Household Tales

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers;
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides and of their bridal-cakes;
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness;
I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece
Of balm, of oil, of spice and ambergris;
I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write
How roses first came red and lilies white;
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the fairy king;
I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.

Love on a day, wise poets tell,
Some time in wrangling spent,
Whether the violets should excel
Or she, in sweetest scent. 

But Venus having lost the day,
Poor girls, she fell on you :
And beat ye so, as some dare say,
Her blows did make ye blue.

Jealous girls these sometimes were,
While they liv'd or lasted here :
Turn'd to flowers, still they be
Yellow, mark'd for jealousy.

Roses at first were white
Till they could not agree,
Whether my Sappho's breast
Or they more white should be. 

But, being vanquish'd quite,
A blush their cheeks bespread;
Since which, believe the rest,
The roses first came red.