Come, let us goe, while we are in our prime,
  And take the harmiesse follie of the time.
  Herrick.

Spring's hands, in Shakespeare's words, you say,
  "Do paint the meadows with delight" —
I go where artist hands in May
  Hang paintings far more bright!

Though soft the twilight star that shines
  On grassy mead and limpid stream —
The stars I seek when day declines
  In Covent Garden beam!

Though sweet the thousand liquid notes
  Your feathered songsters warble here —
My birds of eve from tuneful throats
  Now utter notes more dear!

Farewell, ye streams, ye meads, ye flowers,
  Until your autumn robes ye wear —
Though May is fair in country bowers,
  'Tis fairest in Mayfair!