I sing of brooks¹， of blossoms， birds， and bowers²，

    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 groves³， 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.