This Æglogue is rather moral and general than bent to any secret or particular purpose. It specially containeth a discourse of old age, in the person of Thenot, an old shepheard, who, for his crookedness and unlustiness, is scorned of Cuddie, an unhappy herdman's boy. The matter very well accordeth with the season of the moneth, the year now drooping, and as it were drawing to his last age. For as in this time of year, so then in our bodies, there is a dry and withering cold, which congealeth the curdled blood, and freezeth the weather-beaten flesh, with storms of Fortune and hoar-frosts of Care. To which purpose the old man telleth a tale of the Oak and the Brier, so lively, and so feelingly, as, if the thing were set forth in some picture before our eyes, more plainly could not appear. CUDDIE. THENOT. CUDDIE. Ah for pity! will rank winter's rage These bitter blasts never gin t'assuage? The keen cold blows through my beaten hide, All as I were through the body gride: My ragged ronts all shiver and shake, As doen high towers in an earthquake: They wont in the wind wag their wriggle tails Perk as a peacock; but now it availes. THE. Lewdly complainest, thou lazy lad, Of winter's wrack for making thee sad. Must not the world wend in his common course, From good to bad, and from bad to worse, From worse unto that is worst of all, And then return to his former fall? Who will not suffer the stormy time, Where will he live till the lusty prime? Self have I worn out thrice thirty years, Some in much joy, many in many tears, Yet never complained of cold nor heat, Of summer's flame, nor of winter's threat, Ne ever was to Fortune foeman, But gently took that ungently came; And ever my flock was my chief care; Winter or summer they might well fare. CUD. No marvel, Thenot, if thou can bear Cheerfully the winter's wrathful cheer; For age and winter accord full nigh, This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wry; And as the louring weather looks down, So seemest thou like Good Friday[3] to frown: But my flow'ring youth is foe to frost, My ship unwont in storms to be tost. THE. The sovereign of seas he blames in vain, That, once sea-beat, will to sea again: So loit'ring live you little herdgrooms, Keeping your beasts in the budded brooms; And, when the shining sun laugheth once, You deemen, the spring is come at once; Then gin you, fond flies! the cold to scorn, And, crowing in pipes made of green corn, You thinken to be lords of the year; But eft, when ye count you freed from fear, Comes the breme Winter with chamfred brows, Full of wrinkles and frosty furrows, Drearily shooting his stormy dart, Which curdles the blood and pricks the heart: Then is your careless courage accoyed, Your careful herds with cold be annoyed: