WHen, all the yeare, our fields are fresh and greene,
And, while sweet Flowers, and Sunshine, every day,
(As oft, as need requireth) come betweene
The Heav'ns and earth; they heedles passe away.
The fulnes, and continuance, of a blessing,
Doth make us to be senseles of the good:
And, if it sometime flie not our possessing,
The sweetnesse of it, is not understood.
Had wee no Winter, Sommer would be thought
Not halfe so pleasing: And, if Tempests were not,