Spring by Thomas Nashe

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!

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