And let us cast with what delight to chase
And weary this long ling'ring Phœbus' race.
Whilome thou wont the shepheards' lads to lead
In rhymes, in riddles, and in bidding base;
Now they in thee, and thou in sleep, art dead.
CUD. Piers, I have piped erst so long with pain,
That all mine oaten reeds be rent and wore,
And my poor Muse hath spent her spared store,
Yet little good hath got, and much less gain.
Such pleasance makes the grasshopper so poor,