Clothed with cold, and hoary with frost,
Thy flock's father his courage hath lost.
Thy ewes, that wont to have blowen bags,
Like wailful widows hangen their crags;
The rather lambs be starved with cold,
All for their master is lustless and old.
THE. Cuddie, I wot thou kenst little good,
So vainly to advance thy heedlesshood;
For youth is a bubble blown up with breath,
Whose wit is weakness, whose wage is death,