Our growing seasons? or think'st thou 'tis just,
To sprinkle our fresh blossoms with thy dust,
Till by abortive funerals, thou bring
That to an Autumn, Nature meant a Spring?
Is't not enough for thee, that wither'd age
20Lies the unpitied subject of thy rage;
But like an ugly amorist, thy crest
Must be with spoils of Youth and Beauty drest?
In other camps, those which sat down to-day
March first to-morrow, and they longest stay,