IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



After summer merrily: 



Merrily, merrily, shall I live now 

 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 

 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 



Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 



And Phoebus 'gins arise, 

 His steeds to water at those springs 



On chaliced flowers that lies; 

 And winking Mary-buds begin 



To ope their golden eyes: 

 With everything that pretty bin, 



My lady sweet; arise: 

 Arise, arise. 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 



Under the greenwood tree, 



Who loves to lie with me, 



And tune his merry note 



Unto the sweet bird's throat, 



Come hither, come hither, come hither; 



Here shall he see 



No enemy 



But winter and rough weather. 



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