Februarie
Whoſe bodie is ſere, whoſe braunches broke,
Whoſe naked Armes ſtretch vnto the fyre,
Vnto ſuch tyrannie doth aſpire:
Hindering with his ſhade my louely light,
And robbing mee of the ſweete ſonnes ſight?
So beate his old boughes my tender ſide,
That oft the bloude ſpringeth from woundes wyde:
Vntimelie my flowres forced to fall,
That bene the honor of your Coronall.
And oft hee lets his cancker wormes light
Vpon my braunches, to worke me more ſpight:
And oft his hoarie locks downe doth caſt,
Where with my freſh flowrets bene defaſt.
For this, and many more ſuch outrage,
Crauing your goodlyhead to aſſwage
The ranckorous rigour of his might,
Nought aſke I, but onely to holde my right:
Submitting me to your good ſufferaunce,
And praying to be garded from greeuance.
To this the Oake cast him to replie
Well as he couth: but his enemie
Had kindled ſuch coles of diſpleaſure,
That the good man noulde ſtay his leaſure,
But home him haſted with furious heate,
Encreaſing his wrath with many a threate.
His harmefull Hatchet he hent in hand,
(Alas, that it ſo readie ſhould ſtand)
And to the fielde alone he ſpeedeth.
(Aye little help to harme there needeth)
Anger nould let him ſpeake to the tree,
Enaunter his rage mought cooled bee:
But to the roote bent his ſturdie ſtroke,
And made many woundes in the waſte Oake.
The Axes edge did oft turne againe,
As halfe vnwilling to cutte the graine:
Seemed, the ſenſeleſſe yron dyd feare,
Or to wrong holy eld did forbeare.
For
