Shall Dumpish Melancholy spoil my Joys

While Angels sing

And Mortals ring

My Lord and Savior's Prais!

Awake from Sloth, for that alone destroys,

'Tis Sin defiles, 'tis Sloth puts out thy Joys.

See how they run from place to place,

And seek for Ornaments of Grace;

Their Houses deckt with sprightly Green,

In Winter makes a Summer seen;

They Bays and Holly bring

As if 'twere Spring!

Shake off thy Sloth, my drouzy Soul, awake;

With Angels sing

Unto thy King,

And pleasant Musick make;

Thy Lute, thy Harp, or els thy Heart-strings take,

And with thy Musick let thy Sense awake.

See how each one the other calls

To fix his Ivy on the walls,

Transplanted there it seems to grow

As if it rooted were below:

Thus He, who is thy King,

Makes Winter, Spring.

Shall Houses clad in Summer-Liveries

His Praises sing

And laud thy King,

And wilt not thou arise?

Forsake thy Bed, and grow (my Soul) more wise,

Attire thy self in cheerful Liveries:

Let pleasant Branches still be seen

Adorning thee, both quick and green;

And, which with Glory better suits,

Be laden all the Year with Fruits;

Inserted into Him,

For ever spring.

'Tis He that Life and Spirit doth infuse:

Let ev'ry thing

The Praises sing

Of Christ the King of Jews;

Who makes things green, and with a Spring infuse

A Season which to see it doth not use:

Old Winter's Frost and hoary hair,

With Garland's crowned, Bays doth wear;

The nipping Frost of Wrath b'ing gon,

To Him the Manger made a Throne,

Du Praises let us sing,

Winter and Spring.

See how, their Bodies clad with finer Cloaths,

They now begin

His Prais to sing

Who purchas'd their Repose:

Wherby their inward Joy they do disclose;

Their Dress alludes to better Works than those:

His gayer Weeds and finer Band,

New Suit and Hat, into his hand

The Plow-man takes; his neatest Shoos,

And warmer Glovs, he means to use:

And shall not I, my King,

Thy Praises sing?