Nor Pan to herie, nor with Love to play;
Such mirth in May is meetest for to make,
Or summer shade, under the cocked hay.
But now sad winter welked hath the day,
And Phœbus, weary of his yearly task,
Ystabled hath his steeds in lowly lay,
And taken up his inn in Fishes'[18] hask:
Thilk sullen season sadder plight doth ask,
And loatheth such delights as thou dost praise:
The mournful Muse in mirth now list ne mask,