托馬斯•納許(Thomas Nashe, 1567-1601) SPRING

   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 shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye   birds tune this merry lay– Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, 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 ears do greet– Cuckoo,   jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring, the sweet Spring!