Where will he live tyll the lusty prime? Selfe have I worne out thrise threttie

yeares,

Some in much joy, many in many teares;
Yet never complained of cold nor heate,
Of sommers flame, nor of winters threat; 20
Ne ever was to fortune foeman,
But gently tooke that ungently came:
And ever my flocke was my chiefe care;
Winter or sommer they mought well fare.
Cud. No marveile, Thenot, if thou can
beare

Cherefully the winters wrathfull cheare:
For age and winter accord full nie,

25

31

This chill, that cold, this crooked, that wrye;
And as the lowring wether lookes downe,
So semest thou like Good Fryday to frowne.
But my flowring youth is foe to frost,
My shippe unwont in stormes to be tost.
The. The soveraigne of seas he blames
in vaine,

That, once seabeate, will to sea againe.
So loytring live you little heardgroomes, 35
Keeping your beastes in the budded broomes:
And when the shining sunne laugheth once,
You deemen the spring is come attonce.
Tho gynne you, fond flyes, the cold to

45

Full of wrinckles and frostie furrowes,
Drerily shooting his stormy darte,
Which cruddles the blood, and pricks the
harte.

Then is your carelesse corage accoied,
Your carefull heards with cold bene an-
noied:

Then paye you the price of your surquedrie, With weeping, and wayling, and misery. 50 Cud. Ah, foolish old man! I scorne thy skill,

That wouldest me my springing youngth to spil.

I deeme thy braine emperished bee Through rusty elde, that hath rotted thee: Or sicker thy head veray tottie is,

55

His dewelap as lythe as lasse of Kent.
See howe he venteth into the wynd.
Weenest of love is not his mynd?
Seemeth thy flocke thy counsell can,
So lustlesse bene they, so weake, so wan,
Clothed with cold, and hoary wyth frost.
Thy flocks father his corage hath lost:
Thy ewes, that wont to have blowen bags,
Like wailefull widdowes hangen their crags:
The rather lambes bene starved with cold,
All for their maister is lustlesse and old.

80

The. Cuddie, I wote thou kenst little good, So vainely tadvaunce thy headlessehood. 86 For youngth is a bubble blown up with breath,

Whose witt is weakenesse, whose wage is death,

Whose way is wildernesse, whose ynne

And some of love, and some of chevalrie:
But none fitter then this to applie.
Now listen a while, and hearken the end.
There grewe an agèd tree on the greene,
A goodly Oake sometime had it bene,
With armes full strong and largely dis-
playd,

But of their leaves they were disarayde: 105
The bodie bigge, and mightely pight,
Throughly rooted, and of wonderous hight:

140

Little him answered the Oake againe,
But yielded, with shame and greefe adawed,
That of a weede he was overawed.

Yt chaunced after upon a day,
The husbandman selfe to come that way,
Of custome for to survewe his grownd, 145
And his trees of state in compasse rownd.
Him when the spitefull Brere had espyed,
Causlesse complained, and lowdly cryed
Unto his lord, stirring up sterne strife:

'O my liege Lord, the god of my life, 150 Pleaseth you ponder your suppliants plaint, Caused of wrong, and cruell constraint, Which I your poore vassall dayly endure: And but your goodnes the same recure, Am like for desperate doole to dye, Through felonous force of mine enemie.' Greatly aghast with this piteous plea,

155

Untimely my flowres forced to fall,

That bene the honor of your coronall.
And oft he lets his cancker wormes light
Upon my braunches, to worke me more
spight:

180

185

190

And oft his hoarie locks downe doth cast,
Where with my fresh flowretts bene defast.
For this, and many more such outrage,
Craving your goodlihead to aswage
The ranckorous rigour of his might,
Nought aske I, but onely to hold my right;
Submitting me to your good sufferance,
And praying to be garded from greevance.'
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 harme full hatchet he hent in hand, 195
(Alas, that it so ready should stand!)
And to the field alone he speedeth,
(Ay little helpe to harme there needeth.)
Anger nould let him speake to the tree,
Enaunter his rage mought cooled bee;
But to the roote bent his sturdy stroke,
And made many wounds in the wast Oake.
The axes edge did oft turne againe,
As halfe unwilling to cutte the graine:
Semed, the sencelesse yron dyd feare,
Or to wrong holy eld did forbeare.
For it had bene an auncient tree,
Sacred with many a mysteree,

200

205

And often crost with the priestes crewe, And often halowed with holy water dewe.

225

230

Puffed up with pryde and vaine pleasaunce:
But all this glee had no continuaunce.
For eftsones winter gan to approche,
The blustring Boreas did encroche,
And beate upon the solitarie Brere:
For nowe no succoure was seene him nere.
Now gan he repent his pryde to late:
For naked left and disconsolate,
The byting frost nipt his stalke dead,
The watrie wette weighed downe his head,
And heaped snowe burdned him so sore,
That nowe upright he can stand no more:
And being downe, is trodde in the durt 235
Of cattell, and brouzed, and sorely hurt.
Such was thend of this ambitious Brere,
For scorning eld -

Cud. Now I pray thee, shepheard, tel it not forth:

Delighten much: what I the bett forthy? 15
They han the pleasure, I a sclender prise:
I beate the bush, the byrds to them doe flye:
What good thereof to Cuddie can arise?
Piers. Cuddie, the prayse is better then
the price,

21

The glory eke much greater then the gayne:
O what an honor is it, to restraine
The lust of lawlesse youth with good ad-
vice,

Or pricke them forth with pleasaunce of thy vaine,

Whereto thou list their traynèd willes entice!

Soone as thou gynst to sette thy notes in

O how the rural routes to thee doe cleave! Seemeth thou doest their soule of sense

bereave,

All as the shepheard, that did fetch his dame From Plutoes bale full bowre withouten

leave:

His musicks might the hellish hound did

And wondren at bright Argus blazing eye; But who rewards him ere the more forthy? Or feedes him once the fuller by a graine? Sike prayse is smoke, that sheddeth in the skye,

35

Sike words bene wynd, and wasten soone in vayne.