8. The Soote Season
—— E. of Surrey
The soote ason, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill ahe vale;
The nightih feathers new she sings;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is e, for every spray now springs;
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The bu brake his winter coat he flings,
The fishes float with new repairéd scale;
The adder all her slough away she slings,
The swift swallow pursueth the flies small;
The busy bee her honey now she mings.
Winter is worn, that was the flowers’ bale.
And thus I e among the pleasant things,
Each care decays, a my sorrow springs.