CEST LHEURE DE BOIRE 



Who doth ambition shun, 



And loves to live i' the sun, 



Seeking the food he eats, 



And pleased with what he gets, 



Come hither, come hither, come hither; 



Here shall he see 



No enemy 



But winter and rough weather. 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 



Thus, thus begin the yearly rites 

 Are due to Pan on these bright nights; 

 His morn now riseth and invites 

 To sports, to dances, and delights: 



All envious and profane, away, 



This is the shepherd's holyday. 



Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground 

 With every flower, yet not confound; 

 The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse, 

 Bright day's eyes and the lips of cows; 

 The garden-star, the queen of May, 

 The rose, to crown the holyday. 



Drop, drop, you violets; change your hues, 

 Now red, now pale, as lovers use; 



[35] 



