The rancorous rigour of his might; Nought ask I, but only to hold my right; Submitting me to your good sufferance, And praying to be guarded from grievance.' "To this this Oak cast him to reply Well as he couth; but his enemy Had kindled such coals of displeasure, That the goodman nould stay his leisure, But home him hasted with furious heat, Increasing his wrath with many a threat: His harmful hatchet he hent in hand, (Alas! that it so ready should stand!) And to the field alone he speedeth, (Aye little help to harm there needeth!) Anger nould let him speak to the tree, Enaunter his rage might cooled be; But to the root bent his sturdy stroke, And made many wounds in the waste Oak. The axe's edge did oft turn again, As half unwilling to cut the grain; Seemed, the senseless iron did fear, Or to wrong holy eld did forbear; For it had been an ancient tree, Sacred with many a mystery, And often cross'd with the priests' crew, And often hallowed with holy-water dew: But sike fancies weren foolery, And broughten this Oak to this misery; For nought might they quitten him from decay, For fiercely the goodman at him did lay. The block oft groaned under the blow, And sighed to see his near overthrow. In fine, the steel had pierced his pith, Then down to the earth he fell forthwith. His wondrous weight made the ground to quake, Th' earth shrunk under him, and seemed to shake:-- There lieth the Oak, pitied of none! "Now stands the Brere like a lord alone, Puffed up with pride and vain pleasance; But all this glee had no continuance: For eftsoons winter gan to approach; The blust'ring Boreas did encroach, And beat upon the solitary Brere; For now no succour was seen him near. Now gan he repent his pride too late; For, naked left and disconsolate, The biting frost nipt his stalk dead, The watry wet weighed down his head, And heaped snow burden'd him so sore, That now upright he can stand no more; And, being down, is trod in the durt Of cattle, and broused, and sorely hurt. Such was th' end of this ambitious Brere, For scorning eld--" CUD. Now I pray thee, shepheard, tell it not forth: Here is a long tale, and little worth. So long have I listened to thy speech, That graffed to the ground is my breech; My heartblood is well nigh frorne I feel, And my galage grown fast to my heel; But little ease of thy lewd tale I tasted: Hie thee home, shepheard, the day is nigh wasted. THENOT'S EMBLEME.[4] _Iddio, perche é vecchio, Fa suoi al suo essempio._ CUDDIE'S EMBLEME.[4] _Niuno vecchio Spaventa Iddio._ [Illustration: MARCH AEGLOGA TERTIA EMBLEMES] MARCH. ÆGLOGA TERTIA. ARGUMENT.