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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 your violets, change your hues. 
Now red, now pale, as lovers use; 
And in your death go out as well 
As when you lived unto the smell; 
That from your odour all may say 
This is the shepherd’s holyday. 
Shepherd. 
Well done, my pretty ones—rain roses still, 
Until the last be dropt; then hence, and fill 
Your fragrant prickles for a second shower. 
Bring corn-flags, tulips, and Adonis-flower, 
Fair ox-eye, goldy-locks, and columbine. 
Pinks, goulands, king-cups, and sweet sops-in-wine. 
Blue hare-bells, pagles, pansies, calaminth. 
Flower-gentle, and the fair-haired hyacinth. 
Bring rich carnations, flower-de-luces, lilies. 
The chequed and purple-ringed daffodillies. 
Bright crown-imperial, kingspear, hollyhocks. 
Sweet Venus’-navel, and soft lady-smocks. 
Bring too some branches forth of Daphne’s hair. 
And gladdest myrtle for these posts to wear. 
With spikenard weaved, and marjoram between. 
And starred with yellow golds, and meadow’s queen. 
That when the altar, as it ought, is drest. 
More odour comes not from the phoenix’ nest. 
The breath thereof Panchaia may envy. 
The colours China, and the light the sky. 
