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 th' land to th' heart, and doth endure
More dangerous faintings by her desperate cure.

But if that Golden Age would come again,
And Charles here rule as he before did reign;
If smooth and unperplexed the seasons were
As when the sweet Maria lived here,

I should delight to have my curls half drowned
In Tyrian dews, and head with roses crowned,
And once more yet (ere I am laid out dead)
Knock at a star with my exalted head.