The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world, the youthful spring.
The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,
Welcome the coming of the longed for May.
Now all things smile, only my love doth lower;
Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the power
To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold
Her heart congealed, and makes her pity cold.
The ox which lately did for shelter fly