An idle fit for fond and reckless boys,
Or else for men deprived of common sense.
'Twixt Lunacy and Love, these odds appear;
Th' one makes fools, monthly; th' other, all the year.
XXVIII.
While season served to sow, my plough stood still;
My graffs unset, when other's trees did bloom.
I spent the Spring in sloth, and slept my fill;
But never thought of Winter's cold to come;
Till Spring was past, the Summer well nigh gone;