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.