Now one and all, you Roses,
— Wake up, you lie too long!
This very morning closes
— The Nightingale his song;

Each from its olive chamber
— His babies every one
This very morning clamber
— Into the shining sun.

You Slug-a-beds and Simples,
— Why will you so delay!
Dears, doff your olive wimples,
— And listen while you may.