Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing. Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! — Thomas Nash Copy Share Image
As like a church and an ale-house, God and the devell, they manie times dwell neere to ether. — Thomas Nash Copy Share
All good things vanish in less than a day, Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year,… — Thomas Nash Copy Share
“Unhappy me," quoth she, "and will't not stand? Come, let me rub and chafe it with my hand. Perhaps the silly worm is laboured… — Thomas Nash Copy Share
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the… — Thomas Nash Copy Share
