Februarie
I wonne her with a girdle of gelt,
Emboſt with buegle about the belt.
Such an one ſhepeheards woulde make full faine:
Such an one would make thee young againe.
Thenot.
Thou art a fon, of thy loue to boſte,
All that is lent to loue, will be loſt.
Cuddie.
Seeſt, how brag yond Bullocke beares,
So ſmirke, so ſmoothe, his pricked eares?
His bornes bene as broade, as Rainebowe bent,
His dewelap as lythe, as laſſe of Kent.
See howe he venteth into the winde.
Weeneſt of loue is not his minde?
Seemeth thy flocke thy counſell can,
So luſtleſſe bene they, ſo weake ſo wan,
Clothed with cold, and hoary with froſt.
Thy flockes father his courage hath loſt:
Thy Ewes, that woont to haue blowen bags,
Like wailefull widdowes hangen theyr crags:
The rather Lambes bene ſtarued with cold,
All for their Maiſter is luſtleſſe and old.
Thenot.
Cuddie, I wote thou kenſt little good,
So vainely to aduaunce thy headleſſe hood.
For Ynoungh is a bubble blown vp with breath,
Whoſe witt is weakeneſſe, whoſe wage is death,
Whoſe way is wilderneſſe, whoſe ynne Penaunce,
And ſtoopegallaunt Age the hoaſte of Greeuaunce.
But ſhall I tell thee a tale of truth,
Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth,
Keeping his ſheepe on the hils of Kent?
Cuddie.
To nought more Thenot, my minde is bent,
Then to heare nouells of his deuiſe:
They bene ſo well thewed, and ſo wiſe,
What euer that good old man beſpeake.
