Now nought but hoarie frost was seene, each branch teares downe did send,
Whose dewie drops on ysiccles vpon each bough depend:
The mistresse of the woods quaint quire, the warbling Philomele,
That wont to rauish with delight, th’inhabitants, that dwell
About the greene wood side, forgot the layes she sung before,
For griefe of summer’s golden losse she now could sing no more:
And all the quire that wont with her to beare a part and sing
Concordant discords in sweet straine for welcome of the spring,
Sate silent on the frostie bow, and shuddering all for cold,
Did shroud the head beneath the wing, the day was waxed old,