HAWTHORN. 
69 
of the manner in which this day was kept in his 
time: 
Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark 
How each field turns a street, each street a park, 
Made green and trimmed with trees; see how 
Devotion gives each house a bough, 
Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this. 
An ark, a tabernacle is. 
Made up of white thorne, neatly interwove. 
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 obey 
The proclamations made for May, 
And sin no more, as we have done by staying; 
But, my Corinna, come ; let’s go a-Maying. 
There’s not a budding boy or girl, this day. 
But is got up and gone to bring in May: 
A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
Back, and with white-thorne laden home ; 
Some have despatched their cakes and cream 
Before that we have left to dream; 
And some have wept and wooed and plighted troth. 
And chose their priest ere we can cast off sloth. 
Many a green gown has been given. 
Many a kiss, both odd and even ; 
Many a glance too has been sent 
From out the eye, love’s firmament; 
Many a jest told of the Key’s betraying 
This night and locks picked; yet we’re not a-Maying. 
