These are the forgeries of jealousy.And never, since the middle summer’s springMet we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,By pavèd fountain, or by rushy brook,Or in the beachèd margent of the sea,To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,As in revenge, have sucked up from the seaContagious fogs, which falling in the landHave every pelting river made so proudThat they have overborne their continents,The ox hath therefore stretched his yoke in vain,The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green cornHath rotted ere his youth attained a beard.The fold stands empty in the drownèd field,And crows are fatted with the murrain flock.The nine-men’s-morris is filled up with mud,And the quaint mazes in the wanton greenFor lack of tread are undistinguishable.The human mortals want their winter here.No night is now with hymn or carol blessed.Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,Pale in her anger, washes all the air,That rheumatic diseases do abound.And thorough this distemperature we seeThe seasons alter: hoary-headed frostsFall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,And on old Hiems' thin and icy crownAn odorous chaplet of sweet summer budsIs, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer,The childing autumn, angry winter changeTheir wonted liveries, and the mazèd world,By their increase, now knows not which is which.And this same progeny of evils comesFrom our debate, from our dissension.We are their parents and original.