At the Spring

At the Spring

Birds do sing;

Now with high,

Then low cry:

Flat, acute;

And salute

The sun, born

Ev'ry morn.

He's no bard that cannot sing

The praises of the flow'ry Spring.

Flora queen

All in green,

Doth delight

To paint white,

And to spread

Cruel red

With a blue

Colour true.

He's no bard that cannot sing

The praises of the flow'ry Spring.

Faithful loves,

Turtle doves,

Sit and bill

On the hill.

Country swains

On the plains

Run and leap,

Turn and skip.

He's no bard that cannot sing

The praises of the flow'ry Spring.

Pan doth play

Care away.

Fairies small,

Two foot tall,

With caps red

On their head

Dance around

On the ground.

He's no bard that cannot sing

The praises of the flow'ry Spring.