The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America, Part 4 – Part 5
The four Seaſons of the Yeare.
Spring.
ANother Four i've yet for to bring on,
Of four times four, the laſt quaternian;
The Winter, Summer, Autumne, and the Spring,
In ſeaſon all theſe Seaſons I ſhal bring;
Sweet Spring, like man in his minority,
At preſent claim'd, and had priority,
With ſmiling Sun-ſhine face, and garments green,
She gently thus began, like ſome fair Queen;
Three months there are allotted to my ſhare,
March, April, May, of all the reſt moſt faire;
The tenth o'th' firſt Sol into Aries enters,
And bids defiance to all tedious Winters:
And now makes glad thoſe blinded Northern wights,
Who for ſome months have ſeen out ſtarry lights,
Croſſes the Line, and equals night and day,
Stil adds to th' laſt, til after pleaſant May;
Now goes the Plow-man to his merry toyl,
For to unlooſe his Winter-locked ſoyl;
The Seedſ-man now doth laviſh out his Grain,
In hope, the more he caſts, the more to gain;
The Gardner, now ſuperfluous branches l…ps,
And Poles erects, for his green clambering Hops;
Now digs, then ſows, his hearbs, his flowers, and …oots,
And carefully manures his trees of fruits.
The Pleiades, their influence now give,
And all that ſeem'd as dead, afreſh do live.
The croaking Frogs, whom nipping Winter kild,
Like Birds, now chirp, and hop about the field,
The Nitingale, the Black-bird, and the Thruſh,
Now tune their layes, on ſprays of every buſh;
The wanton frisking Kids, and ſoft fleec'd Lambs,
Now jump, and play, before their feeding Dams,
The tender tops of budding Graſſe they crop,
They joy in what they have, but more in hope,
For though the Froſt hath loſt his binding power,
Yet many a fleece of Snow, and ſtormy ſhowre,
Doth darken Sols bright face, makes us remember
The pinching Nor-weſt cold, of fierce December.
My ſecond month is April, green, and fair,
Of longer dayes, and a more temperate air;
The Sun now keeps his poſting reſidence
In Taurus Signe, yet haſteth ſtraight from thence;
For though in's running progreſſe he doth take
Twelve houſes of the oblique Zodiack,
Yet never minute ſtil was known to ſtand,
But only once at Joſhua's ſtrange command;
This is the month whoſe fruitfull ſhowers produces
All Plants, and Flowers, for all delights, and uſes;
The Pear, the Plumbs, and Apple-tree now flouriſh,
And Graſſe growes long, the tender Lambs to nouriſh;
The Primroſe pale, and azure Violet,
Among the verduous Graſſe hath Nature ſet,
That when the Sun (on's love) the earth doth ſhine,
Theſe might as Lace, ſet out her Garments fine;
The fearful Bird, his little houſe now builds,
In trees, and wals, in cities, and in fields,
The outſide ſtrong, the inſide warme and near.
A natural Artificer compleate.
The clocking hen, her chipping brood now leads,
With wings, and beak, defends them from the gleads.
My next, and laſt, is pleaſant fruitfull May,
Wherein the earth, is clad in rich aray:
The ſun now enters, loving Geminie,
And heats us with, the glances of his eye,
Our Winter rayment, makes us lay aſide,
Leaſt by his fervor, we be terrifi'd,
All flowers before the ſun-beames now diſcloſes,
Except the double Pinks, and matchleſſe Roſes.
Now ſwarmes the buſie buzzing hony Bee.
Whoſe praiſe deſerves a page, from more then me.
The cleanly huſwives D…ry, now's ith' prime,,
Her ſhelves, and Firkins fill'd for winter time.
The Meads with Cowſlip, Hony-ſuckl's dight,
One hangs his head, the other ſtands upright:
But both rejoyce, at th'heavens clear ſmiling face,
More at her ſhowers, which water them a ſpace.
For fruits, my ſeaſon yeelds, the early Cherry,
The haſty Peaſe, and wholeſome red Strawberry,
More ſolid fruits, require a longer time.
Each ſeaſon, hath his fruit, ſo hath each clime.
Each man his owne peculiar excellence,
But none in all that hath preheminence.
Some ſubject, ſhallow braines, much matter yeelds,
Sometime a theame that's large, proves barren fields.
Melodious Spring, with thy ſhort pittance flye,
In this harſh ſtrain, I find no melody,
Yet above all, this priviledge is th…ne,
Thy dayes ſtil lengthen, without leaſt decline.
Summer.
WHen Spring had done, then Summer muſt begin,
With melted tauny face, and garments thinne.
Reſembling choler, fite and middle-age;
As Spring did aire, blood, youth in's equipage.
Wiping her ſweat from off her brow, that ran,
VVith haire all wet, ſhe puffing thus began.
Bright June, July, and Auguſt, hot are mine,
Ith' firſt, Sol doth in crabed Cancer ſhine.
His progreſſe to the North; now's fully done,
And retrograde, now is my burning Sun.
VVho to his Southward tropick ſtill is bent,
Yet doth his parching heat the more augment,
The reaſon why, becauſe his flames ſo faire,
Hath formerly much heat, the earth and aire.
Like as an oven, that long time hath been heat.
Whoſe vehemency, at length doth grow ſo great,
That if you do, remove her burning ſtore,
She's for a time as fervent as before.
Now go thoſe frolick ſwaines, the ſhepheard lad,
To waſh their thick cloath'd flocks, with pipes ful glad.
In the coole ſtreames they labour with delight,
Rubbing their dirty coates, till they look white.
Whoſe fleece when purely ſpun, and deeply dy'd,
With robes thereof, Kings have been dignifi'd.
'Mongſt all ye ſhepheards, never but one man,
Was like th…t noble, brave Archadian.
Yet hath your life, made Kings the ſame envy,
Though you rep…ſe on graſſe under the skye.
Careleſſe of worldly wealth, you ſit and pipe,
Whilſt they're imbroyl'd in Wars, and troubles ripe;
Which made great Bajazet cry out in's woes,
Oh! happy Shepheard, which had 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, Diana's dear delight;
This Month the Roſes are diſtill'd in Glaſſes,
Whoſe fragrant ſcent, all made-perfume ſurpaſſes;
The Cherry, Gooſ-berry, is now i'th prime,
And for all ſorts of Peaſe this is the time.
July my next, the hot'ſt in all the year,
The Sun in Leo now hath his carrear,
Whoſe flaming breath doth melt us from afar,
Increaſed by the Star Canicular;
This month from Julius Caeſar took the name,
By Romans celebrated to his fame.
Now go the Mowers to their ſlaſhing toyl,
The Medows of their burden to diſpoyl;
With weary ſtroaks, they take all in their way,
Bearing the burning heat of the long day;
The Forks, and Rakes do follow them amain,
Which makes the aged fields look young again,
The groaning Carts to bear away this priſe.
To Barns, and Stacks, where it for Fodder lyes.
My next, and laſt, is Auguſt, fiery hot,
For yet the South-ward Sun abateth not;
This month he keeps with Virgo for a ſpace,
The dryed earth is parched by his face.
August, of great Auguſtus took its name,
Romes ſecond Emperour of peaceful fame;
With Sickles now, the painful Reapers go,
The ruffling treſſe of terra for to moe,
And bundles up in ſheaves the weighty Wheat,
Which after Manchet's made, for Kings to eat;
The Barley, and the Rye, 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 rejoyce;
His ſweat, his toyl, his careful, wakeful nights,
His fruitful crop, abundantly requites.
Now's ripe the Pear, Pear-plumbe, and Apricock,
The Prince of Plumbs, whoſe ſtone is hard as Rock.
The Summer's ſhort, the beauteous Autumne haſtes,
To ſhake his fruit, of moſt delicious taſtes;
Like good Old Age, whoſe younger juycie roots,
Hath ſtil aſcended up in goodly Fruits,
Until his head be gray, and ſtrength be gone,
Yet then appears the worthy deeds he 'ath done:
To feed his boughes, exhauſted hath his ſap,
Then drops his Fruits into the Eaters lap.
Autumne.
OF Autumne months, September is the prime,
Now day and night are equal in each clime;
The tenth of this, Sol riſeth in the Line,
And doth in poyzing Libra this month ſhine.
The Vintage now is ripe, the Grapes are preſt,
Whoſe lively liquor oft is curſt, and bleſt;
For nought's ſo good, but it may be abuſed,
But its a precious juyce, when wel it's uſed.
The Raiſins now in cluſters dryed be,
The Orange, Lemon, Dangle on the tree;
The Figge is ripe, the Pomgranet alſo,
And Apples now their yellow ſides do ſhow;
Of Medlar, Quince, of Warden, and of Peach,
The ſeaſon's now at hand, of all, and each;
Sure at this time, Time firſt of all began,
And in this month was made apoſtate man;
For then in Eden was not only ſeen
Boughs full of leaves, or fruits, but raw, and green,
Or withered ſtocks, all dry, and dead,
But trees with goodly fruits repleniſhed;
Which ſhewes, nor Summer, Winter, nor the Spring,
Great Adam was of Paradice made King.
October is my next, we heare in this,
The Northern Winter blaſts begin to hiſſe;
In Scorpio reſideth now the Sun,
And his declining heat is almoſt done.
The fruitful trees, all withered now do ſtand,
Whoſe yellow ſapleſſe leaves by winds are fann'd:
Which notes, when youth, and ſtrength, have paſt their prime,
Decrepit age muſt alſo have its time;
The ſap doth ſlily creep towards the earth,
There reſts, untill the Sun give it a birth:
So doth Old Age ſtil tend unto his Grave,
Where alſo he, his Winter time muſt have;
But when the Son of Righteouſneſſe drawes nigh,
His dead old ſtock, again ſhall mount on high.
November is my laſt, for time doth haſte,
We now of Winters ſharpneſſe 'gin to taſte;
This month's the Sun in Sagitarius,
So farre remote, his glances warm not us;
Almoſt at ſhorteſt is the ſhortned day,
The Northern Pole beholdeth not one ray.
Now Green-land, Groen-land, Lap-land, Fin-land, ſee
No Sun, to lighten their obſcurity;
Poor wretches, that in total darkneſſe lye,
With minds more dark, then is the darkned sky;
This month is timber for all uſes fell'd,
When cold, the ſap to th' roots hath low'ſt repell'd;
Beef, Brawn, and Pork, are now in great'ſt requeſt,
And ſolid'ſt meats, our ſtomachs can digeſt;
This time warm cloaths, ful diet, and good fires,
Our pinched fleſh, and empty panch requires:
Old cold, dry age, and earth, Autumne reſembles,
And melancholy, which moſt of all diſſembles.
I muſt be ſhort, and ſhort's, the ſhortned day,
What Winter hath to tel, now let him ſay.
Winter.
COld, moiſt, young, flegmy Winter now doth lye
In Swadling clouts, like new-born infancy,
Bound up with Froſts, and fur…'d with Haiſs, and Snows,
And like an Infant, ſtil he taller growes.
December is the firſt, and now the Sun
To th' Southward tropick his ſwift race hath run;
This month he's hous'd in horned Capricorn,
From thence he 'gins to length the ſhortned morn,
Through Chriſtendome, with great feſtivity
Now's held, a Gueſt, (but bleſt) Nativity.
Cold frozen January next comes in,
Chilling the blood, and ſhrinking up the skin.
In Aquarias, now keeps the loved Sun,
And North-ward his unwearied race doth run;
The day much longer then it was before,
The cold not leſſened, but augmented more.
Now toes, and eares, and fingers often freeze,
And Travellers ſometimes their noſes leeſe.
Moyſt ſnowie February is my laſt,
I care not how the Winter time doth haſte;
In Piſces now the golden Sun doth ſhine,
And North-ward ſtil approaches to the Line;
The Rivers now do ope, and Snows do melt,
And ſome warm glances from the Sun are felt,
Which is increaſed by the lengthened day,
Until by's heat he drives all cold away.
My Subjects bare, my Brains are bad,
Or better Lines you ſhould have had;
The firſt fell in ſo naturally,
I could not tell how to paſſe't by:
The last, though bad, I could not mend,
Accept therefore of what is penn'd,
And all the faults which you ſhall ſpy,
Shall at your feet for pardon cry.
Your dutifull Daughter. A. B.