Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see

The dew bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east
Above an hour since, yet you not dressed,
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,

Whenas 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:

a-Maying.

Few beads are best, when once we go a-)

Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green, and trimmed 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 white-thorn 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 white-thorn laden home.
Some have despatched their cakes and

cream

Before that we have left to dream:

And some have wept, and wooed 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 picked, yet we're 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 drowned with us in endless night.

Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

HERRICK.

The Cloud

I

BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers

From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under,

And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast ;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains ;

And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead;

As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.

And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardour of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of Heaven above,

With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn ;