TITANIA         And thorough this distemperature, we see

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts

Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,

And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown

An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds

Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer,

The childing autumn, angry winter change

Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world,

By their increase, now knows not which is which. (2.1.106-114)

And thorough this distemperature—because everything is out of joint, disordered (the sense is of a body unbalanced in its humours, although (dis)temperature perhaps lands most resonantly on a modern ear, too hot, or too cold)—we see the seasons alter. That basic rhythm of timeliness, governing labour and holiday, the calendar for the year, it’s disjointed too. Everything’s gone wrong! Hoary-headed frosts fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, as if old men, white-haired, are ravishing maidens, an image of transgressive, violent, frozen beauty. And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown, as if winter himself wears a coronet of icicles, or rime, frost crystals, an odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds is, as in mockery, set. Winter’s crowned with garlands, fragrant and heavy, already in bloom, out of their own time. Because the spring, the summer, the childing autumn, angry winter change their wonted liveries: all the flowers are blooming at the wrong time, the trees in leaf too early, the autumn come too soon, as if they’ve got up into the wrong clothes, muddled up their identities, and walked out on their jobs. Autumn, which should be the happy harvest season of increase and plenty, has changed outfits with winter, and is full of rage, a kind of dreadful carnival, an unhappy harvest home. (And more rain.) And the mazed world, by their increase, now knows not which is which. Everything’s confused, baffled, lost; the wrong things are growing, the wrong things are being harvested and it’s impossible, now, to tell the seasons apart, to understand time and its passing. (It just keeps raining.)