But shall I tell thee a tale of truth,
Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth,
Keeping his sheep on the hills of Kent?
CUD. To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bent
Than to hear novels of his devise;
They be so well thewed, and so wise,
Whatever that good old man bespake.
THE. Many meet tales of youth did he make,
And some of love, and some of chivalry;
But none fitter than this to apply.
Now listen a while and hearken the end.
“There grew an aged tree on the green,
A goodly Oak sometime had it been,
With arms full strong and largely display’d,
But of their leaves they were disarray’d:
The body big, and mightily pight,
Throughly rooted, and of wondrous height;
Whilome had been the king of the field,
And mochell mast to the husband did yield,
And with his nuts larded many swine:
But now the gray moss marred his rine;
His bared boughs were beaten with storms,
His top was bald, and wasted with worms,
His honour decayed, his branches sere.
“Hard by his side grew a bragging Brere,
Which proudly thrust into th’ element,
And seemed to threat the firmament:
It was embellish’d with blossoms fair,
And thereto aye wonted to repair
The shepheards’ daughters to gather flowers,
To paint their garlands with his colours;
And in his small bushes used to shroud
The sweet nightingale singing so loud;
Which made this foolish Brere wax so bold,
That on a time he cast him to scold
And snebbe the good Oak, for he was old.
“Why standst there (quoth he) thou brutish block?
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