Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park, Made green and trimm’d 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 despatch’d their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept and woo’d, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: beads] prayers. 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 keys betraying This night, and locks pick’d: 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 drown’d with us in endless night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let’s go a-Maying. _247._ green-gown] tumble on the grass. _248._ _To the Virgins, to make much of Time_ Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he’s a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry. _249._ _To the Western Wind_ Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, Made rival with the air, To give Perenna’s lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair: Bring me but one, I’ll promise thee, Instead of common showers, Thy wings shall be embalm’d by me, And all beset with flowers. _250._ _To Electra_