HERE lies the blithe Spring, Who first taught birds to sing, Yet in April herself fell a-crying: Then May growing hot, A sweating sickness she got, And the first of June lay a-dying. Yet no month can say, But her merry daughter May Stuck her coffins with flowers great plenty: The cuckoo sung in verse An epitaph o'er her hearse, But assure you the lines were not dainty.