by Thomas Carew
Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes ; and now no more the frost
Candies the grasse, or castes an ycie creame
Upon the silver lake or chrystall streame :
But the warme sunne thawes the benummed earth,
And makes it tender ; gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow ; waks in hollow tree
The drowzie cuckow and the humble-bee.
Now doe a quire of chirping minstrels bring,
In tryumph to the world, the youthfull Spring :
The vallies, hills, and woods, in rich araye,
Welcome the comming of the long'd-for May.
Now all things smile ; onely my Love doth lowre ;
Nor hath the scalding noon-day sunne the power
To melt that marble yce, which still doth bold
Her heart confeal'd, and makes her pitie cold.
The oxe, which lately did for shelter flie
Into the stall, doth now securely lie
In open fields ; and love no more is made
By the fire-side ; but, in the cooler shade,
Amyntas now doth with his Cloris sleepe
Under a sycamoure, and all things keepe
Time with the season—only shee doth carry
June in her eyes, in her heart January.
Note: A recitation can be heard here.