There stood my friend with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill.[9]
Already were the eaves possessed
With the swift pilgrim's daubèd nest:
The groves already did rejoice
In Philomel's triumphing voice.
The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smiled.
Joan takes her neat-rubbed pail and now
She trips to milk the sand-red cow;