The soote season

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale. The nightingale with feathers new she sings; The turtle to her make hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs. The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; The buck in brake his winter coat he flings; The fishes float with new repairèd scale; The adder all her slough away she slings; The swift swallow pursueth the fliès small; The busy bee her honey now she mings. Winter is worn, that was the flowers' bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things, Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.