OFF with sleep, love, up from bed, This fair morn； See, for our eyes the rosy¹ red New dawn is born； Now that skies are glad and gay In this gracious month of May, Love me, sweet, Fill my joy in brimming measure, In this world he hath no pleasure, That will none of it.

    Come, love, through the woods of spring, Come walk with me； Listen, the sweet birds jargoning From tree to tree. List and listen, over all Nightingale most musical That ceases never； Grief begone, and let us be For a space as glad as he； Time's flitting ever.

    Old Time, that loves not lovers, wears Wings swift in flight； All our happy life he bears Far in the night. Old and wrinkled on a day, Sad and weary shall you say, 'Ah, fool was I, That took no pleasure in the grace Of the flower that from my face Time has seen die.'

    Leave then sorrow, teen, and tears Till we be old； Young we are, and of our years Till youth be cold Pluck the flower； while spring is gay In this happy month of May, Love me, love； Fill our joy in brimming measure； In this world he hath no pleasure That will none thereof.