![]() ![]() But I saw young Cupid’s fiery arrow weakened by the virginal beams of the watery moon, and so the royal virgin was unaffected by the arrow, and so continued on with her virginal thoughts, without a care. He aimed at a beautiful virgin who sat upon a throne in the western end of the world, and he shot his love arrow hard enough to pierce a hundred thousand hearts. On that night, I saw Cupid (even though you couldn't) Cupid with all his arrows, flying from the cold moon to the earth. ![]() And all of these bad outcomes are the result of our argument. The spring, summer, fruitful autumn, and angry winter have all changed out of their normal clothes, and now the confused world can't tell one from the other. And Old Man Winter wears an icy crown decorated with sweet summer flower buds, like some kind of cruel prank. Because of this disturbance in the normal natural order, the seasons have changed: bitter frosts descend upon red roses. As a result the moon, who controls the tides, is pale with anger, and moistens the air so that colds and flu spread everywhere. The humans have not gotten the winter they should have, and the nights to not receive the blessings of the hymns or carols of that season. The village greens where men play games together are filled with mud, and the maze-like paths people have made through the high-grown grass have faded away because no one walks on them. Animal pens stand empty in flooded fields, and the crows are fat from eating the bodies of sheep and cattle killed by disease. All the work done by farmers' and their oxen has been ruined, and the corn has rotted before it could grow ripe. In revenge the winds have made nasty fogs rise up from the sea, and make rain fall upon the land so that rivers have grown so large they flood the land around them. Because of that, the winds have gotten angry at our lack of response to their calls. Not once, since the beginning of midsummer-whether on a hill, in a valley, a forest, or a meadow, by a pebbly spring or rushing brook, or on a beach next to the ocean-have my fairies and I been able to meet and perform our ring dances to honor the whistling wind without you showing up with your shouting to interrupt our fun. These are lies that emerge from your jealousy. And this same progeny of evils comes From our debate, from our dissension. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter change Their wonted liveries, and the mazèd world, By their increase, now knows not which is which. And thorough this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound. No night is now with hymn or carol blessed. The human mortals want their winter here. The nine-men’s-morris is filled up with mud, And the quaint mazes in the wanton green For lack of tread are undistinguishable. The fold stands empty in the drownèd field, And crows are fatted with the murrain flock. The ox hath therefore stretched his yoke in vain, The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn Hath rotted ere his youth attained a beard. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in revenge, have sucked up from the sea Contagious fogs, which falling in the land Have every pelting river made so proud That they have overborne their continents. And never, since the middle summer’s spring, Met 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. ![]()
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