Which, when I thought haue thresht in swelling sheaue, Cockel for corne, and chaffe for barley bare. Soone as the chaffe should in the fan be fynd, All was blowne away of the wauering wynd. My harueste hasts to stirre vp winter sterne, And bids him clayme with rigorous rage hys right. So now his blustring blast eche coste doth scoure. And by myne eie the Crow his clawe dooth wright.
Delight is layd abedde, and pleasure past, No sonne now shines, cloudes han all ouercast.
Winter is come, that blowes the bitter blaste, And after Winter dreerie death does hast. Winter breede you greater griefe. And after Winter commeth timely death. Semeth to expresse Virgils verse. Pan curat oues ouiumque magistros.