Fresh Spring! the herald of Loves mighty king,
In whose coat-armour richly are displayed
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring
In goodly colours gloriously arrayed -
Go to my love, where she is careless laid,
Yet in her winters bower, not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time will not be staid,
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 then her make,
Shall be by him amerced with penance dew.
Make haste, therefore, sweet Love! whilst it is prime;
For none can call again the passed time.