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[“The soote]

[_]

Warton calls this little Ode of Lord Surry's, exquisite.

“The soote seasoun that bud and bloom forth brings,
“With grene hath clad the hill and eke the vale;
“The nightingale, with feathers new she sings,
“The turtle to her mate hath told her tale.

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“Somer is come, for every spray now springs;
“The hart has hung his old hed on the pale;
“The buck, in brake, his winter coate he flings;
“The fishes flete with new repayred scale.
“The adder all her slough away she flings,
“The swallow swift pursueth the flies smale;
“The busy bee, her honey now she mings,
“Winter is worne, that was the flower's bale.
 

Sweet.

Mingles.

Past.

Bane.