There's not a budding boy or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.

A deal of youth, ere this, is come

Back, and with white thorn laden home.

Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream

Before that we have left to dream;

And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
Many a green gown has been given;
Many a kiss, both odd and even;
Many a glance, too, has been sent

From out the eye, love's firmament;

Many a jest told of the key's betraying

This night, and locks pick'd: yet w' are not a-Maying.

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,

And take the harmless folly of the time.

We shall grow old apace, and die

Before we know our liberty.

Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;

And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again;

So when or you or I are made

A fable, song, or fleeting shade ;

All love, all liking, all delight

Lies drown'd with us in endless night.

Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,

Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

SWEET Country life, to such unknown,
Whose lives are others', not their own!

But, serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee.

Thou never ploughed the ocean's foam,
To seek and bring rough pepper home;
Nor to the eastern Ind dost rove,

To bring from thence the scorched clove;

Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the west.
No; thy ambition's master-piece

Flies no thought higher than a fleece;
Or how to pay thy hands, and clear
All scores, and so to end the year;
But walk'st about thy own dear grounds,
Not craving others' larger bounds;

For well thou know'st 'tis not th' extent

Of land makes life, but sweet content.

When now the cock, the ploughman's horn,
Calls for the lily-wristed morn,

Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,

Which, though well soil'd, yet thou dost know

That the best compost for the lands

Is the wise master's feet and hands.

There, at the plough, thou find'st thy team,

With a hind whistling there to them;
And cheer'st them up by singing how
The kingdom's portion is the plough.
This done, then to th' enamelled meads
Thou go'st; and, as thy foot there treads,
Thou seest a present god-like power
Imprinted in each herb and flower;

And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine,

Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.

Here thou behold'st thy large, sleek neat,

Unto the dewlaps up in meat;

And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,

The heifer, cow, and ox, draw near,
To make a pleasing pastime there.
These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks

Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox;
And find'st their bellies there as full

Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool;

And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,

A shepherd piping on the hill.

For sports, for pageantry, and plays,

Thou hast thy eves and holy-days,

On which the young men and maids meet To exercise their dancing feet;

Tripping the comely country round,

With daffodils and daisies crowned.

Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,
Thy May-poles, too, with garlands graced;
Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun ale,

Thy shearing feast, which never fail;
Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl,
That's tost up after fox i' th' hole;
Thy mummeries, thy twelfth-night kings
And queens, and Christmas revellings;
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,
And no man pays too dear for it.

To these thou hast thy time to go,

And trace the hare in the treacherous snow:

Thy witty wiles to draw, and get

The lark into the trammel net;

Thou hast thy cock-rood, and thy glade,

To take the precious pheasant made!
Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls, then,

To catch the pilfering birds, not men.

O happy life, if that their good
The husbandmen but understood!

Who all the day themselves do please,

And younglings, with such sports as these; And, lying down, have nought t'affright

Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.