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Εις τον λειμώνα καθίσας, έδρεπεν έτερον εφ' ετέρω αιρόμενος άγρευμανθέων εδομένα ψυχή

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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 !

T. Nash





Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie ;
There I couch, when owls do cry:
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough /



Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands :
Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd

The wild waves whist,
Foot it featly here and there ;
And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.

Hark, hark !

The watch-dogs bark :


Hark, hark ! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow !

W. Shakespeare


SUMMONS TO LOVE Phoebus, arise ! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red : Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed

That she may thy career with roses spread :
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing :
Make an eternal Spring !
Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair
In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And emperor-like decore
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair :
Chase hence the ugly night
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

-This is that happy morn,
That day, long-wished day
Of all my life so dark,
(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
And fates my hopes betray),
Which, purely white, deserves
An everlasting diamond should it mark.
This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair King, who all preserves,
But show thy blushing beams,
And thou two sweeter eyes
Shalt see than those which by Penéus' streams
Did once thy heart surprize.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise :
If that ye winds would hear
A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Your furious chiding stay ;
Let Zephyr only breathe,
And with her tresses play.
-The winds alf silent are,
And Phoebus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air
Makes vanish every star :
Night like a drunkard reels
Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels :
The fields with Rowers are deck'd in every hue,
The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue ;
Here is the pleasant place-
And nothing wanting is, save She, alas !

W, Drummond of Hawthornden

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