Fresh Spring
FRESH Spring, the herald of love’s mighty king,In whose coat-armour richly are displayedAll sorts of flowers, the which on earth do springIn goodly colours gloriously arrayed:Go to my love, where she is careless laid,Yet in her winter bower not well awake;Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed,Unless she do him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore herself soon ready make,To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew;Where every one that misseth there her makeShall be by him amerced with penance due.Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime,For none can call again the passed time.