Seemed, the senseless iron did fear,
Or to wrong holy eld did forbear;
For it had been an ancient tree,
Sacred with many a mystery,
And often cross’d with the priests’ crew,
And often hallowed with holy-water dew:
But sike fancies weren foolery,
And broughten this Oak to this misery;
For nought might they quitten him from decay,
For fiercely the goodman at him did lay.
The block oft groaned under the blow,
And sighed to see his near overthrow.
In fine, the steel had pierced his pith,
Then down to the earth he fell forthwith.
His wondrous weight made the ground to quake,
Th’ earth shrunk under him, and seemed to shake:—
There lieth the Oak, pitied of none!
“Now stands the Brere like a lord alone,
Puffed up with pride and vain pleasance;
But all this glee had no continuance:
For eftsoons winter gan to approach;
The blust’ring Boreas did encroach,
And beat upon the solitary Brere;
For now no succour was seen him near.
Now gan he repent his pride too late;
For, naked left and disconsolate,
The biting frost nipt his stalk dead,
The watry wet weighed down his head,
And heaped snow burden’d him so sore,
That now upright he can stand no more;
And, being down, is trod in the durt
Of cattle, and broused, and sorely hurt.
Such was th’ end of this ambitious Brere,
For scorning eld—”
CUD. Now I pray thee, shepheard, tell it not forth:
Here is a long tale, and little worth.
So long have I listened to thy speech,
15
