Februarie
Thy waſte bignes but combers the grownd,
And dirks the beautie of my bloſſomes round.
The mouldie moſſe, which thee accloyeth,
My Sinamon ſmell too much annoyeth.
Wherefore ſoone I rede thee, hence remooue,
Leaſt thou the price of my diſpleaſure prooue.
So ſpake this bold Brere with great diſdaine:
Little him aunſwered the Oake againe,
But yielded, with ſhame and griefe adawed,
That of a Weede hee was ouercrawed.
It chaunced after upon a day,
The Huſbandman ſelfe to come that way,
Of cuſtome for to ſeruewe his grounde,
And his trees of ſtate in compaſſe rounde.
Him when the spitefull Brere had eſpyed,
Cauſleſſe complayned, and lowdly cryed
Unto his Lord, ſtirring vp ſterne ſtrife:
O my liege Lord, the God of my life,
Pleaſeth you ponder your Suppliaunts playnt,
Cauſed of wrong, and cruell conſtraint,
Which I your poore Vassall daylie endure:
And but your goodnes the ſame recure,
Am like for deſperate doole to die,
Through felonous force of mine enemie.
Greatly aghaſt with this piteous plea,
Him reſted the good-man on the lea,
And badde the Brere in his plaint proceede.
With painted words tho gan this prowde weede,
(As moſt vſen Ambitious folke:)
His coloured crime with craft to cloke.
Ah my soueraigne, Lord of creatures all,
Thou placer of plants both humble and tall,
Was not I planted of thine owne hande,
To bee the primroſe of all thy lande,
With flowring bloſſomes, to furniſh the prime,
And ſcarlet berries in Sommer time?
How falls it then, that this faded Oake,
Whoſe
