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 Call the sylvan nymphs together, Bid them bring their musicks hither. Trees their barky silence break, Crack yet, though they cannot speak Bid the purest, whitest swan Of her feathers make her fan; Let the hound the hare go chase; Lambs and rabbits run at base; Flies be dancing in the sun, While the silk-worm's webs are spun; Hang a fish on every hook As she goes along the brook; So with all your sweetest powers Entertain her in your bowers; Where her ear may joy to hear How ye make your sweetest quire; And in all your sweetest vein Still Aglaia strike her strain; But when she her walk doth turn, Then begin as fast to mourn; All your flowers and garlands wither Put up all your pipes together; Never strike a pleasing strain Till she come abroad again.

the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, With a troop of damsels playing Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying, When anon by a woodside. Where as May was in his pride, I espied, all alone, Phyllida and Corydon.

Much ado there was, God wot! He would love, and she would not: