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FROM THE INDUCTION TO A MIKROUK FOR MAGISTRATES.
The wrathful winter 'proching on apace,
With blust'ring blasts had all ybared the treen,
And old Saturnus with his frosty face
With chilling cold had pierced the tender green;
The mantles rent, wherein enwrapped been
The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown,
The tapets torn, and every bloom down blown.
The soil that erst so seemly was to seen,
Was all despoil'd of her beauty's hue:
And soote fresh flowers (wherewith the summer's queen
Had clad the earth) now Boreas' blasts down blew,
And small fowls flocking, in their song did rue
The winter's wrath, wherewith each thing defaced
In woful wise bewailed the summer past.
Hawthorn had lost his motley livery,
The naked twigs were shivering all for cold;
And dropping down the tears abundantly;
Each thing (me thought) with weeping eye me told
The cruel season, bidding me withhold
My self within, for I was gotten out
Into the fields whereas I walked about.
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force;
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath its adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest;
But these particulars are not my measure,
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high Uirth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast.
Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take
All this away, and me most wretched make.