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Εἰς τὸν λειμῶνα καθίσας, ἔδρεπεν ἕτερον ἐφ' ἑτέρῳ αἰρόμενος ἄγρευμ ̓ ἀνθέων ἁδομένᾳ ψυχᾷ

The Golden Treasury

Book First



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!

Spring! the sweet Spring!

T. Nash





Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie ;

There I couch, when owls do cry:

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!



Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands:
Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd
The wild waves whist,

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!


The watch-dogs bark:


Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting chanticleer

Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!

W. Shakespeare



Phoebus, arise!

And paint the sable skies

With azure, white, and red:

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed

That she may thy career with roses spread:
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:
Make an eternal Spring!

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And emperor-like decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair :

Chase hence the ugly night

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

-This is that happy morn,

That day, long-wished day

Of all my life so dark,

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn

And fates my hopes betray),

Which, purely white, deserves

An everlasting diamond should it mark.

This is the morn should bring unto this grove

My Love, to hear and recompense my love.

Fair King, who all preserves,

But show thy blushing beams,

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see than those which by Penéus' streams

Did once thy heart surprize.

Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise :

If that ye winds would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Your furious chiding stay;
Let Zephyr only breathe,
And with her tresses play.
-The winds all silent are,
And Phoebus in his chair

Ensaffroning sea and air
Makes vanish every star :
Night like a drunkard reels

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:
The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
Here is the pleasant place--

And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!

W. Drummond of Hawthornden

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