|
|
|
Get up, get up, for shame the blooming morn Upon her wings presents the gods unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair, Fresh-quilted colors through the air; Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew-bespangled herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the East Above an hour since, yet you are not drest, Nay not so much as out of bed, When all the birds have matins said, And sung their thankful hymns; 'tis sin, Nay, profanation to keep in, When as a thousand virgins on this day Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. Come, my Corinna, come, and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park, Made green and trimmed with trees! see how Devotion gives each house a bough, Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of whitethorn neatly interwove, As if he were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see't? Come we'll abroad, and let's obey The proclamation made for May. And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, But, my Corinna! come, let's go a-Maying. |