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 Tell me: is it holiday,

Or if in the month of May

Use they long to sleep?

Thomalin, 'tis not too late,

For the turtle and her mate

Sitten yet in nest:

And the thrustle hath not been

Gath'ring worms yet on the green,

But attends her rest.

Not a bird hath taught her young,

Nor her morning's lesson sung

In the shady grove:

But the nightingale in dark

Singing woke the mounting lark:

She records her love.

Not the sun hath with his beams

Gilded yet our crystal streams;

Rising from the sea,

Mists do crown the mountains' tops,

And each pretty myrtle drops:

'Tis but newly day.

, droop not, see the spring

Is the earth enamelling,

And the birds on every tree

Greet this mom with melody:

Hark, how yonder thrustle chants it.

And her mate as proudly vants it

See how every stream is dress'd

By her margin with the best

Of Flora's gifts; she seems glad

For such brooks such flow'rs she had.