The Consolation of Philosophy

When hot with Phoebus' beams

The Crab casts fiery gleams,

He that doth then with seed

Th'unwilling furrows feed,

Deceivéd of his bread

Must be with acorns fed.

Seek not the flowery woods

For violets' sweet buds,

When fields are overcast

With the fierce northern blast,

Nor hope thou home to bring

Vine-clusters in the Spring

If thou in grapes delight:

In autumn Bacchus' might

With them doth deck our clime.

God every several time

With proper grace hath crowned

Nor will those laws confound

Which He once settled hath.

He that with headlong path

This certain order leaves,

An hapless end receives.