Thus, thus begin the yearly rites
Are due to Pan on these bright nights;
His morn now riseth and invites
To sports, to dances, and delights:
All envious and profane, away.
This is the shepherds' holyday.

Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground
With every flower, yet not confound:
The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse.
Bright day's-eyes and the lips of cows;
The garden-star, the queen of May,
The rose, to crown the holyday.

Drop, drop, you violets; change your hues
Now red, now pale, as lovers use;
And in your death go out as well
As when you lived unto the smell:
That from your odour all may say,
This is the shepherds' holyday.