First lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of floures
That freshly budded, and new blossomes did beare,
In which a thousand birds had built their bowres,
That sweetly sung to call forth paramoures:
And in his hand a javelin he did beare,
And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures)
A guilt-engraven morion he did weare,
That as some did him love, so others did him feare
The great operations of Nature during this month seem to be, to dry up the superabundant moisture of February, thereby preventing the roots and seeds from rotting in the earth, and gradually to bring forward the process of evolution in the swelling buds, whilst, at the same time, by the wholesome severity of the chilling blasts, they are kept from a premature disclosure, which would expose their tender contents to injury from the yet unconfirmed season. Shakspeare in one of his beautiful similies says —
And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north,