« PreviousContinue »
Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown or hair;
Fear not, the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you;
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night :
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying; Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how
Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this,
Made up of white thorn neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
And open fields, and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey
The proclamation made for May:
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying,
TO CORINNA, TO GO A-MAYING.
There's not a budding boy or girl, this day,
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
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,
But, serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee.
Thou never ploughed the ocean's foam,
To bring from thence the scorched clove;
A COUNTRY LIFE.
Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the west.
Flies no thought higher than a fleece;
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;
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,