A Sonnet Occasioned by the Bad Weather Which Hindered the Sports at New-Market in January, 1616

How cruelly these catives conspire!
What loathsome love breeds such a baleful band
Betwixt the cankred King of Creta land
That melancholy, old and angry sire,
And him, who wont to quench debate and ire
Among the Romans when his ports were clos'd!
But now his double face is still dispos'd,
With Saturn's help, to freeze us at the fire
The earth ore-covered with a sheet of snow,
Refuses food to fowl, to bird, and beast;
The chilling cold lets every thing to grow,
And surfeits cattle with a starving feast.
Curs'd be that love and mought continue short,
Which kills all creatures, and doth spoil our sport.