The bad season makes the Poet sad.

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.