Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour. - Thomas Nashe

Spring, the sweete Spring, is the yeres pleasant King,
Then bloomes eche thing, then maydes daunce in a ring,
Cold doeth not sting, the pretty birds doe sing,
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we, to witta woo.The Palme and May make countrey houses gay,
Lambs friske and play, the Shepherds pype all day,
And we heare aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we, to witta woo.The fields breathe sweete, the dayzies kisse our feete,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every streete, these tunes our eares doe greete,
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we, to witta woo Spring, the sweete Spring.

Evermore mayst thou be canonized as the Nonparreille of impious epistlers.

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 wee, to witta woo!