Made

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

up

of whitethorn newly 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!

4 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 whitethorn 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:

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 pick'd; yet we're not a-Maying!

5 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!

JEPHTHAH'S Daughter.

10 thou, the wonder of all days!
O paragon and pearl of praise!
O Virgin Martyr! ever bless'd
Above the rest

Of all the maiden train! we come,
And bring fresh strewings to thy tomb.

2 Thus, thus, and thus we compass round
Thy harmless and enchanted ground;
And, as we sing thy dirge, we will
The daffodil

And other flowers lay upon
The altar of our love, thy stone.

3 Thou wonder of all maids! list here,
Of daughters all the dearest dear;
The eye of virgins, nay, the queen
Of this smooth green,

And all sweet meads, from whence we get
The primrose and the violet.

4 Too soon, too dear did Jephthah buy,
By thy sad loss, our liberty:

His was the bond and cov'nant; yet
Thou paid'st the debt,

Lamented maid! He won the day,
But for the conquest thou didst pay.

5 Thy father brought with him along
The olive branch and victor's song:
He slew the Ammonites, we know,
But to thy woe;

And, in the purchase of our peace,
The cure was worse than the disease.

6 For which obedient zeal of thine,
We offer thee, before thy shrine,
Our sighs for storax, tears for wine;
And to make fine

And fresh thy hearse-cloth, we will here Four times bestrew thee every year.

7 Receive, for this thy praise, our tears; Receive this offering of our hairs; Receive these crystal vials, fill'd

With tears distill'd

From teeming eyes; to these we bring, Each maid, her silver filleting,

8 To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls,
These laces, ribands, and these fauls,
These veils, wherewith we used to hide
The bashful bride,

When we conduct her to her groom:
All, all, we lay upon thy tomb.

9 No more, no more, since thou art dead, Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed;

No more at yearly festivals

We cowslip balls

Or chains of columbines shall make
For this or that occasion's sake.

10 No, no; our maiden pleasures be
Wrapt in a winding-sheet with thee;
"Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave,
Or if we have

One seed of life left, 'tis to keep
A Lent for thee, to fast and weep.

11 Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all paradise:

May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence
Fat frankincense.

Let balm and cassia send their scent
From out thy maiden-monument.

12 May no wolf howl or screech-owl stir A wing upon thy sepulchre!

No boisterous winds or storms

To starve or wither

Thy soft, sweet earth! but, like a spring,
Love keep it ever flourishing.

13 May all thy maids, at wonted hours,

Come forth to strew thy tomb with flowers:
May virgins, when they come to mourn,

Male-incense burn

Upon thine altar! then return

And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.

THE COUNTRY LIFE.

Sweet country life, to such unknown
Whose lives are others', not their own!
But serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee!
Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam
To seek and bring rough pepper home;
Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove,

To bring from thence the scorched clove:
Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the West.
No: thy ambition's masterpiece
Flies no thought higher than a fleece;
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear
All scores, and so to end the year;
But walk'st about thy own dear bounds,
Not envying others' larger grounds:

For well thou know'st, 'tis not the extent
Of land makes life, but sweet content.
When now the cock, the ploughman's horn,
Calls forth the lily-wristed morn,

Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,
Which though well-soil'd, yet thou dost know
That the best compost for the lands

Is the wise master's feet and hands.
There at the plough thou find'st thy team,
With a hind whistling there to them;
And cheer'st them up by singing how
The kingdom's portion is the plough.
This done, then to th' enamell'd meads,
Thou go'st; and as thy foot there treads,
Thou seest a present godlike power
Imprinted in each herb and flower;