The soote season, that bud and blome furth bringes,
With grene had clad the hill and eke the vale;
The nightingale with fethers new she singes;
The turtle to her make had tolde her tale.
Somer is come, for every spray nowe springes;
The hart hath hong his olde hed on the pale;
The buck in brake his winder cote he flings;
The fishes flote with newe repaired scale;
The adder all her sloughe awaye she slinges;
The swift swalow pursueth the flyes smale;
The busy bee her honye now she minges;
Winter is worne that was the flowers bale.
  And thus I see among these pleasant thinges
  Eache care decayes, and yet my sorow springes.

– Earl of Surrey (src: @olivertearle)