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Worship, Oye that lovers be, this May!
For of your bliss the calends are begun;
And sing with us, Away! winter, away!
Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun."
Awake for shame that have your heavens won,
And amourously lift up your headës all,
Thank Love that list you to his mercy-call !

KING JAMES I. (of Scotland). My true love hath my heart and I have his,

By just exchange one to the other given ;
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss ;

There never was a better bargain driven.
My true love hath my heart and I have his.

Sir Philip Smith.
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.

Shakespeare

(Hamlet).
May 2.
And the vicar is there with his wig and his book,
And the clerk with his grave quasi-sanctified look;
And there stand the village maids, all with their posies,
Their lilies and daffy-down-dillies and roses.

The Ingoldsby Legends.
In simple manners all the secret lies;
Be kind and virtuous, you'll be blest and wise.

Young
May 3.
A kiss can consecrate the ground
Where mated hearts are mutual bound;
The spot where love's first links were wound,

That ne'er are riven,
Is hallowed down to earth's profound
And up to Heaven !

Thomas Campbell. Belike, boy, then you are in love ; for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes.

Shakespeare

(Two Gentlemen of Verona).

May 2.

May 3.

Lesbia rails at me, they say,
Talks against me all the day-
May I die, but I can tell
By this that Lesbia loves me well.

Horace.

I never gave a lock of hair away
To a man, dearest, except this to thee,

E. B. Browning

May 5.

As the ivy and oak in the forest entwined,

The rage of the tempest united must weather,
My love and my life were by nature designed
To flourish alike or to perish together.

Byron.
Oh ! how hard it is to find
The one just suited to our mind !

Thomas Campbell.

May 6.

My name and my glory are resting on thee,
My heart melts in thine—my saint thou wilt be,
My hope and my heaven, my being, my bliss,
Joy.giver, —what joy can'st thou give more than this !

Sir John Bowring.
Perhaps the only comfort which remains
Is the unheeded clanking of my chains,
The which I make, and call it melody.

Shelley.

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