Edmund Spenser

And thus of all my harvest-hope I have
Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.

And thus of all my harvest-hope I have
Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.

There grewe an aged tree on the greene;
A goodly Oake sometime had it bene,
With armes read more

There grewe an aged tree on the greene;
A goodly Oake sometime had it bene,
With armes full strong and largely displayed,
But of their leaves they were disarayde
The bodie bigge, and mightely pight,
Thoroughly rooted, and of wond'rous hight;
Whilome had bene the king of the field,
And mochell mast to the husband did yielde,
And with his nuts larded many swine:
But now the gray mosse marred his rine;
His bared boughes were beaten with stormes,
His toppe was bald, and wasted with wormes,
His honour decayed, his brauches sere.

And with unwearied fingers drawing out
The lines of life, from living knowledge hid.

And with unwearied fingers drawing out
The lines of life, from living knowledge hid.

Yet was he but a squire of low degree.

Yet was he but a squire of low degree.

Don Chaucer. well of English undefyled
On Fame's eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.

Don Chaucer. well of English undefyled
On Fame's eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.