225 230 Now stands the Brere like a lord alone, Puffed up with pryde and vaine pleasaunce: But all this glee had no continuaunce. For eftsones winter gan to approche, The blustring Boreas did encroche, And beate upon the solitarie Brere: For nowe no succoure was seene him nere. Now gan he repent his pryde to late: For naked left and disconsolate, The byting frost nipt his stalke dead, The watrie wette weighed downe his head, And heaped snowe burdned him so sore, That nowe upright he can stand no more: And being downe, is trodde in the durt Of cattell, and brouzed, and sorely hurt. Such was thend of this ambitious Brere, For scorning eld — 235 Delighten much: what I the bett forthy? 15 They han the pleasure, I a sclender prise: I beate the bush, the byrds to them doe flye: What good thereof to Cuddie can arise? Piers. Cuddie, the prayse is better then the price, 21 The glory eke much greater then the gayne: Or pricke them forth with pleasaunce of thy vaine, Whereto thou list their traynèd willes entice! Soone as thou gynst to sette thy notes in frame, 25 O how the rural routes to thee doe cleave! Seemeth thou doest their soule of sense bereave, All as the shepheard, that did fetch his dame From Plutoes balefull bowre withouten leave: His musicks might the hellish hound did tame. 30 Cud. So praysen babes the peacoks spotted traine, And wondren at bright Argus blazing eye; But who rewards him ere the more forthy? Or feedes him once the fuller by a graine? Sike prayse is smoke, that sheddeth in the skye, 35 Sike words bene wynd, and wasten soone in vayne, |