SPRING

　　Thomas Nash

　　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 theses tunes our ears do greet,

　　Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

　　Spring! the sweet Spring!