V

Now will her grave of untorn maidenhood

Be dug in her small blood.

Assemble ye at that glad funeral

And weave her scarlet pall,

O pinings for the flesh of man that often

Did her secret hours soften

And take her willing and unwilling hand

Where pleasure starteth up.

Come forth, ye moted gnomes, unruly band,

That come so quick ye spill your brimming cup;

Ye that make youth young and flesh nice

And the glad spring and summer sun arise;

Ye by whose secret presence the trees grow

Green, and the flowers bud, and birds sing free,

When with the fury of a trembling glow

The bull climbs on the heifer mightily!