There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring,when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
he has his Summer,when luxuriously
Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought he loves
to ruminate,and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven:quite coves
His soul has in its Autumn,when his wings
He furls close;contented so to look
On mists in idleness-to let fair things
Pas by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal natur