The Page had loste all his wits in Palestine from a stroke dealte hardily by a Moor which is a Man alwaie accursed and coulde say little that might be understanded, and there was one Song which he sang from Dawn to Duske in dolorous wise and none might stay him from singing. And I have written his song even as I heard it. Spring-time, shall it bring thee ease From the woes the Gods have sent? May the leafage of the trees Soothe unreste and discontent ? Can the glory of the fields Give what nought in heaven yields? Plucking Hawthorne in the hedge Shall a peace be found in it? Summer's wealth may ne'er disedge That sad warp in thy poor wit— All the hope that being slain, Turns to venom in the brain. Gay is spring time, free and bold, Summer's blazing pageantry— Autumn is a lord of gold. What can all this profit thee? Seek thy rest in winter's wind, King dethroned from one poor mind Snow and sleet shall soothe thee best— Hail and tinkling icicle Freeze some comfort in a breast Full of fancies terrible— Seek thy rest in Nature's pain Oh weak King of one wild brain!