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by thomas nash
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:
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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