Whilom had been the king of the field,
And mochel mast to the husband did yield,
And with his nuts larded many swine,
But now the gray moss marred his rine,
His bared boughs were beaten with storms,
His top was bald, and wasted with worms,
His honour decay'd, his braunches sere.
Hard by his side grew a bragging Breere, 115 Which proudly thrust into th' element, And seemed to threat the firmament: It was embellisht with blossoms fair, And thereto aye wonted to repair The shepherds' daughters to gather flowres, To paint their garlands with his colowres, And in his small bushes used to shroud The sweet nightingale singing so loud,
Which made this foolish Breere wex so bold?
That on a time he cast him to scold,
And sneb the good Oak, for he was old.
Why stand'st there (quoth he) thou brutish block?
Nor for fruit nor for shadow serves thy stock;
Seest how fresh my flowres been spread,
Died in lilly white and crimson red,
With leaves engrained in lusty green,
Colours met to cloath 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 cinamon smell too much annoyeth:
Volume VII.
Wherefore soon I rede thee hence remove,
Lest thou the price of my displeasure prove.
So spake this bold Breere with great disdain,
Little him answer'd the Oak again,
But yielded, with shame and grief adaw'd,
That of a weed he was over-craw'd.
It chaunced after upon a day,
The husband-man's self to come that way,
Of custom to surview his ground,
And his trees of state in compass round:
Him when the spightful Breere had espyed,
Causeless complained, and loudly cryed
Unto his lord stirring up stern strife:
O my liege Lord! the god of my life,
Pleaseth you pond 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 dole to die,
Through felonous force of mine enemy.
Greatly aghast with this piteous plea,
Him rested the good man on the lea,
And bad the Breere in his plaint proceed.
With painted words tho gan this proud weed 160 (As most usen ambitious folk)
His colour'd crime with craft to cloke.
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 flowring blossoms to furnish the prime,
And scarlet berries in sommer-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,
Hindring 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 woundes wide
Untimely my flowers forced to fall,
That been the honour of your coronal;
And oft he lets his canker-worms light
Upon my branches, to work me more spight; 180
And oft his hoary locks down doth cast,
Wherewith my fresh flowrets been defast:
For this, and many more such outrage,
Craving your goodlyhead to assuage
The rancorous rigour of his might;
Nought ask I, but onely to hold my right,
Submitting me to your good sufferaunce,
And praying to be garded from grievaunce.
To this this Oak cast him to reply
Well as he couth; but his enemy
Had kindled such coles of displeasure,
That the good man nould stay his leasure,
But home him hasted with furious heat,
Encreasing 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 mought cooled be,
But to the root bent his sturdy stroak,
And made many wounds in the waste Oak.
The axe's edg 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 antient tree,
Sacred with many a mystery,
And often crost with the priests' crew,
And often hallowed with holy-water dew;
But like fancies weren foolery,
And broughten this Oak to this misery;
For nought mought they quitten him from decay,
For fiercely the good man at him did lay.
The block oft groaned under his blow,
And sighed to see his near overthrow.
In fine, the steel had pierced his pith,
Tho down to the ground he fell forthwith.
His wondrous weight made the ground to quake, Th' earth shrunk under him, and seem'd to shake: There lieth the Oak pitied of none.
Now stands the Breere like a lord alone,
Puff'd up with pride and vain pleasance;
But all this glee had no continuance :
For eftsoons winter 'gan to approach,
The blustering Boreas did encroach,
And beat upon the solitary Breere,
For now no succour was seen him neere.
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 burdned him so sore,
That now upright he can stand no more;
And being down is trod in the durt
Of cattel, and brouzed, and sorely hurt.
Such was th' end of this ambitious Breere,
For scorning eld—”
CUD. Now I pray thee shepherd, 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 heart-blood is well nigh frozn I feel,
And my galage grown fast to my heel;
But little ease of thy leud tale I tasted;
Hie thee home, Shepherd, the day is nigh wasted. 246
Iddio, perche é vecchio,
Fa suoi al suo essempio.
Niuno vecchio,
Spaventa iddio.
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