Hail! thou longed-for month of May, Dear to lovers every day! Thou that kindlest hour by hour Life in man and bloom in bower! O ye crowds of flowers and hues That with joy the sense confuse, Hail! and to our bosom bring Bliss and every jocund thing! Sweet the concert of the birds; Lovers listen to their words: For sad winter hath gone by, And a soft wind blows on high. Earth hath donned her purple vest, Fields with laughing flowers are dressed, Shade upon the wild wood spreads, Trees lift up their leafy heads; Nature in her joy to-day Bids all living things be gay; Glad her face and fair her grace Underneath the sun's embrace! Venus stirs the lover's brain, With life's nectar fills his vein, Pouring through his limbs the heat Which makes pulse and passion beat. O how happy was the birth When the loveliest soul on earth Took the form and life of thee, Shaped in all felicity! O how yellow is thy hair! There is nothing wrong, I swear, In the whole of thee; thou art Framed to fill a loving heart! Lo, thy forehead queenly crowned, And the eyebrows dark and round, Curved like Iris at the tips, Down the dark heavens when she slips! Red as rose and white as snow Are thy cheeks that pale and glow; 'Mid a thousand maidens thou Hast no paragon, I vow. Round thy lips and red as be Apples on the apple-tree; Bright thy teeth as any star; Soft and low thy speeches are; Long thy hand, and long thy side, And the throat thy breasts divide; All thy form beyond compare Was of God's own art the care. Sparks of passion sent from thee Set on fire the heart of me; Thee beyond all whom I know I must love for ever so. Lo, my heart to dust will burn Unless thou this flame return; Still the fire will last, and I, Living now, at length shall die! Therefore, Phyllis, hear me pray, Let us twain together play, Joining lip to lip and breast Unto, breast in perfect rest! The lover is occasionally bashful, sighing at a distance. MODEST LOVE. No. 15. Summer sweet is coming in; Now the pleasant days begin; Phoebus rules the earth at last; For sad winter's reign is past. Wounded with the love alone Of one girl, I make my moan: Grief pursues me till she bend Unto me and condescend. Take thou pity on my plight! With my heart thy heart unite! In my love thy own love blending, Finding thus of life the ending! Occasionally his passion assumes a romantic tone, as is the case with the following _Serenade_ to a girl called Flos-de-spina in the Latin. Whether that was her real name, or was only used for poetical purposes, does not admit of debate now. Anyhow, Flos-de-spina, Fior-di-spina, Fleur-d'epine, and English Flower-o'-the-thorn are all of them pretty names for a girl.