Classic Poem

THE Earth , in her best verdure; and the Spring
As glorious as antique Fame, did Sing,
Her constant Tempe; all the Meads were sett
With bright Enamel; and the feilds were fitt
All most for the keene Sickle, which might seeme
Justly a wonder; if wee doe esteeme
Our colder Latitude; for who shall Say
(Without reproofe) the Harvest is in Maye?
Now Maye it was; what vast Hyperbole
Will serve but to speake truth? the blooming Tree
Crack't with its weight of Fruite; and wee almost
Might, by the Season, August have suppos'd:
All Eares were fill'd, and everie tongue could prate
Of Prodigie; and guesse, I know not what;
Some wiser, left it in the Misterie,
And from the Cause, look'd what th' effects might be;
The avaritious Husband, claw'd his Eare,
And deem'd to have, two Harvests in a Yeare.
Thus, stood the Earth; to Miracle almost;
When the more Miracle, a biteing frost
With a bleake northerne wind, orerun the feild
And nipt the Swelling Graine, the fruits it kill'd;
The painted Meadowes, chilled in their pride,
Grow wan; and flowers run backe agen, to hide
Themselves, in warmer Crannies of the Earth.
Never was such a Change since the great Birth
Which Chaos teemed; and though it Ruine threat,
Who knowes? but when the Sun, in better Heat
Shall mount his Throne in Cancer; with his rayes
May quicken them, and give a new encrease;
Soe satisfye our Hopes; that men may Say,
The Sun, in June, Conquer'd the Storme in May.