Nought reaped but a weedy crop of care;
Which, when I thought have thresh'd in swelling sheave,
Cockle for corn, and chaff for barley, bare:
Soon as the chaff should in the fan be fin'd,
All was blown away of the wavering wind.
"So now my year draws to his latter term,
My spring is spent, my summer burnt up quite;
My harvest hastes to stir up Winter stern,
And bids him claim with rigorous rage his right:
So now he storms with many a sturdy stour;