Littell's Living Age/Volume 138/Issue 1777/May
Come, let us goe, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmiesse follie of the time.
Spring's hands, in Shakespeare's words, you say,
"Do paint the meadows with delight" —
I go where artist hands in May
Hang paintings far more bright!
Though soft the twilight star that shines
On grassy mead and limpid stream —
The stars I seek when day declines
In Covent Garden beam!
Though sweet the thousand liquid notes
Your feathered songsters warble here —
My birds of eve from tuneful throats
Now utter notes more dear!
Farewell, ye streams, ye meads, ye flowers,
Until your autumn robes ye wear —
Though May is fair in country bowers,
'Tis fairest in Mayfair!