The Praise of the Spring: Out of Virgil

All trees, all leavy groves confesse the SpringTheir gentlest friend; then, then the lands beginTo swell with forward pride, and feed desireTo generation; Heaven's Almighty SireMelts on the bosome of His love, and powresHimselfe into her lap in fruitfull showers.And by a soft insinuation, mixtWith Earth's large masse, doth cherish and assistHer weake conceptions. No lone shade but ringsWith chatring birds' delicious murmurings;Then Venus' mild instinct (at set times) yieldsThe herds to kindly meetings, then the fields(Quick with warme Zephyre's lively breath) lay forthTheir pregnant bosomes in a fragrant birth.Each body's plump and jucy, all things fullOf supple moisture: no coy twig but willTrust his beloved blossome to the sun(Growne lusty now): no vine so weake and youngThat feares the foule-mouth'd Auster or those stormesThat the Southwest-wind hurries in his armes,But hasts her forward blossomes, and layes outFreely layes out her leaves: nor doe I doubtBut when the world first out of chaos sprangSo smil'd the dayes, and so the tenor ranOf their felicity. A Spring was there,An everlasting Spring, the jolly yeareLed round in his great circle; no wind's breathAs then did smell of Winter or of Death.When Life's sweet light first shone on beasts, and whenFrom their hard mother Earth, sprang hardy men,When beasts tooke up their lodging in the Wood,Starres in their higher chambers: never cou'dThe tender growth of things endure the senceOf such a change, but that the Heav'ns indulgenceKindly supplyes sick Nature, and doth moldA sweetly-temper'd meane, nor hot nor cold.