The ploughman lost his sweat; and the green corn
[095] Hath rotted ere his youth attain’d a beard:
The fold stands empty in the drowned field,
[097] And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;
The nine men’s morris is fill’d up with mud;
[099] And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,
100 For lack of tread, are undistinguishable:
[101] The human mortals want their winter here;
No night is now with hymn or carol blest:
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,