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Spring Morning I

Thomalin.

Where is every piping lad
That the fields are not yclad

With their milk-white sheep?

Tell me: is it holiday,
Or if in the month of May

Use they long to sleep?

Piers.
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.

poem by William Browne
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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