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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! Thomas Nashe. Autumn AUTUMN hath all the summer's fruitful treasure; Gone is our sport, fled is poor Croydon's* pleasure. [town in Surrey]
May 13, 2011 · Nature. SPRING, 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--.
Spring. By Thomas Nashe. Spring, 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 ...
Complete text of the poem by Thomas Nashe. SPRING. by: Thomas Nashe (1567-1601) PRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then ...
acted 1592. S 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 ...
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!
Here you will find the Poem Spring, The Sweet Spring of poet Thomas Nashe Spring, The Sweet Spring Spring, 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!
