THE soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale;
The nightingale, with feathers new, she sings,
The turtle to her mate hath told her tale.
Summer is come: for every spray now springs.
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings,
The fishes float, with new repaired scale;
The adder all her slough away she flings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flies small;
The busy bee, her honey now she mings,
Winter is gone, that was the flower's bale;
And thus I see, among these pleasant things,
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs!
GIVE place, ye lovers, here before
That spent your boasts and brags in vain; My lady's beauty passeth more
The best of yours, I dare well saine,
Than doth the sun the candle light,
Or brightest day the darkest night.