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SUMMER

When Spring had done, the Summer did begin,
With melted tauny face, and garments thin,
Resembling Fire, Choler, and Middle age,
As Spring did Air, Blood, Youth in ‘s equipage.
Wiping the sweat from of her face that ran,
With hair all wet she pussing thus began;
Bright June, July and August hot are mine,
In th’ first Sol doth in crabbed Cancer shine.
His progress to the North now’s fully done,
Then retrograde must be my burning Sun,
Who to his Southward Tropick still is bent,
Yet doth his parching heat but more augment
Though he decline, because his flames so fair,
Have throughly dry’d the earth, and heat the air.
Like as an Oven that long time hath been heat,
Whose vehemency at length doth grow so great,
That if you do withdraw her burning store,
‘Tis for a time as fervent as before.
Now go those foolick Swains, the Shepherd Lads
To wash the thick cloth’d flocks with pipes full glad
In the cool streams they labour with delight
Rubbing their dirty coats till they look white;
Whose fleece when finely spun and deeply dy’d
With Robes thereof Kings have been dignified,
Blest rustick Swains, your pleasant quiet life,
Hath envy bred in Kings that were at strife,
Careless of worldly wealth you sing and pipe,
Whilst they’r imbroyl’d in wars & troubles rife:
Wich made great Bajazet cry out in ‘s woes,
Oh happy shepherd which hath not to lose.

Orthobulus, nor yet Sebastia great,
But whist’leth to thy flock in cold and heat.
Viewing the Sun by day, the Moon by night
Endimions, Dianaes dear delight,
Upon the grass resting your healthy limbs,
By purling Brooks looking how fishes swims,
If pride within your lowly Cells ere haunt,
Of him that was Shepherd then King go vaunt.
This moneth the Roses are distil’d in glasses,
Whose fragrant smel all made perfumes surpasses
The cherry, Gooseberry are now in th’ prime,
And for all sorts of Pease, this is the time.
July my next, the hott’st in all the year,
The sun through Leo now takes his Career,
Whose flaming breath doth melt us from afar,
Increased by the star Ganicular,
This month from Julius Ceasar took its name,
By Romans celebrated to his fame.
Now go the Mowers to their flashing toyle,
The Meadowes of their riches to dispoyle,
With weary strokes, they take all in their way,
Bearing the burning heat of the long day.
The forks and Rakes do follow them amain,
Wich makes the aged fields look young again,
The groaning Carts do bear away their prize,
To Stacks and Barns where it for Fodder lyes.
My next and last is August fiery hot
(For much, the Southward Sun abateth not)
This Moneth he keeps with Vigor for a space,
The dry’ed Earth is parched with his face.
August of great Augustus took its name,
Romes second Emperour of lasting fame,
With sickles now the bending Reapers goe
The rustling tress of terra down to mowe;
And bundles up in sheaves, the weighty wheat,
Which after Manchet makes for Kings to eat:
The Barly, Rye and Pease should first had place,
Although their bread have not so white a face.
The Carter leads all home with whistling voyce.
He plow’d with pain, but reaping doth rejoice,
His sweat, his toyle, his careful wakeful nights,
His fruitful Crop abundantly requites.
Now’s ripe the Pear, Pear-plumb and Apricock,
The prince of plumbs, whose stone’s as hard as Rock
The Summer seems but short, the Autumn hasts
To shake his fruits, of most delicious tasts
Like good old Age, whose younger juicy Roots
Hath still ascended, to bear goodly fruits.
Until his head be gray, and strength be gone.
Yet then appears the worthy deeds he’th done:
To feed his boughs exhausted hath his Sap,
Then drops his fruit into the eaters lap.