See how the morning smiles On her bright eastern hill, And with soft steps beguiles Them that lie slumbering still! The music-loving birds are come From cliffs and rocks unknown, To see the trees and briars bloom That late were overflown. What Saturn did destroy, Love’s Queen revives again; And now her naked boy Doth in the fields remain, Where he such pleasing change doth view In every living thing, As if the world were born anew To gratify the Spring. If all things life present, Why die my comforts then? Why suffers my content? Am I the worst of men? O beauty, be not thou accus’d Too justly in this case! Unkindly if true love be used, ’Twill yield thee little grace. FOLLOW YOUR SAINT FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet! Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet! There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move, And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love; But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne’er return again. All that I sang still to her praise did tend, Still she was first, still she my songs did end; Yet she my love and music both doth fly, The music that her echo is and beauty’s sympathy. Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight! It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight. CHERRY-RIPE THERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rosebuds filled with snow: Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry! THOMAS NASH 1567–1601 SPRING SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring; Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo. The palm and may make country-houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And hear we aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo. The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit; In every street these tunes our ears do greet, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo. Spring, the sweet Spring! JOHN DONNE 1573–1631 THIS HAPPY DREAM