HERE lies the blithe Spring, 
Who first taught birds to sing, 
Yet in April herself fell a-crying: 
Then May growing hot, 
A sweating sickness she got, 
And the first of June lay a-dying. 
 
Yet no month can say, 
But her merry daughter May 
Stuck her coffins with flowers great plenty: 
The cuckoo sung in verse 
An epitaph o'er her hearse, 
But assure you the lines were not dainty.