SPRING'S WELCOME

From Campaspe

WHAT 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!

10

1584.

John Lyly.

SPRING

From Summer's Last Will and Testament

SPRING, 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!

1600.

Spring! the sweet Spring!

13

Thomas Nash.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan,

Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn;
And there sung the doleful'st ditty
That to hear it was great pity.
"Fie, fie, fie!" now would she cry;
"Teru, teru,” by and by;

To the Nightingale

That, to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs, so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.

"Ah!" (thought I) “thou mournʼst in vain; None takes pity on thy pain;

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion, he is dead;

All thy friends are lapped in lead:
All thy fellow-birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing!

Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled.
Every one that flatters thee

20

Is no friend in misery.

Words are easy, like the wind;

Faithful friends are hard to find.

Every man will be thy friend

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;
But, if stores of crowns be scant,

No man will supply thy want.

If that one be prodigal,

'Bountiful' they will him call;
And, with such-like flattering,
'Pity but he were a king.'
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,

They have at commandment;
But if Fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown:

40

30

They that fawned on him before,
Use his company no more.

1598.

He that is thy friend indeed,

He will help thee in thy need;

50

If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep.
Thus, of every grief in heart,
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe."

Richard Barnfield.

WHEN DAISIES PIED

From L. L. L.

WHEN daisies pied and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue

Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo !

Cuckoo, cuckoo!-O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,

9

1598.

Over Hill, Over Dale

And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo !

Cuckoo, cuckoo!-O word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

18

William Shakespeare.

OVER HILL, OVER DALE

From M. N. Dream

OVER hill, over dale,

Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,

Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

1600.

William Shakespeare.

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