Works

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
More strains than from my pipe can ever flow),...

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

W. B.

Thomalin.

Where is every piping lad
That the fields are not yclad
With their milk-white sheep?

Tell me: is it holiday,
Or if in the month of May
Use they long to sleep?
...

Willie.

Roget, droop not, see the spring
Is the earth enamelling,
And the birds on every tree
Greet this morn with melody:
Hark, how yonder thrustle chants it,...

Welcome, welcome, do I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring;
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

Love, that to the voice is near
Breaking from your iv'ry pale,...