Spring, The Sweet Spring

(By Thomas Nashe)

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!

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From Summer's Last Will and testament.

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