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And clapp'd on high his coloured winges twain,
Behind him was Reproach, Repentance, Shame;
And after them, a rude confused rout
There were full many more like maladies,
THE SQUIRE AND THE DOVE.
well said the wise man, now prov'd true by this,
Like as it fell to this unhappy boy,
Till on a day (as in his wonted wise
NEW ELEGANT EXTRACTS. 55
With dear compassion deeply did emmove,
She, sitting by him, as on ground he lay,
[bears. Thus long this gentle bird to him did use, Withouten dread of peril to repair Unto his wonne; and with her mournful muse Him to recomfort in his greatest care, That much did ease his mourning and misfare: And every day, for guerdon of her song, He part of his small feast to her would share; That, at the last, of all his woe and wrong, Companion she became, and so continued long.
Upon a day, as she him sate beside,
The same he took, and with a ribbon new
There found she her (as then it did betide)
And underneath thy feet to place her praise;
When thus that shepherd ended had his speech,
In such discourses they together spent
The FABLE OF THE OAK AND THE BRIAR. (FRom the shepherd's caleNdAR.) Cuddy. Ah, for pity! will rank winter's rage These bitter blasts never’gin t” assuage? The keen cold blows through my beaten hide, All as I were through the body gride: My ragged ronts all shiver and shake, As done high towers in an earthquake: They wont in the wind wag their wriggle tails Peark as a peacock; but now it avails. Thenot. Leudly complainest, thou lazy lad, Of winter's wrack for making thee sad? Must not the world wend in his common course, From good to bad, and from bad to worse, From worse unto that is worst of all, And then return to his former fall 7 Who will not suffer the stormy time, Where will he live till the lusty prime? Self have I worn out thrice thirty years, Some in much joy, many in many tears, Yet never complained of cold nor heat, Of summer's flame, nor of winter's threat, Ne never was to Fortune foe-man, But gently took that ungently came; And ever my flock was my chief care, Winter or summer they mought well fare. Cuddy. No marvel, Thenot, if thou can bear Chearfully the winter's wrathful chear, For age and winter accord full nigh, This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wry; And as the low'ring weather looks down, So seemest thou like Good Friday to frown; But my flow'ring youth is foe to frost, My ship unwont in storms to be tost. Thenot. The sovereign of seas he blames in vain, That once sea-beat will to sea again: Soloytrin glive you little heard-grooms,
Keeping your beasts in the budded brooms; And when the shining sun laugheth once, You deemen the spring is come at once: Tho gin you, fond flies! the cold to scorn, And, crowing in pipes made of green corn, You thinken to be lords of the year; But eft when ye count you freed from fear, Comes the breme winter with chamfred brows, Full of wrinkles and frosty furrows, Drearily shooting his stormy dart, Which cruddles the blood and pricks the heart: Then is your careless courage accoyd, Your careful herds with cold be annoyed: Then pay you the price of your surquedry, With weeping, and wailing, and misery. Cuddy. Ah, foolish old man! I scorn thy skill, That wouldst me my springing youth to spill; I deem thy brain emperish’d be Through rusty eld, that hath rotted thee; Or siker thy head very totty is, So on thy corb shoulder it leans amiss. Now thyself hath lost both lop and top, Als my budding branch thou wouldest crop; But were thy years green, as now been mine, To other delights they would incline: Tho wouldest thou learn to carol of love, And hery with hymns thy lass's glove; Tho wouldest thou pipe of Phillis’ praise, But Phillis is mine for many days: I won her with a girdle of gelt, Emboss'd with bugle about the belt; Such an one shepherds would make full fain, Such an one would make thee young again. Thenot. Thou art a son of thy love to bost; All that is lent to love will be lost. Cuddy. Seest how brag yond bullock bears, So smirk, so smooth, his pricked ears? His horns been as brade as rainbow bent, His dewlap as lythe as lass of Kent? See how he venteth into the wind, Weenest of love is not his mind * Seemeth thy flock thy counsel can, So lustless been they, so weak, so wan; Clothed with cold, and hoary with frost, Thy flock's father his courage hath lost. Thy ewes that wont to have blown bags, Like wailful widows hanging their crags; The rather lambs been starv'd with cold, All for their master is lustless and old. Thenot. Cuddy, I wot thou kenst little good, So vainly to advance thy headless hood; For youth is a bubble blown up with breath, Whose wit is weakness, whose wage is death; Whose way is wilderness, whose inn penaunce, And stoop gallant age, the host of grievaunce. 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? Cuddy. To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bent Than to hear novels of his devise; They been so well thewed, and so wise, What ever that good old man bespake.
Thenot. 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 disaray'd : The body big and mightily pight, Throughly rooted, and of wondrous height; Whilom had been the king of the field, And mochel 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, Histop was bald, and wasted with worms, His honour decay’d, his braunches sere. Hard by his side grew a bragging Breere, Which proudly thrust into th’ element, And seemed to threat the firmament: It was embellisht with blossoms fair, And thereto aye wonted to repair The shepherd's daughters to gather flowres, To paint their garlands with his colowres, And in his small bushes used to shroud, The sweet nightingale singing so loud, Which made this foolish Breere wer so bold, That on a time he cast him to scold, And sneb the good Oak, for he was old. why stand's there (quoth he) thou brutish block? Nor for fruit nor for shadow serves thy stock; Seest how fresh my flowres been spread, Died in lily white and crimson red, With leaves engrained in lusty green, Colours meet to cloath a maiden queen Thy waste bigness but cumbers the ground, And dirks the beauty of my blossoms round: The mouldy moss, which thee accloyeth, My cinnamon smell too much annoyeth: Wherefore soon I rede thee hence remove, Lest thou the price of my displeasure prove. So spake this bold Breere with great disdain, Little him answer'd the Oak again, But yielded, with shame and grief adaw'd, That of a weed he was over-craw’d. It chaunced after upon a day, The husband-man's self to come that way, Of custom to surview his ground, And his trees of state in compass round: Him when the spightful Breere had espyed, Causeless complained, and loudly cryed Unto his lord, stirring up stern strife: O my liege Lord! the god of my life, Please you pond your suppliant's plaint, Caused of wrong and cruell constraint, Which I your poor vassal daily endure; And but your goodness the same recure, An hke for desperate dole to die, Through felonous force of mine enemy. Greatly aghast with this piteous plea, Him rested the good man on the lea, And bad the Breere in his plaint proceed.
With painted words thogan this proud weed