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The thissel-cock cryis
On lovers wha lyis :
Now skaillis the skyis;

The nicht is neir gone.


The fieldis ouerflowis
With gowans that growis,
Quhair lilies like low is

As red as the rone.
The turtle that true is,
With notes that renewis,
Her pairty pursuis :

The nicht is neir gone.


Now hairtis with hindis
Conform to their kindis,
Hie tursis their tyndis

On ground quhair they grone.
Now hurchonis, with hairis,
Aye passis in pairis;
Quhilk duly declaris

The nicht is neir gone.


The season excellis
Through sweetness that smellis;
Now Cupid compellis

Our hairtis echone
On Venus wha waikis,
To muse on our maikis,
Syne sing for their saikis-

• The nicht is neir gone!'


The Night is Near Gone
All courageous knichtis
Aganis the day dichtis
The breist-plate that bright is

To fight with their fone.
The stoned steed stampis,
Through courage, and crampis,
Syne on the land lampis :

The nicht is neir gone.


The freikis on feildis
That wight wapins weildis
With shyning bright shieldis

At Titan in trone;
Stiff speiris in reistis
Quer corseris crestis
Are broke on their breistis:

The nicht is neir gone.

So hard are their hittis,
Some sweyis, some sittis,
And some perforce flittis

On ground quhile they grone.
Syne groomis that gay is
On blonkis that brayis
With swordis assayis :-
The nicht is neir gone.

Alexander Montgomerie.



Foom Cynthia's Revels

QUEEN and Huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep:

Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.


Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close :

Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.


Lay thy bow of pearl apart

And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:

Thou that mak’st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!

Ben Jonson.




From Campaspe

WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O'tis the ravish'd nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu! she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! Who is 't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note!
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!

Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring! 1584.

John Lyly.



From Summer's Last Will and Testament

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!

Thomas Nash.




As it fell upon a day,
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone.'
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn;
And there sung the doleful'st ditty
That to hear it was great pity.
“ Fie, fie, fie!” now would she cry;
“ Teru, teru," by and by ;

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