Thomas Nashe(1567–1601)
[Spring, the Sweet Spring]
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king,
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a rin
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!2
The palm and may s make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:song
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!
[Adieu, Farewell, Earth's Bliss]4