Februarie
So ſemest thou like good friday to frowne.
But my flouring youth is foe to froſt,
My ſhippe vnwont in ſtormes to be toſt.
Thenot.
The ſoueraigne of ſeas he blames in vaine,
That once ſea-beate, will to ſea againe.
So loytring liue you little heardgroomes,
Keeping your beaſtes in the budded broomes:
And when the ſhining ſunne laugheth once,
You deemen, the Spring is come attonce.
Tho ginne you, fond flies, the cold to ſcorne,
And crowing in pypes made of greene corne,
You thinken to be Lords of the yeare.
But eft, when ye count you freed from feare,
Comes the breme winter with chamfred browes,
Full of wrinckles and froſtie furrowes:
Drerily ſhooting his ſtormy darte,
Which cruddles the bloud, and pricks the harte.
Then is your carelesse corage accoyed,
Your carefull heardes with cold be annoyed.
Then pay you the price of your ſurquedrie,
With weeping, and wailing, and miſerie.
Cuddie.
Ah fooliſh old man, I ſcorne thy ſkill,
That wouldest me, my springing youth to ſpill.
I deeme, thy braine emperiſhed bee
Through ruſtie elde, that hath rotted thee:
Or ſicker thy head verie tottie is,
So on thy corbe ſhoulder it leanes amiſſe.
Now thy ſelfe haſt loſt both lopp and topp,
Als my budding braunch thou wouldest cropp:
But were thy yeares greene, as now bene mine,
To other delights they would encline.
Tho wouldeſt thou learne to caroll of Loue,
And hery with hymnes thy laſſes gloue.
Tho wouldest thou pype of Phillis praiſe:
But Phillis is mine for many dayes:
