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 All the trees are quaintly tired

With green buds, of all desired;

And the hawthorn every day

Spreads some httle show of May:

See the primrose sweetly set

By the much-lov'd violet,

All the banks do sweetly cover,

As they would invite a lover

With his lass to see their dressing

And to grace them by their pressing:

Yet in all this merry tide

When all cares are laid aside,

Roget sits as if his blood

Had not felt the quick'ning good

Of the sun, nor cares to play,

Or with songs to pass the day

As he wont: fie, Roget, fie,

Raise thy head, and merrily

Tune us somewhat to thy reed:

See our flocks do freely feed,

Here we may together sit,

And for music very fit

Is this place; from yonder wood

Comes an echo shrill and good,

Twice full perfectly it will

Answer to thine oaten quill.

Roget, droop not then, but sing

Some kind welcome to the spring.

that the Spring hath fill'd our veins

With kind and active fire,

And made green liv'ries for the plains,

And every grove a quire: