"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!        
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet 
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit      
In every street these tunes our ears do greet      
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!        
Spring! the sweet Spring!"                    
By Thomas Nashe