Good farmers in the country nurse The poor that else were undone; Some landlords spend their money worse, On lust and pride in London. There the roysters they do play, Drab and dice their lands away, Which may be ours another day, And therefore let's be merry!
The client now his suit forbears; The prisoner's heart is easèd; The debtor drinks away his cares, And for the time is pleasèd. Though other's purses be more fat, Why should we pine or grieve at that? Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat, And therefore let's be merry!
Hark! now the wags abroad do call Each other forth to rambling; Anon you'll see them in the hall, For nuts and apples scrambling. Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound; Anon they'll think the house goes round, For they the cellar's depth have found, And there they will be merry!
The wenches with their wassail bowls About the streets are singing; The boys are come to catch the owls; The wild mare in is bringing; Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box; And to the dealing of the ox Our honest neighbours come by flocks, And here they will be merry!
Now kings and queens poor sheep-cots have, And mate with everybody; The honest now may play the knave, And wise men play the noddy. Some youths will now a-mumming go, Some others play at Rowland-bo, And twenty other game, boys, mo, Because they will be merry!
Then wherefore, in these merry days, Should we, I pray, be duller? No, let us sing some roundelays To make our mirth the fuller: And, while we thus inspirèd sing, Let all the streets with echoes ring; Woods, and hills, and everything, Bear witness we are merry!
Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more, whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more, whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.
Ask me no more, if east or west, The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.