I sing of brooks， of blossoms， birds， and bowers，
Of April， May， of June， and July flowers.
I sing of Maypoles， hock carts， wassails， wakes，
Of bridegrooms， brides， and of their bridal cakes.
I write of youth， of love， and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness.
I sing of dews， of rains， and， piece by piece，
Of balm， of oil， of spice， and ambergris.
I sing of times trans-shifting， and I write
How roses first came red and lilies white.
I write of groves， of twilights， and I sing
The court of Mab and of the fairy king.
I write of hell； I sing （and ever shall）
Of heaven， and hope to have it after all.