And seemed to threat the firmament: It was embellish'd with blossoms fair, And thereto aye wonted to repair The shepheards' daughters to gather flowers, To paint their garlands with his colours; And in his small bushes used to shroud The sweet nightingale singing so loud; Which made this foolish Brere wax so bold, That on a time he cast him to scold And snebbe the good Oak, for he was old. "'Why standst there (quoth he) thou brutish block? Nor for fruit nor for shadow serves thy stock; Seest how fresh my flowers be spread, Dyed in lily white and crimson red, With leaves engrained in lusty green; Colours meet to clothe a maiden queen? Thy waste bigness but cumbers the ground, And dirks the beauty of my blossoms round: The mouldy moss, which thee accloyeth, My cinnamon smell too much annoyeth: Wherefore soon I rede thee hence remove, Lest thou the price of my displeasure prove.' So spake this bold Brere with great disdain: Little him answered the Oak again, But yielded, with shame and grief adawed, That of a weed he was overcrawed. "It chanced after upon a day, The husbandman self to come that way, Of custom for to surview his ground, And his trees of state in compass round: Him when the spiteful Brere had espied, Causeless complained, and loudly cried Unto his lord, stirring up stern strife: "'O my liege lord! the god of my life, Pleaseth you ponder your suppliant's plaint, Caused of wrong and cruel constraint, Which I your poor vassal daily endure; And, but your goodness the same recure, Am like for desperate dool to die, Through felonous force of mine enemy.' "Greatly aghast with this piteous plea, Him rested the goodman on the lea, And bade the Brere in his plaint proceed. With painted words then gan this proud weed (As most usen ambitious folk) His coloured crime with craft to cloak. "'Ah, my sovereign! lord of creatures all, Thou placer of plants both humble and tall, Was not I planted of thine own hand, To be the primrose of all thy land; With flow'ring blossoms to furnish the prime, And scarlet berries in summer time? How falls it then that this faded Oak, Whose body is sere, whose branches broke, Whose naked arms stretch unto the fire, Unto such tyranny doth aspire; Hindering with his shade my lovely light, And robbing me of the sweet sun's sight? So beat his old boughs my tender side, That oft the blood springeth from woundës wide; Untimely my flowers forced to fall, That be the honour of your coronal: And oft he lets his canker-worms light Upon my branches, to work me more spite; And oft his hoary locks down doth cast, Wherewith my fresh flow'rets be defast: For this, and many more such outrage, Craving your goodlyhead to assuage