Now that the winter’s gone, the earth has lost Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream; But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth, And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth To the dead swallow, wakes in hollow tree The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee. _Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring_ _In_ triumph to the world, the youthful spring. The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array, Welcome the coming of the longed for May. Now all things smile, only my love doth lower; Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the power To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold Her heart congealed, and makes her pity cold. The ox which lately did for shelter fly Into the stall; doth now securely lie In open field, and love no more is made By the fire-side; but in the cooler shade Amyutas now doth with his Chloris sleep Under a sycamore, and all things keep Time with the season; only _she_ doth carry June in her eyes, her heart is January. PERSUASION TO LOVE. Think not, ’cause men flattering say You’re fresh as April, sweet as May, Bright as is the morning star, That you are so; or though you are, Be not therefore proud, and deem All unworthy your esteem; For being so, you lose the pleasure Of being fair, since that rich treasure Of rare beauty, and sweet feature, Was bestowed on you by nature To be enjoyed, and sure ’tis sin There to be scarce, where she hath been So prodigal of her best graces; Thus common beauties, and mean faces Shall have more pastime, and enjoy The sport you loose by being coy. Starve not yourself, because you may Thereby make me pine away; Nor let brittle beauty make You, your wisest thoughts forsake. For that lovely face will fail; Beauty’s sweet, but beauty’s frail; ’Tis sooner past; ’tis sooner done Than summer rain, or winter’s sun; Most fleeting when it is most dear! ’Tis gone, while we but say ’tis here. These curious locks, so aptly twined, Whose every hair a soul doth bind, Wilt change their auburn hue, and grow White, and cold as winter’s snow. That eye which now is Cupid’s nest, Will prove his grave, and all the rest Will follow, in the cheek then froze, No lily shall be found, or rose. And what will then become of all Those who now you servants call? Like swallow’s when your summer’s done They’ll fly, and seek some warmer sun. Remain still firm, be provident, And think before the summer’s spent