RICHARD ROWLANDS

I grieve that duty doth not work All that my wishing would ; Because I would not be to thee But in the best I should.

Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy !

Yet as I am, and as I may, I must and will be thine, Though all too little for thyself Vouchsafing to be mine.

Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy !

��THOMAS NASHE 166. Spring

C PRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king ; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo !

The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo !

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, '. In every street these tunes our ears do greet Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! Spring, the sweet Spring !

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