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Poem	FRESH Spring, the herald of loves mighty king, In whose cote-armour richly are displayd All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring, In goodly colours gloriously arrayd¡ª Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd, 5 Yet in her winters bowre not well awake; Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid, Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take; Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make, To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew; 10 Where every one, that misseth then her make, Shall be by him amearst with penance dew. Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime; For none can call againe the pass¨¨d time. GLOSS: make] mate.
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