The Hag is astride,
This night for to ride,
The devil and she together;
Through thick and through thin,
If ye will with Mab find grace,
Set each platter in his place;
Rake the fire up, and get
Water in, ere sun be set.
Thou bidst me come away,
And I'll no longer stay,
Than for to shed some tears
For faults of former years;
If little labour, little are our gains;
Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
Play, Phoebus, on thy lute,
And we will sit all mute;
By listening to thy lyre,
That sets all ears on fire.
First, April, she with mellow showers
Opens the way for early flowers;
Then after her comes smiling May,
In a more rich and sweet array;
Honour to you who sit
Near to the well of wit,
And drink your fill of it!
Anthea, I am going hence
With some small stock of innocence;
But yet those blessed gates I see
Withstanding entrance unto me;