Come then, come, ye sportive swains

Come then, come, ye sportive swains; Hither, jocund nymphs, advance; O'er the smooth enamell'd green Lead along the rustic dance. Come, your grateful tributes pay, Hail the rosy morn of May.

Now again the rising year Calls us forth to mirth and joy; Pining grief, nor sordid care, Shall our festive rites annoy. Swell then, swell the cheerful lay, Hail the rosy morn of May.