Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/239

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SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king, Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing Cuckoo, jug- jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo'

The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the bhcpherdb pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-wc, to-witta-woo'

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our cars do greet Cuckoo, jug- jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring, the sweet Spring'

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��777 In Time of Pestilence

L DIEU, farewell earth's bliss!

This world uncertain is: Fond are life's lustful joys, Death proves them all but toys. None from his darts can fly; I am sick, I must die

Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth, Gold cannot buy you health ; Physic himself must fade; All things to end are made;

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