The wrathfull winter proching on apace

Of justice yet must God in fine restore, This noble crowne unto the lawful heire For right will alwayes live, and rise at length, But wrong can never take deepe roote to last.

His drinke, the running streame, his cup, the bare Of his palme cloasde, his bed, the hard cold ground: To this poore life was Misery ybound.

And sorrowing I to see the sommer flowers, The lively greene, the lusty lease, forlorne, The sturdy trees so shattred with the showers, The fieldes so fade, that florisht so beforne: It taught mee well, all earthly things be borne To dye …

Crookebackt hee was, toothshaken, and blere eyed, Went on three feete, and somtyme, crept on fowre, With olde lame boanes, that ratled by his syde, His scalpe all pild, and hee with eld forlore: His withred fist still knocking at Death's …

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice!