The flowers anew returning seasons bring!

There solid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

The stag in limpid currents with surprise Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise.

Studious of ease and fond of humble things.

He the robe of justice wore, Sully'd not, as heretofore, When the magistrate was sought With yearly gifts. Of what avail Are guilty hoards? for life is frail; And we are judg'd where favour is not bought.

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice!