The shepherds' holyday

Thus, thus begin the yearly rites

Are due to Pan on these bright nights;

His morn now riseth and invites

To sports, to dances, and delights:

All envious and profane, away.

This is the shepherds' holyday.

Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground

With every flower, yet not confound:

The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse.

Bright day's-eyes and the lips of cows;

The garden-star, the queen of May,

The rose, to crown the holyday.

Drop, drop, you violets; change your hues

Now red, now pale, as lovers use;

And in your death go out as well

As when you lived unto the smell:

That from your odour all may say,

This is the shepherds' holyday.