Why frowns this shallow feud 'twixt me and thee?
Were I a bad son, deaf, undutiful,
Nor loved thy mother-talk, thy gramarye
Of groves, thy hale discourse of fact in terms
That mince not, yea, thy sharp cold winter
Like as the love lore thine expressive germs
Of spring do plainly petal forth,—'twere cause
Conceivable of quarrel.
HOW TWELVE STAGS PLOWED FOR SAINT LEONOR
Ere yet to brakeward stole the feeding fawn,