Februarie.
THENOT.
Many meete tales of youth did he make,
And ſome of loue, and ſome of cheualrie:
But none fitter then this to applie.
Now liſten a while, and hearken the end.
THere grewe an aged Tree on the greene,
A goodly Oake ſometime had it bene,
With armes full ſtrong and largely diſplayd,
But of their leaues they were diſarayde:
The bodie bigge, and mightily pight,
Throughly rooted, and of wonderous hight:
Whilome had bene the king of the fielde,
And mochell maſt to the huſband did yielde,
And with his nuts larded many ſwine.
But now the gray moſſe marred his rine,
His bared boughes were beaten with ſtormes,
His toppe was bald, and wasted with wormes,
His honor decayed, his braunches ſere.
Hard by his ſide grewe a bragging brere,
Which proudly thruſt into Thelement,
And seemed to threat the Firmament.
It was embelliſht with bloſſomes faire,
And thereto aye wonned to repayre
The ſhepheards daughters, to gather flowres,
To painct their girlonds with his colowres.
And in his small buſhes vſed to ſhrowde
The ſweete Nightingale ſinging so lowde:
Which made this fooliſh Brere were ſo bold,
That on a time hee cast him to ſcold,
And ſnebbe the good Oake, for he was old.
Why standst there (quoth) thou brutish blocke?
Nor for fruit, nor for ſhadowe ſerues thy ſtocke:
Seeſt, how freſh my flowers bene ſpredde,
Dyed in Lilly white, and Cremſin redde,
With Leaues engrained in luſtie greene,
Colours meete to clothe a mayden Queene.
