Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound. No night is now with hymn or carol blessed. The human mortals want their winter here. The nine-men’s-morris is filled up with mud, And the quaint mazes in the wanton green For lack of tread are undistinguishable. The fold stands empty in the drownèd field, And crows are fatted with the murrain flock. The ox hath therefore stretched his yoke in vain, The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn Hath rotted ere his youth attained a beard. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in revenge, have sucked up from the sea Contagious fogs, which falling in the land Have every pelting river made so proud That they have overborne their continents. And never, since the middle summer’s spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By pavèd fountain, or by rushy brook, Or in the beachèd margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
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