So now his blust'ring blast each coast doth scour.
"The careful cold hath nipt my rugged rind,
And in my face deep furrows eld hath pight:
My head besprent with hoary frost I find,
And by mine eye the crow his claw doth write:
Delight is laid abed; and pleasure past;
No sun now shines; clouds have all overcast.
"Now leave, ye shepheards' boys, your merry glee;
My Muse is hoarse and weary of this stound:
Here will I hang my pipe upon this tree,