¶ On the Spring.
SInce Winters cold blasts are expell'd by the Sun,
And Fields that did penance in snow,
Have put Madam Nature's gay Liveries on,
Embroyder'd with flowers to make a fine show;
The Hills and the Vallies in duty abound,
And men praise the Lord; so the duty goes round.
Heark, heark, how the Birds in sweet consort conspire,
The Lark and the Nightingale joyn;
In every note is an amorous Quire,
With an innocent mirth to entertain time.
The Hills and the Vallies in duty abound,
And Men praise the Lord; so the duty goes round.
Methinks the God Pan, whose glad subjects we are,
Doth sit on his flowery Throne;
We accept his kinde Offerings every year,
With Garlands of Roses, and Flowers new grown.
The Hills and the Vallies in duty abound,
And Men praise the Lord; so the duty goes round.