Hark how the Lyrick Choristers o’ th’ wood

I’l have a young plump amorous Queen, Ripe though she be not yet fifteen. ’Twixt whose close arms and snowie breast I may diffuse my heat, and rest.

Here the Currans red and white In yon green bush at her sight Peep through their shady leaves, and cry "Come eat me", as she passes by.

Her steps with such an evenness she wove, As shee could hardly be perceiv’d to move.

Ye blushing virgins happy are In the chaste nunnery of her breasts— For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.

For see the rosy May draws nigh; She claims a virgin queen; And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

So venerable, so majestic, is this living temple of justice, this immemorial and yet freshly growing fabric of the Common Law, that the least of us is happy who hereafter may point to so much as one stone thereof and say, The work of my …