II.

In summers day, when Phoebus fairly shone, I saw a Bull as white as driven snowe, With gilden hornes embowed like the moone, In a fresh flowring meadow lying lowe: Up to his eares the verdant grasse did growe, And the gay floures did offer to be eaten; But he with fatnes so did overflows, That he all wallowed in the weedes downe beaten, Ne car’d with them his daintie lips to sweeten: Till that a Brize*, a scorned little creature, Through his faire hide his angrie sting did threaten, And vext so sore, that all his goodly feature And all his plenteous pasture nought him pleased: So by the small the great is oft diseased**.