TO CORINNA, TO GO A MAYING.

ET up, get up for shame; the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air;
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see

The dew-bespangling herb and tree.

Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
Above an hour since, yet you are not drest,

Nay, not so much as out of bed;

When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,

When as a thousand virgins on this day,

Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.

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,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come, and receive them while the light

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
How each field turns a street, each street a park
Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough,

Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,

Made up of whitethorn neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street,

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,
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come

Back, and with whitethorn laden home.
Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream
Before that we have left to dream;

And some have wept, and woo'd, 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
Once lost, can ne'er be found again;

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.

NOW westward Sol had spent the richest beams

Of noon's high glory, when hard by the streams

Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,
Under protection of an oak, there sat

A sweet lute's master; in whose gentle airs
He lost the day's heat, and his own hot cares.
Close in the covert of the leaves there stood
A nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood
(The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree,
Their muse, their syren, harmless syren she):
There stood she list'ning, and did entertain
The music's soft report: and mould the same

In her own murmurs; that whatever mood
His curious fingers lent, her voice made good.
The man perceived his rival, and her art;
Disposed to give the light-foot lady sport,
Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to come
Informs it in a sweet præludium

Of closer strains, and ere the war begin,

He lightly skirmishes on every string

Charged with a flying touch; and straightway she
Carves out her dainty voice as readily,
Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones,
And reckons up in soft divisions

Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know,
By that shrill taste, she could do something too.
His nimble hand's instinct then taught each string
A cap'ring cheerfulness, and made them sing
To their own dance; now negligently rash
He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash
Blends all together; then distinctly trips
From this to that, then quick returning, skips
And snatches this again, and pauses there.
She measures every measure, everywhere
Meets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt
Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out,
Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note,
Through the sleek passage of her open throat,
A clear unwrinkled song; then doth she point it
With tender accents, and severely joint it
By short diminutives, that being rear'd
In controverting warbles, evenly shared,
With her sweet self she wrangles; he amazed,
That from so small a channel should be raised
The torrent of a voice, whose melody
Could melt into such sweet variety,