Classic Poem

The cheerefull byrde that skips from tree to tree,
By skilfull choyse doth rooust and rest at night:
Although by wing and will he may go free,
Yet there he pearkes, where most he takes delight.
As Thrush in thorne, and golden Finch in Fearne,
Great byrds in groues, the smale in bushie hedge:
The Larke alowe, in loftie tree the Hearne,
And some in Fenne, doe shrowde themselues in sedge.
So some men bost in Bayes, whose branch they beare,
Some Hawthorne holde, as chiefe of their delight:
Some wofull wights, the wrethed Willows weare,
Some Roses reach, and some the Lyllies white.
Some Plane tree praise, as great D ARIVS sonne,
Whose oft recourse thereto, doth wel expresse,
That vertues rife therin this Prince had wonne,
To lyke the same aboue the rest I gesse.
The Oliander eke, whose Roselike floure,
Fayre P OLIXENE so passing well did please:
Some lift aloft, and some the Pien pure,
Yet trees I know that farre surmounteth these.
Not for their daintie fruites, or odoures sweete,
Ne yet for sumptuous shewe that others yeelde:
But for the Ladies sakes, which there did meete,
I giue them prayse as chiefest in the fielde.
O happy trees, O happy boughes, whose shade
Ishrouded hath such Noble vertuous wightes:
By whom you were, and are a Mirror made,
Who of your selues doe yeelde no great delightes.
O fertyle ground, in yeelding wise that lends,
Such causes great of Ladies perfite ioyes,
O blissefull place so fit for faithfull friends,
In pleasures ryfe, to rid them from anoyes.
What wonder may it be, to those shall heare,
In Maple hard, or crooked Crabbe tree sowre:
Such sugred talke, such iests, such ioyfull cheare,
Such mylde affects, as if t'were C VPIDS bowre?
Nowe sith these Noble Nimphes ybreathed haue,
Vpon these plants, in vttering forth their minde:
If any seeke their secrecie to craue,
High I OVE I pray these trees may shewe their kinde.
Help Satyrs eke, you Gods that keepe the wood,
The poysoning breath of B OREAS rough resist:
And thou whose syluer drops bedewes eche bud,
Refreshe these trees with sweete A VRORAES mist.
And I OVE if thou in Milfeelde shew thy might,
Conuert them soone, to fruites of more delight.
That Maple may be Mulberie,
And Crabbe tree eke a Medler be.