Spring's Welcome
HAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O'tis the ravish'd nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu! she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! Who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note;
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
PRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and May make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay-
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet Spring!
FRESH Spring, the herald of love's mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are displayed
All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring
In goodly colours gloriously arrayed, -
Go to my love where she is careless laid
Yet in her Winter's bower not well awake:
Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed
Unless she do him by the fore-lock take:
Bid her therefore herself soon ready make
To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew:
Where every one that misseth then her make
Shall be by him amerced with penance due.
Make haste therefore, sweet Love, whilst it is prime
For none can call again the passed time.
Description of the Spring
Wherein each thing renews, save only the Lover
THE
HE soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green
hath clad the hill and eke the vale:
The nightingale with feathers new she sings;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs:
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings;
The fishes flete with new repairèd scale.
The adder all her slough away she slings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;
The busy bee her honey now she mings;
Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale.
And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
Earl of Surrey
FULL many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovran eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
E'en so my sun one early morn did shine
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath masked him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
16. Beauty, Sweet Love, Is Like the Morning Dew
BEAUTY, sweet Love, is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green
Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth shew,
And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,
Short is the glory of the blushing rose;
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.
When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,
And that, in Beauty's Lease expired, appears
The Date of Age, the Kalends of our Death
But ah! no more! — this must not be foretold,
For women grieve to think they must be old.
When Daffodils Begin to Peer
HEN daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.
The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,
With heigh the sweet birds, O, how they sing!
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
The lark that tirra-lirra chants,
With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
While we lie tumbling in the hay.
18. Fair Is My Love for April's in Her Face
FAIR is my love for April's in her face:
Her lovely breasts September claims his part,
And lordly July in her eyes takes place,
But cold December dwelleth in her heart; Blest be the months that set my thoughts on fire, Accurst that month that hindereth my desire.
Like Phoebus' fire, so sparkle both her eyes,
As air perfumed with amber is her breath,
Like swelling waves, her lovely breasts do rise,
As earth her heart, cold, dateth me to death:
Aye me, poor man, that on the earth do live,
When unkind earth, death and despair doth give!
In pomp sits mercy seated in her face,
Love twixt her breasts his trophies doth imprint, Her eyes shine favour, courtesy, and grace,
But touch her heart, ah that is framed of flint! Therefore my harvest in the grass bears grain; The rock will wear, washed with a winter's rain. R. Greene
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