Get
up, get up for shame, the Blooming Morne
Upon
her wings presents the god unshorne.
See how Aurora throwes her
faire
Fresh-quilted colours
through the aire:
Get up, sweet-Slug-a-bed, and
see
The Dew-bespangling Herbe
and Tree.
Each
Flower has wept, and bow'd toward the East,
Above
an houre since; yet you not drest,
Nay! not so much as out of
bed?
When all the Birds have
Mattens seyd,
And sung their thankful
Hymnes: 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation to keep
in,
When
as a thousand Virgins on this day,
Spring,
sooner than the Lark, to fetch in May.
Rise;
and put on your Foliage, and be seene
To
come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and greene;
And sweet as Flora. Take
no care
For Jewels for your Gowne,
or Haire:
Feare not; the leaves will
strew
Gemms in abundance upon
you:
Besides,
the childhood of the Day has kept,
Against
you come, some Orient Pearls unwept:
Come, and receive them
while the light
Hangs on the Dew-locks of
the night:
And Titan on the Eastern
hill
Retires himselfe, or else
stands still
Till
you come forth. Wash, dresse, be briefe in praying:
Few
Beads are best, when once we goe a Maying.
Come,
my Corinna, come; and comming, marke
How
each field turns a street; each street a Parke
Made green, and trimm'd
with trees: see how
Devotion gives each House
a Bough,
Or Branch: Each Porch, each
doore, ere this,
An Arke a Tabernacle is
Made
up of white-thorn neatly enterwove;
As
if here 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 obay
The Proclamation made for
May:
And
sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But
my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying.
There's
not a budding Boy, or Girle, this day,
But
is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deale of Youth, ere
this, is come
Back, and with White-thorn
laden home.
Some have dispatcht their
Cakes and Creame,
Before that we have left
to dreame:
And
some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted Troth,
And
chose their Priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
Many a green-gown has been
given;
Many a kisse, both odde
and even:
Many a glance too has been
sent
From out the eye, Loves
Firmament:
Many
a jest told of the Keyes betraying
This
night, and Locks pickt, yet w'are not a Maying.
Come,
let us goe, while we are in our prime;
And
take the harmlesse follie of the time.
We shall grow old apace,
and die
Before we know our
liberty.
Our life is short; and our
dayes run
As fast away as do's the
Sunne:
And
as a vapour, or a drop of raine
Once
lost, can ne'r be found againe:
So when or you or I are
made
A fable, song, or fleeting
shade;
All love, all liking, all
delight
Lies drown'd with us in endlesse night.
Then
while time serves, and we are but decaying;
Come,
my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying.
