CLEODAMUS. MYRSON. CLEODAMUS.
What sweet for you has Summer or the Spring,
What joy does Autumn or the Winter bring?
Which season do you hail with most delight?
Summer whose fulness doth our toils requite?
Or the sweet Autumn when but slight distress
From hunger falls on mortal wretchedness?
Or lazy Winter--since but few are loath
To cheer themselves with fire-side ease and sloth?
Or the Spring blushing with its bloom of flowers?
Tell me your choice, since leisure-time is ours. MYRSON.
For man to judge things heavenly is unmeet,
And all these seasons holy are and sweet.
But I to please you will indulge your ear,
And tell my favourite season of the year.
Not Summer--then I feel the scorching sun;
Nor Autumn--then their course diseases run;
And hard I find to bear the Winter frore,
The chilling snow I fear, and crystal hoar.
Of all the year the Spring delights me most,
Free from the scorching sun, and bitter frost,
All life-containing shapes conceive in Spring,
And all sweet things are sweetly blossoming;
And in that season of the year's delight
There is for men an equal day and night.