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Quotes about springeth

A Hymn to the Virgin

OF on that is so fayr and bright
   Velut maris stella,
Brighter than the day is light,
   Parens et puella:
Ic crie to the, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,
   Tam pia,
That ic mote come to thee
   Maria.

Al this world was for-lore
   Eva peccatrice,
Tyl our Lord was y-bore
   De te genetrice.
With ave it went away
Thuster nyth and comz the day
   Salutis;
The welle springeth ut of the,
   Virtutis.

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Spring-tide

LENTEN ys come with love to toune,
With blosmen ant with briddes roune,
   That al this blisse bryngeth;
Dayes-eyes in this dales,
Notes suete of nyhtegales,
   Vch foul song singeth;
The threstlecoc him threteth oo,
Away is huere wynter wo,
   When woderove springeth;
This foules singeth ferly fele,
Ant wlyteth on huere winter wele,
   That al the wode ryngeth.

The rose rayleth hire rode,
The leves on the lyhte wode
   Waxen al with wille;
The mone mandeth hire bleo,
The lilie is lossom to seo,
   The fenyl ant the fille;
Wowes this wilde drakes,

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Spring

Lenten ys come with love to toun{.e},
With blosmen and with bridd{.e}s roun{.e},
That al this bliss{.e} bryngeth;
Dayes-ey{.e}s in this dal{.e}s;
Not{.e}s suete of nyht{.e}gal{.e}s;
Uch foul song singeth.
The threstelcoc him threteth oo;
Away is huer{.e} wynter woo,
When woderov{.e} springeth.
This foul{.e}s singeth ferly fel{.e},
And wlyteth on huere wynter wel{.e},
That al the wod{.e} ryngeth.

The ros{.e} rayleth hir{.e} rode;
The lev{.e}s on the lyht{.e} wod{.e}
Waxen al with will{.e}.
The mon{.e} mandeth hir{.e} bleo;
The lili{.e} is lossom to seo,
The fenyl and the fill{.e}.
Wow{.e}s this wild{.e} drak{.e}s;

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A Hymn to the Virgin

Of on that is so fayr and bright
Velut maris stella,
Brighter than the day is light,
Parens et puella:
Ic crie to the, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,
Tam pia,
That ic mote come to thee
Maria.


Al this world was for-lore
Eva peccatrice,
Tyl our Lord was y-bore
De te genetrice.
With
ave
it went away
Thuster nyth and cometh the day
Salutis;

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Cuckoo Song

Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweth sed, and bloweth med,
And springeth the wude nu -
Sing cuccu!

Awe bleteth after lomb,
Lhouth after calve cu;
Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth,
Murie sing cuccu!

Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu!
Ne swike thu naver nu;
Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu,
Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu!

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Spring-tide

Lenten ys come with love to toune,
With blosmen and with briddes roune,
That al this blisse bryngeth;
Dayes-eyes in this dales,
Notes suete of nyhtegales,
Uch foul song singeth;
The threstelcoc him threteth oo,
Away is huere wynter wo,
When woderove springeth;
Thise foules singeth ferly fele,
Ant wlyteth on huere wunne wele,
That all the wode ryngeth.

The rose rayleth hire rode,
The leves on the lyhte wode
Waxen al with wille;
The mone mandeth hire bleo,
The lilie is lossom to seo,
The fenyl and the fille;
Wowes thise wilde drakes,

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The Flower And The Leaf

When that Phebus his chaire of gold so hy
Had whirled up the sterry sky aloft,
And in the Bole was entred certainly;
Whan shoures swete of rain discended soft,
Causing the ground, felë tymes and oft,
Up for to give many an hoolsom air,
And every plain was [eek y-]clothed fair

With newe grene, and maketh smalë floures
To springen here and there in feld and mede;
So very good and hoolsom be the shoures
That it reneweth, that was old and deede
In winter-tyme; and out of every seede
Springeth the herbë, so that every wight
Of this sesoun wexeth [ful] glad and light.

And I, só glad of the seson swete,
Was happed thus upon a certain night;
As I lay in my bed, sleep ful unmete
Was unto me; but, why that I ne might

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Edmund Spenser

The Shepheardes Calender: Februarie

Februarie: Ægloga Secunda. CVDDIE & THENOT.

CVDDIE.
AH for pittie, wil ranke Winters rage,
These bitter blasts neuer ginne tasswage?
The keene cold blowes throug my beaten hyde,
All as I were through the body gryde.
My ragged rontes all shiver and shake,
As doen high Towers in an earthquake:
They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle tailes,
Perke as Peacock: but nowe it auales.

THENOT.
Lewdly complainest thou laesie ladde,
Of Winters wracke, for making thee sadde.
Must not the world wend in his commun course
From good to badd, and from badde to worse,
From worse vnto that is worst of all,
And then returne to his former fall?
Who will not suffer the stormy time,

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Punch Song (To be sung in the Northern Countries)

On the mountain's breezy summit,
Where the southern sunbeams shine,
Aided by their warming vigor,
Nature yields the golden wine.

How the wondrous mother formeth,
None have ever read aright;
Hid forever is her working,
And inscrutable her might.

Sparkling as a son of Phoebus,
As the fiery source of light,
From the vat it bubbling springeth,
Purple, and as crystal bright;

And rejoiceth all the senses,
And in every sorrowing breast
Poureth hope's refreshing balsam,
And on life bestows new zest.

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The Metamorphosis Of Plants

THOU art confused, my beloved, at, seeing the thousandfold union

Shown in this flowery troop, over the garden dispers'd;
any a name dost thou hear assign'd; one after another

Falls on thy list'ning ear, with a barbarian sound.
None resembleth another, yet all their forms have a likeness;

Therefore, a mystical law is by the chorus proclaim'd;
Yes, a sacred enigma! Oh, dearest friend, could I only

Happily teach thee the word, which may the mystery solve!
Closely observe how the plant, by little and little progressing,

Step by step guided on, changeth to blossom and fruit!
First from the seed it unravels itself, as soon as the silent

Fruit-bearing womb of the earth kindly allows Its escape,
And to the charms of the light, the holy, the ever-in-motion,

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