Winter is so quite forced hence And locked up underground, that ev'ry sense Hath several objects: trees have got their heads, The fields their coats; that now the shining meads Do boast the paunse, lily, and the rose; And every flower doth laugh as zephyr blows, The seas are now more even than the land; The rivers run as smoothed by his hand; Only their heads are crisped by his stroke.