Demades

Now scourge of winter's wrack is well nigh spent, And sun gins look more longer on our clime, And earth no more to sorrow doth consent, Why been thy looks forlorn that view the prime? Unneth thy flocks may feed to see thee faint, Thou lost, they lean, and both with woe attaint. For shame! Cast off these discontented looks; For grief doth wait on life, though never sought; So Thenot wrote admired for pipe and books. Then to the spring attemper thou thy thought, And let advice rear up thy drooping mind, And leave to weep thy woes unto the wind.