Get up, sweet-slug-a-bed!—Herrick.

And Phillida with garlands gaye

Was made the lady of the Maye.—Nicholas Breton.

Come, Phillida, come! for the hours are fleet,

And sweet are the soft meadow murmurs, and sweet

Are the merry May flowers that long for thy feet.

Come, Phillida, come!

They are waiting to make thee their Lady of May,

And have twined in the midst of the marigolds gay

A little red flower; for pity, they say;

Thou knowest for whom.

And lovers are sighing among the green brake,

And birds in their flying soft madrigals make.

Hark! hear the girls crying, and all for thy sake.

Come, Phillida, come!