Ah for pittie, wil ranke Winters rage,
   These bitter blasts neuer ginne tasswage?
   The keene cold blowes throug my beaten hyde,
   All as I were through the body gryde.
   My ragged rontes all shiver and shake,
   As doen high Towers in an earthquake:
   They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle tailes,
   Perke as Peacock: but nowe it auales.

Edmund Spenser, "The Shepheardes Calendar," February