th' heart, and doth
More dangerous faintings by her desp'rate cure.
But if that golden age would come
And Charles here rule, as he before did reign;
If smooth and unperplex'd the seasons
As when the sweet Maria lived here;
I should delight to have my curls half
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.
