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Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phæbus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes :
With everything that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise:
Arise, arise.



Pack clouds, away, and welcome, day !

With night we banish sorrow.
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft

To give my Love good-morrow !

Wings from the wind to please her mind,

Notes from the lark I'll borrow :
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my Love good-morrow;

To give my Love good-morrow
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast,

Sing birds in every furrow,
And from each bill let music shrill

Give my fair Love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,

Stare,1 linnet, and cocksparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow :

To give my Love good-morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.

T. Heywood.


WHILST IT IS PRIME Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty king,

In whose cote-armour richly are display'd All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring

In goodly colours gloriously array'd,Go to my Love, where she is careless laid

Yet in her Winter's bower not well awake : Tell her the joyous time will not be stay'd Unless she do him by the fore-lock take:

i Starling.


Bid her therefore herself soon ready make

To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew : Where every one that misseth then her make,1

Shall be by him amerced with penance due. Make haste therefore, sweet Love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.

E. Spenser.


PHæBus, arise ! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red ; Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, That she thy carriere may with roses spread ; The nightingales thy coming each-where sing; Make an eternal spring! Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; Spread forth thy golden hair In larger locks than thou wast wont before, And Emperor-like decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair : Chase hence the ugly night Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light, This is that happy morn That day, long wished day Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn

1 Mate.

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