Februarie
For it had bene an auncient tree,
Sacred with many a miſteree,
And often croſt with the prieſtes crewe,
And often hallowed with holy water dewe.
But ſike fanſies weren foolerie,
And broughten this Oake to this miſerie.
For nought mought they quitten him from decay:
For fiercely the good man at him did laye.
The blocke oft groned vnder the blow,
And ſighed to see his neere ouerthrow.
In fine the ſteele had pierced his pith,
Tho downe to the earth he fell forthwith:
His wonderous weight made the ground to quake,
Thearth ſhronke vnder him, and ſeemed to ſhake.
There lyeth the Oake, pitied of none.
Now stands the Brere like a Lord alone,
Puffed vp with pryde and vaine pleaſaunce:
But all this glee had no continuaunce.
For eftſoones Winter gan to approche,
The blustring Boreas did encroche,
And beate vpon the ſolitarie Brere:
For nowe no ſuccour was ſeene him neere.
Now gan hee repent his pride too late:
For naked left and diſconſolate,
The byting froſt nipt his ſtalke deade,
The watrie wette weighed downe his heade,
And heaped ſnowe burdned him ſo ſore,
That nowe vpright hee can ſtand no more:
And being downe, is trode in the durt
Of cattell, and brouzed, and ſorely hurt.
Such was thende of this ambitious Brere,
For ſcorning Eld.
CVDDIE.
Now I pray thee shepheard, tel it not forth:
Here is a long tale, and little worth.
So
