The merry cuckoo
The merry cuckoo, messenger of spring,
His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded:
That warms all lovers wait upon their king,
Who now is coming forth with garlands crowned.

With noise thereof the quire of birds resounded
Their anthems sweet devised of love’s praise,
That all the woods their echoes back rebounded,
As if they knew the meaning of their lays.

But ‘mongst them all, which did love’s honour raise,
No word was heard of het that most it ought,
But she is precept proudly disobeys,
And doth his idel message set at nought.

Therefore O love, unless she turn to thee,
Ere cuckoo end, let her a rebel be.

Poëzie