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The Four Seaſons.
177
For then In Eden was not only ſeen,
Boughs full of leaves, or fruits unripe or[1] green,
Or withered flocks, which were[2] all dry and dead,
But trees with goodly fruits repleniſhed;
Which ſhews nor Summer, Winter nor the Spring
Our Grand-Sire[3] was of Paradice made King:
Nor could that temp'rate Clime ſuch difference make,
If ſcited as the moll Judicious take,[4]
October is my next, we hear in this
The Northern winter-blaſts begin to hiſs.
[66]In Scorpio reſideth now the Sun,
And his declining heat is almoſt done.
The fruitleſs[5] Trees all withered now do ſtand,
Whoſe ſapleſs yellow leavs, by winds are fan'd,
Which notes when youth and ſtrength have pall their prime
Decrepit age muſt alſo have its time.
The Sap doth ſlily creep towards the Earth
There reſts, until the Sun give it a birth.
So doth old Age ſtill tend unto his grave,
Where alſo he his winter time muſt have;
But when the Sun of righteouſneſs draws nigh.
His dead old ſtock, ſhall mount again on high.
November is my laſt, for Time doth haſte,
We now of winters ſharpneſs 'gins to taſt.
Boughs full of leaves, or fruits unripe or[1] green,
Or withered flocks, which were[2] all dry and dead,
But trees with goodly fruits repleniſhed;
Which ſhews nor Summer, Winter nor the Spring
Our Grand-Sire[3] was of Paradice made King:
Nor could that temp'rate Clime ſuch difference make,
If ſcited as the moll Judicious take,[4]
October is my next, we hear in this
The Northern winter-blaſts begin to hiſs.
[66]In Scorpio reſideth now the Sun,
And his declining heat is almoſt done.
The fruitleſs[5] Trees all withered now do ſtand,
Whoſe ſapleſs yellow leavs, by winds are fan'd,
Which notes when youth and ſtrength have pall their prime
Decrepit age muſt alſo have its time.
The Sap doth ſlily creep towards the Earth
There reſts, until the Sun give it a birth.
So doth old Age ſtill tend unto his grave,
Where alſo he his winter time muſt have;
But when the Sun of righteouſneſs draws nigh.
His dead old ſtock, ſhall mount again on high.
November is my laſt, for Time doth haſte,
We now of winters ſharpneſs 'gins to taſt.
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