William Browne

The mounting lark (day's herald) got on wing, Bidding each bird choose out his bough and sing. The lofty treble sung the little wren;

Unto a pleasant grove or such like place, Where here the curious cutting of a hedge: There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge:

So when the pretty rill a place espies, Where with the pebbles she would wantonize, And that her upper stream so much doth wrong her

All. Now that the Spring hath fill'd our veins With kind and active fire,

Gentle nymphs, be not refusing, Love's neglect is time's abusing, They and beauty are but lent you;

Now as an angler melancholy standing Upon a green bank yielding room for landing, A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook,

Autumn it was when droop'd the sweetest flow'rs, And rivers, swoll'n with pride, o'erlook'd the banks; Poor grew the day of summer's golden hours,

As (woo'd by May's delights) I have been borne To take the kind air of a wistful morn Near Tavy's voiceful stream (to whom I owe

Lo, I the man that whilom lov'd and lost, Not dreading loss, do sing again of love; And like a man but lately tempest-toss'd,

Why might I not for once be of that sect, Which hold that souls, when Nature hath her right, Some other bodies to themselves elect;

Fairest, when by the rules of palmistry You took my hand to try if you could guess By lines therein if any wight there be

Sing soft, ye pretty birds, while C'lia sleeps, And gentle gales play gently with the leaves; Learn of the neighbour brooks, whose silent deeps

Were't not for you, here should my pen have rest And take a long leave of sweet poesy; Britannia's swains, and rivers far by west,

May! Be thou never grac'd with birds that sing, Nor Flora's pride! In thee all flowers and roses spring,

Underneath this sable herse Lies the subject of all verse: Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:

The daisy scatter'd on each mead and down, A golden tuft within a silver crown; (Fair fall that dainty flower! and may there be

Glide soft, ye silver floods, And every spring: Within the shady woods

I have seen the Lady of the May Set in an arbour, on a holiday, Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swains

The Muses' friend (grey-eyed Aurora) yet Held all the meadows in a cooling sweat, The milk-white gossamers not upwards snow'd,

As I have seen when on the breast of Thames A heavenly bevy of sweet English dames, In some calm ev'ning of delightful May,

Now great Hyperion left his golden throne That on the dancing waves in glory shone, For whose declining on the western shore

Thomalin. Where is every piping lad That the fields are not yclad

Willie. Roget, droop not, see the spring Is the earth enamelling,

Son of Erebus and Night, Hie away; and aim thy flight Where consort none other fowl

The year hath first his jocund spring, Wherein the leaves, to birds' sweet carolling, Dance with the wind; then sees the summer's day

Steer hither, steer your wing'd pines, All beaten mariners, Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,

Hail, thou my native soil! thou blessed plot Whose equal all the world affordeth not! Show me who can so many crystal rills,

Venus by Adonis' side Crying kiss'd, and kissing cried, Wrung her hands and tore her hair

I saw a silver swan swim down the Lea, Singing a sad farewell unto the vale, While fishes leapt to hear her melody,

A rose, as fair as ever saw the North, Grew in a little garden all alone; A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,

Down in a valley, by a forest's side, Near where the crystal Thames rolls on her waves, I saw a mushroom stand in haughty pride,

A gentle shepherd, born in Arcady, That well could tune his pipe, and deftly play The nymphs asleep with rural minstrelsy,

Welcome, welcome, do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never