With flaming horns the Bull now brings the year, Melt do the horrid mountains' helms of snow, The silver floods in pearly channels flow, The late-bare woods green anadems do wear; The nightingale, forgetting winter's woe, Calls up the lazy morn her notes to hear; Those flow'rs are spread which names of princes bear, Some red, some azure, white and golden grow; Here lows a heifer, there bea-wailing strays A harmless lamb, not far a stag rebounds; The shepherds sing to grazing flocks sweet lays, And all about the echoing air resounds. Hills, dales, woods, floods, and everything doth change, But she in rigour, I in love am strange.