Or do I know the seasons of the yeare?
Know I when spring deckes earth with sweet delight,
When summer’s sun glads earth with his bright cleare,
Or when in woods Autumnus’ fruits appeare?
O no, of nought but winter can I tell,
Whom by his boystrous blasts, I know right well.
113.
Where is become that azure concauite,
That doth so many wonders rare infold?
Where all the host of starres, so infinite?