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 Or branch ! each porch, each door, ere this,

An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly 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.

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 white-thorn laden home.

Some have despatched their cakes and cream,

Before that we have left to dream : And some have wept and wooed, 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 keys betraying This night, and locks picked: yet we're not a-May- ing.

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.

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