And small fowles flocking, in their song did rewe The winters wrath, wherewith eche thing defaste In woful wise bewayled the sommer past.

Hawthorne had lost his motley lyverye,

The naked twigges were shivering all for colde;
And dropping downe the teares abundantly;
Eche thing (me thought) with weping eye me tolde
The cruell season, bidding me witholde
My selfe within, for I was gotten out
Into the feldes whereas I walkte about.

And strayt forth stalking with redoubled pace
For that I sawe the night drewe on so fast,
In blacke all clad there fell before my face
A piteous wight, whom woe had al forwaste,
Furth from her iyen the cristall teares outbrast,
And syghing sore her handes she wrong and folde,
Tearing her heare, that ruth was to beholde.

Her body small forwithered and forespent,
As is the stalk that sommers drought opprest;
Her wealked face with woful tears besprent,
Her colour pale, and (as it seemd her best)
In woe and playnt reposed was her rest.
And as the stone that droppes of water weares;
So dented wer her cheekes with fall of teares.

Her iyes swollen with flowing streames aflote,
Wherewith her lookes throwen up full piteouslie,
Her forceles handes together ofte she smote,
With doleful shrikes, that echoed in the skye:
Whose playnt such sighes dyd strayt accompany,
That in my doome was never man did see
A wight but halfe so woe-begon as she.

An hydeous hole al vaste, withouten shape,
Of endless depth, orewhelmde with ragged stone,
Wyth ougly mouth, and grisly jawes doth gape,
And to our sight confounds it selfe in one.
Here entred we, and yeding forth, anone
An horrible lothly lake we might discerne
As blacke as pitche, that cleped is Averne.

A deadly gulfe where nought but rubbishe grows,
With fowle blacke swelth in thickned lumpes lyes,
Which up in the ayer such stinking vapors throwes
That over there, may flye no fowle but dyes,
Choakt with the pestilent savours that aryse.
Hither we cum, whence forth we still dyd pace,
In dreadful feare amid the dreadfull place.

And first within the portche and jawes of hell
Sate diepe Remorse of Conscience, al besprent
With teares: and to her selfe oft would she tell,
Her wretchednes, and cursing never stent
To sob and sigh: but ever thus lament,
With thoughtful care, as she that all in vayne
Would weare and waste continually in payne.

Her iyes unstedfast rolling here and there,

Whurld on eche place, as place that vengeauns brought,
So was her minde continually in feare,

Tossed and tormented with the tedious thought
Of those detested crimes which she had wrought:
With dreadful cheare and lookes thrown to the skye,
Wyshyng for death, and yet she could not dye.

Next sawe we Dread al tremblyng how he shooke,
With foot uncertayne proferd here and there:
Benumde of speache, and with a gastly looke
Searcht evry place al pale and dead for feare,
His cap borne up with starting of his heare,
Stoynde and amazde at his owne shade for dreed,
And fearing greater daungers than was nede.

And next within the entry of this lake
Sate fell Revenge gnashing her teeth for yre,
Devising means howe she may vengeaunce take,
Never to rest tyll she have her desire:
But frets within so farforth with the fyer
Of wreaking flames, that now determines she,
To dye by death, or vengde by death to be.

When fell Revenge with bloudy foule pretence
Had showed herselfe as next in order set,
With trembling limmes we softly parted thence,
Tyll in our iyes another sight we met :

When fro my hart a sigh forthwith I fet,
Rewing, alas, upon the wofull plight
Of Miserie, that next appeared in sight.

His face was leane, and sum deale pyned away,
And eke his handes consumed to the bone,
But what his body was I cannot say,

For on his carkas rayment had he none,
Save cloutes and patches pieced one by one.
With staffe in hande, and skrip on shoulder cast,
His chiefe defence agaynst the winters blast.

His foode for most, was wylde fruytes of the tree,
Unles sumtimes sum crummes fell to his share:
Which in his wallet long, God wote, kept he,
As on the which full dayntlye would he fare.
His drinke the running streame: his cup the bare
Of his palme closed: his bed the hard colde grounde.
To this poore life was Miserie ybound.

Whose wretched state when we had well behelde
With tender ruth on him and on his feres,

In thoughtful cares, furth then our pace we helde;
And by and by, another shape apperes,

Of greedy Care, stil brushing up the breres,
His knuckles knob'd, his fleshe depe dented in,
With tawed handes, and hard ytanned skyn.

The morrowe graye no sooner had begunne
To spreade his light even peping in our iyes,
When he is up and to his worke yrunne:
But let the nightes blacke mistye mantels rise,
And with fowle darke never so much disguyse
The fayre bright day, yet ceasseth he no whyle,
But hath his candels to prolong his toyle.

By him lay heavy Slepe, cosin of Death,
Flat on the ground, and still as any stone,
A very corps, save yelding forth a breath.
Small kepe took he whom Fortune frowned on,
Or whom she lifted up into the trone
Of high renowne, but as a living death,
So dead alyve, of lyfe he drewe the breath.

The bodyes rest, the quyete of the hart,
The travayles ease, the still nightes fere was he.
And of our life in earth the better parte,
Reuen of sight, and yet in whom we see
Thinges oft that tide, and ofte that never bee.
Without respect esteeming equally
Kyng Cresus pompe, and Irus povertie.

And next in order sad Old Age we found,
His beard all hoare, his iyes hollow and blynde,
With drouping chere still poring on the ground,
As on the place where nature him assinde
To rest, when that the sisters had untwynde
His vitall threde, and ended with theyr knyfe
The fleeting course of fast declining life.

There heard we him with broken hollow playnt,
Rewe with himselfe his ende approaching fast,
And all for nought his wretched minde torment
With swete remembraunce of his pleasures past,
And freshe delites of lusty youth forwaste.
Recounting which, how woulde he sob and shrike,
And to be yong againe of Jove beseke.

But and the cruell fates so fixed be
That time forpast cannot retourne agayne,
This one request of Jove yet prayed he:

That in such withered plight, and wretched paine,
As elde (accompanied with his lothsome trayne)
Had brought on him, all were it woe and griefe,
He might a while yet linger forth his lief;

And not so soone descend into the pit,

Where death, when he the mortall corps hath slayne,
With retchles hande in grave doth cover it,
Thereafter never to enjoye agayne

The gladsome light, but in the ground ylayne
In depth of darknes waste and weare to nought,
As he had nere into the world been brought.

But who had seene him sobbing, howe he stoode
Unto himselfe, and howe he would bemone
His youth forpast, as though it wrought hym good
To talke of youth, al wer his youth forgone,

He would have mused, and mervayled muche whereon
This wretched age should life desyre so fayne,
And knowes ful wel life doth but length his payne.

Crookebackt he was, tooth shaken, and blere iyed,
Went on three feete, and sometime crept on foure,
With olde lame bones, that ratled by his syde,
His skalpe all pilde, and he with elde forlore:
His withered fist stil knocking at deathes dore,
Fumbling and driveling as he drawes his breth;
For briefe, the shape and messenger of Death.

And fast by him pale Maladie was plaste,
Sore sicke in bed, her colour all forgone,
Bereft of stomake, savor, and of taste,

Ne could she brooke no meat but brothes alone.
Her breath corrupt, her keepers every one
Abhorring her, her sicknes past recure,
Detesting phisicke, and all phisickes cure.

But oh the doleful sight that then we see;
We turnde our looke, and on the other side
A griesly shape of Famine mought we see,
With greedy lookes, and gaping mouth that cryed,
And roard for meat as she should there have dyed:
Her body thin and bare as any bone,

Wharto was left nought but the case alone;

And that alas was knawen on every where
All full of holes, that I ne mought refrayne
From teares to see how she her armes could teare,
And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vayne:
When all for nought she fayne would so sustayne
Her starven corps, that rather seemde a shade,
Then any substaunce of a creature made.

Great was her force whom stonewall could not stay,
Her tearyng nayles scratching at all she sawe :

With gaping jawes that by no means ymay

Be satisfyed from hunger of her mawe,

But eates her selfe as she that hath no lawe:
Gnawing alas her carkas all in vayne,

Where you may count eche sinow, bone, and vayne.