Nature gave roote; love, and the dying charge, Of his dead father, gives such store of sap Unto this tree of my affection That it will never wither till I dye.

The honour of these noble boughs down threw: Under the wedge I heard the tronck to grone; And since, I saw the roote in great disdaine A twinne of forked trees send forth againe.

He that hath seene a great oke drie and dead, Yet clad with reliques of some trophees olde, Lifting to heaven her aged hoarie head, Whose foote in ground hath left but feeble holde, But halfe disbowel'd lies above the ground, Shewing her wreathed rootes, and naked armes,