William Browne
Tell me: is it holiday,
Or if in the month of May
Use they long to sleep?
Piers.
Thomalin, 'tis not too late,
For the turtle and her mate
Sitten yet in nest:
And the thrustle hath not been
Gath'ring worms yet on the green,
But attends her rest.
Not a bird hath taught her young,
Nor her morning's lesson sung
In the shady grove:
But the nightingale in dark
Singing woke the mounting lark:
She records her love.
Not the sun hath with his beams
Gilded yet our crystal streams;
Rising from the sea,
Mists do crown the mountains' tops,
And each pretty myrtle drops:
'Tis but newly day.
Spring Morning—II
Willie,
Roget, droop not, see the spring
Is the earth enamelling,
And the birds on every tree
Greet this mom with melody:
Hark, how yonder thrustle chants it.
And her mate as proudly vants it
See how every stream is dress'd
By her margin with the best
Of Flora's gifts; she seems glad
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