Part 1 — 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, to-witta-woo! The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day; And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-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, to-witta-woo! Spring! the sweet spring! Thomas Nash.