The Shepheardes Calendar III: March Edmund Spenser

WILLY. THOMALIN.
Thomalin, why sitten we so,
As weren overwent with Woe.
Upon so fair a Morrow?
The joyous time now nigheth fast,
That shall alegg this bitter Blast,
And slake the Winter Sorrow.

THOMALIN.
Siker Willy, thou warnest well;
For Winter's Wrath begins to quell,
And pleasant Spring appeareth:
The Grass now 'gins to be refresht
The Swallow peeps out of her Nest,
And cloudy Welkin cleareth.

WILLY.
Seest not thilk same Hawthorn Stud,
How bragly it begins to bud,
And utter his tender Head?
Flora now calleth forth each Flower,
And bids make ready Maia's Bower,
That new is uprist from Bed.
Tho shall we sporten in delight,
And learn with Lettice to wex light,
That scornfully looks askaunce:
Tho will we little Love awake,
That now sleepeth in Lethe Lake,
And pray him leaden our daunce.