None but the red-brest and the wren did sing the euen away,
And that in notes of sad record for summer’s late decay:
The field, which whilome Ceres crown’d with golden eares of corne,
And all the pasture-springing meades, which Pales did adorne,
Lookt pale for woe, the winterie snow had couered all their greene,
Nought else vpon the grasselesse ground, but winter’s waste was seene:
The shepheard’s feeble flocke pent vp within the bounded fold,
So faint for food, that scarce their feete their bodies could vphold,
Did hang the head with heauie cheare, as they would learne to mourne
The thrall in which they now did liue, by shepheard left forlorne: