Perfect the embryon blossom of each spray;
Next cometh autumn, when the threshèd sheaf
Loseth his grain, and every tree his leaf;
Lastly, cold winter's rage, with many a storm,
Threats the proud pines which Ida's top adorn,
And makes the sap leave succourless the shoot,
Shrinking to comfort his decaying root.
From Britannia's Pastorals.