Amoretti and Epithalamion Read Online

LX.

They that in course of heauenly spheares are skild,

To euery planet point his sundry yeare:

in which her circles voyage is fulfild,

as Mars in three score yeares doth run his spheare.

So since the winged God his planet cleare,

began in me to moue, one yeare is spent:

the which doth longer vnto me appeare,

then al those fourty which my life outwent.

Then by that count, which louers books inuent,

the spheare of Cupid fourty yeares containes:

which I haue wasted in long languishment,

that seemd the longer for my greater paines.

But let my loues fayre Planet short her wayes

this yeare ensuing, or else short my dayes.

Sonnet. LXI.

The glorious image of the makers beautie,

My souerayne saynt, the Idoll of my thought,

dare not henceforth aboue the bounds of dewtie,

t'accuse of pride, or rashly blame for ought.

For being as she is diuinely wrought,

and of the brood of Angels heuenly borne:

and with the crew of blessed Saynts vpbrought,

each of which did her with theyr guifts adorne;

The bud of ioy, the blossome of the morne,

the beame of light, whom mortal eyes admyre:

what reason is it then but she should scorne

base things that to her loue too bold aspire?

Such heauenly formes ought rather worshipt be,

then dare be lou'd by men of meane degree.

Sonnet. LXII.

The weary yeare his race now hauing run,

The new begins his compast course anew:

with shew of morning mylde he hath begun,

betokening peace and plenty to ensew.

So let vs, which this chaunge of weather vew,

chaunge eeke our mynds and former liues amend,

the old yeares sinnes forepast let vs eschew,

and fly the faults with which we did offend.

Then shall the new yeares ioy forth freshly send,

into the glooming world his gladsome ray:

and all these stormes which now his beauty blend,

shall turne to caulmes and tymely cleare away.

So likewise loue cheare you your heauy spright,

and chaunge old yeares annoy to new delight.

Sonnet. LXIII.

After long stormes and tempests sad assay,

Which hardly I endured heretofore:

in dread of death and daungerous dismay,

with which my silly barke was tossed sore:

I doe at length descry the happy shore,

in which I hope ere long for to arryue:

fayre soyle it seemes from far and fraught with store

of all that deare and daynty is alyue.

Most happy he that can at last atchyue

the ioyous safety of so sweet a rest:

whose least delight sufficeth to depriue

remembrance of all paines which him opprest.

All paines are nothing in respect of this,

all sorrowes short that gaine eternall blisse.

Sonnet. LXIIII.

Comming to kisse her lyps, (such grace I found)

Me seemd I smelt a gardin of sweet flowres:

that dainty odours from them threw around

for damzels fit to decke their louers bowres.

Her lips did smell lyke vnto Gillyflowers,

her ruddy cheekes lyke vnto Roses red:

her snowy browes lyke budded Bellamoures,

her louely eyes lyke Pincks but newly spred,

Her goodly bosome lyke a Strawberry bed,

her neck lyke to a bounch of Cullambynes:

her brest lyke lillyes, ere theyr leaues be shed,

her nipples lyke yong blossomd Iessemynes:

Such fragrant flowres doe giue most odorous smell,

but her sweet odour did them all excell.

Sonnet. LXV.

The doubt which ye misdeeme, fayre loue, is vaine,

That fondly feare to loose your liberty,

when loosing one, two liberties ye gayne,

and make him bond that bondage earst dyd fly.

Sweet be the bands, the which true loue doth tye,

without constraynt or dread of any ill:

the gentle birde feeles no captiuity

within her cage, but singes and feeds her fill.

There pride dare not approch, nor discord spill

the league twixt them, that loyal loue hath bound:

but simple truth and mutuall good will,

seekes with sweet peace to salue each others wound:

There fayth doth fearlesse dwell in brasen towre,

and spotlesse pleasure builds her sacred bowre.

Sonnet. LXVI.

To all those happy blessings which ye haue,

with plenteous hand by heauen vpon you thrown,

this one disparagement they to you gaue,

that ye your loue lent to so meane a one.

Yee whose high worths surpassing paragon,

could not on earth haue found one fit for mate,

ne but in heauen matchable to none,

why did ye stoup vnto so lowly state?

But ye thereby much greater glory gate,

then had ye sorted with a princes pere:

for now your light doth more it selfe dilate,

and in my darknesse greater doth appeare.

Yet since your light hath once enlumind me,

with my reflex yours shall encreased be.

Sonnet. LXVII.

Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace,

Seeing the game from him escapt away,

sits downe to rest him in some shady place,

with panting hounds beguiled of their pray:

So after long pursuit and vaine assay,

when I all weary had the chace forsooke,

the gentle deare returnd the selfe-same way,

thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke.

There she beholding me with mylder looke,

sought not to fly, but fearelesse still did bide:

till I in hand her yet halfe trembling tooke,

and with her owne goodwill hir fyrmely tyde.

Strange thing me seemd to see a beast so wyld,

so goodly wonne with her owne will beguyld.

Sonnet. LXVIII.

Most glorious Lord of lyfe that on this day,

Didst make thy triumph ouer death and sin:

and hauing harrowd hell didst bring away

captiuity thence captiue vs to win:

This ioyous day, deare Lord, with ioy begin,

and grant that we for whom thou diddest dye

being with thy deare blood clene washt from sin,

may liue for euer in felicity.

And that thy loue we weighing worthily,

may likewise loue thee for the same againe:

and for thy sake that all lyke deare didst buy,

with loue may one another entertayne.

So let vs loue, deare loue, lyke as we ought,

loue is the lesson which the Lord vs taught.

Sonnet. LXIX.

The famous warriors of the anticke world,

Vsed Trophees to erect in stately wize:

in which they would the records haue enrold,

of theyr great deeds and valarous emprize.

What trophee then shall I most fit deuize,

in which I may record the memory

of my loues conquest, peerelesse beauties prise,

adorn'd with honour, loue, and chastity.

Euen this verse vowd to eternity,

shall be thereof immortall moniment:

and tell her prayse to all posterity,

that may admire such worlds rare wonderment.

The happy purchase of my glorious spoile,

gotten at last with labour and long toyle.

Sonnet. LXX.

Fresh spring the herald of loues mighty king,

In whose cote armour richly are displayd

all sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring

in goodly colours gloriously arrayd:

Goe to my loue, where she is carelesse layd,

yet in her winters bowre not well awake:

tell her the ioyous time wil not be staid

vnlesse she doe him by the forelock take.

Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,

to wayt on loue amongst his louely crew:

where euery one that misseth then her make,

shall be by him amearst with penance dew.

Make hast therefore sweet loue, whilest it is prime,

for none can call againe the passed time.

Sonnet. LXXI.

I Ioy to see how in your drawen work,

Your selfe vnto the Bee ye doe compare;

and me vnto the Spyder that doth lurke,

in close awayt to catch her vnaware.

Right so your selfe were caught in cunning snare

of a deare foe, and thralled to his loue:

in whose streight bands ye now captiued are

so firmely, that ye neuer may remoue.

But as your worke is wouen all aboue,

with woodbynd flowers and fragrant Eglantine:

so sweet your prison you in time shall proue,

with many deare delights bedecked fyne.

And all thensforth eternall peace shall see,

betweene the Spyder and the gentle Bee.

Sonnet. LXXII.

Oft when my spirit doth spred her bolder winges,

In mind to mount vp to the purest sky:

it down is weighd with thoght of earthly things

and clogd with burden of mortality,

Where when that souerayne beauty it doth spy,

resembling heauens glory in her light:

drawne with sweet pleasures bayt, it back doth fly,

and vnto heauen forgets her former flight.

There my fraile fancy fed with full delight,

doth bath in blisse and mantleth most at ease:

ne thinks of other heauen, but how it might

her harts desire with most contentment please.

Hart need not wish none other happinesse,

but here on earth to haue such heuens blisse.

Sonnet. LXXIII.

Being my selfe captyued here in care,

My hart, whom none with seruile bands can tye,

but the fayre tresses of your golden hayre,

breaking his prison forth to you doth fly.

Lyke as a byrd that in ones hand doth spy

desired food, to it doth make his flight:

euen so my hart, that wont on your fayre eye

to feed his fill, flyes backe vnto your sight.

Doe you him take, and in your bosome bright,

gently encage, that he may be your thrall:

perhaps he there may learne with rare delight,

to sing your name and prayses ouer all.

That it hereafter may you not repent,

him lodging in your bosome to haue lent.

Sonnet. LXXIIII.

Most happy letters fram'd by skilfull trade,

with which that happy name was first desynd:

the which three times thrise happy hath me made,

with guifts of body, fortune and of mind.

The first my being to me gaue by kind,

from mothers womb deriu'd by dew descent,

the second is my souereigne Queene most kind,

that honour and large richesse to me lent.

The third my loue, my liues last ornament,

by whom my spirit out of dust was raysed:

to speake her prayse and glory excellent,

of all aliue most worthy to be praysed.

Ye three Elizabeths for euer liue,

that three such graces did vnto me giue.

Sonnet. LXXV.

One day I wrote her name vpon the strand,

but came the waues and washed it away:

agayne I wrote it with a second hand,

but came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray.

Vayne man, sayd she, that doest in vaine assay,

a mortall thing so to immortalize,

for I my selue shall lyke to this decay,

and eek my name bee wyped out lykewize.

Not so, (quod I) let baser things deuize

to dy in dust, but you shall liue by fame:

my verse your vertues rare shall eternize,

and in the heuens wryte your glorious name.

Where whenas death shall all the world subdew,

our loue shall liue, and later life renew.

Sonnet. LXXVI.

Fayre bosome fraught with vertues richest tresure,

The neast of loue, the lodging of delight:

the bowre of blisse, the paradice of pleasure,

the sacred harbour of that heuenly spright:

How was I rauisht with your louely sight,

and my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray?

whiles diuing deepe through amorous insight,

on the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray.

And twixt her paps like early fruit in May,

whose haruest seemd to hasten now apace:

they loosely did theyr wanton winges display,

and there to rest themselues did boldly place.

Sweet thoughts I enuy your so happy rest,

which oft I wisht, yet neuer was so blest.

Sonnet. LXXVII.

Was it a dreame, or did I see it playne,

a goodly table of pure yvory:

all spred with iuncats, fit to entertayne

the greatest Prince with pompous roialty?

Mongst which there in a siluer dish did ly

twoo golden apples of vnualewd price:

far passing those which Hercules came by,

or those which Atalanta did entice.

Exceeding sweet, yet voyd of sinfull vice,

That many sought yet none could euer taste,

sweet fruit of pleasure brought from paradice

by Loue himselfe and in his garden plaste.

Her brest that table was so richly spredd,

my thoughts the guests, which would thereon haue fedd.

Sonnet. LXXVIII.

Lackyng my loue I go from place to place,

lyke a young fawne that late hath lost the hynd:

and seeke each where, where last I sawe her face,

whose ymage yet I carry fresh in mynd.

I seeke the fields with her late footing synd,

I seeke her bowre with her late presence deckt,

yet nor in field nor bowre I her can fynd:

yet field and bowre are full of her aspect.

But when myne eyes I thereunto direct,

they ydly bade returne to me agayne,

and when I hope to see theyr trew obiect,

I fynd my selfe but fed with fancies vayne.

Ceasse then myne eyes, to seeke her selfe to see,

and let my thoughts behold her selfe in mee.

Sonnet. LXXIX.

Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it,

For that your selfe ye dayly such doe see:

but the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit,

and vertuous mind, is much more praysd of me.

For all the rest, how euer fayre it be,

shall turne to nought and loose that glorious hew:

but onely that is permanent and free

from frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew.

That is true beautie: that doth argue you

to be diuine and borne of heauenly seed:

deriu'd from that fayre Spirit, from whom al true

and perfect beauty did at first proceed.

He onely fayre, and what he fayre hath made,

all other fayre lyke flowres vntymely fade.

Sonnet. LXXX.

After so long a race as I haue run

Through Faery land, which those six books compile,

giue leaue to rest me being halfe fordonne,

and gather to my selfe new breath awhile.

Then as a steed refreshed after toyle,

out of my prison I will breake anew:

and stoutly will that second worke assoyle,

with strong endeuour and attention dew.

Till then giue leaue to me in pleasant mew,

to sport my muse and sing my loues sweet praise:

the contemplation of whose heauenly hew,

my spirit to an higher pitch will rayse.

But let her prayses yet be low and meane,

fit for the handmayd of the Faery Queene.

Sonnet. LXXXI.

Fayre is my loue, when her fayre golden heares,

with the loose wynd ye wauing chance to marke:

fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appeares,

or in her eyes the fyre of loue does sparke.

Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke,

with pretious merchandize she forth doth lay:

fayre when that cloud of pryde, which oft doth dark

her goodly light with smiles she driues away.

But fayrest she, when so she doth display

the gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight:

throgh which her words so wise do make their way

to beare the message of her gentle spright.

The rest be works of natures wonderment,

but this the worke of harts astonishment.

Sonnet. LXXXII.

Ioy of my life, full oft for louing you

I blesse my lot, that was so lucky placed:

but then the more your owne mishap I rew,

that are so much by so meane loue embased.

For had the equall heuens so much you graced

in this as in the rest, ye mote inuent

som heuenly wit, whose verse could haue enchased

your glorious name in golden moniment.

But since ye deignd so goodly to relent

to me your thrall, in whom is little worth,

that little that I am, shall all be spent,

in setting your immortall prayses forth.

Whose lofty argument vplifting me,

shall lift you vp vnto an high degree.

Sonnet. LXXXIII.

My hungry eyes, through greedy couetize,

Still to behold the obiect of theyr payne:

with no contentment can themselues suffize,

but hauing pine, and hauing not complayne.

For lacking it, they cannot lyfe sustayne,

and seeing it, they gaze on it the more:

in theyr amazement lyke Narcissus vayne

whose eyes him staru'd: so plenty makes me pore.

Yet are myne eyes so filled with the store

of that fayre sight, that nothing else they brooke:

but loath the things which they did like before,

and can no more endure on them to looke.

All this worlds glory seemeth vayne to me,

and all theyr shewes but shadowes sauing she.

Sonnet. LXXXIIII.

Let not one sparke of filthy lustfull fyre

breake out, that may her sacred peace molest:

ne one light glance of sensuall desyre

Attempt to work her gentle mindes vnrest.

But pore affections bred in spotlesse brest,

and modest thoughts breathd from wel tempred sprites,

goe visit her in her chast bowre of rest,

accompanyde with angelick delightes.

There fill your selfe with those most ioyous sights,

the which my selfe could neuer yet attayne:

but speake no word to her of these sad plights,

which her too constant stiffenesse doth constrayn.

Onely behold her rare perfection,

and blesse your fortunes fayre election.

Sonnet. LXXXV.

The world that cannot deeme of worthy things,

when I doe praise her, say I doe but flatter:

so does the Cuckow, when the Mauis sings,

begin his witlesse note apace to clatter.

But they that skill not of so heauenly matter,

all that they know not, enuy or admyre,

rather then enuy let them wonder at her,

but not to deeme of her desert aspyre.

Deepe in the closet of my parts entyre,

her worth is written with a golden quill:

that me with heauenly fury doth inspire,

and my glad mouth with her sweet prayses fill.

Which when as fame in her shrill trump shal thunder,

let the world chose to enuy or to wonder.

Sonnet. LXXXVI.

Venemous toung tipt with vile adders sting,

Of that selfe kynd with which the Furies fell

theyr snaky heads doe combe, from which a spring

of poysoned words and spitefull speeches well.

Let all the plagues and horrid paines of hell,

vpon thee fall for thine accursed hyre:

that with false forged lyes, which thou didst tel,

in my true loue did stirre vp coles of yre,

The sparkes whereof let kindle thine own fyre,

and catching hold on thine owne wicked hed

consume thee quite, that didst with guile conspire

in my sweet peace such breaches to haue bred.

Shame be thy meed, and mischiefe thy reward,

dew to thy selfe that it for me prepard.

Sonnet. LXXXVII.

Since I did leaue the presence of my loue,

Many long weary dayes I haue outworne:

and many nights, that slowly seemd to moue

theyr sad protract from euening vntill morne.

For when as day the heauen doth adorne,

I wish that night the noyous day would end:

and when as night hath vs of light forlorne,

I wish that day would shortly reascend.

Thus I the time with expectation spend,

and faine my griefe with chaunges to beguile,

that further seemes his terme still to extend,

and maketh euery minute seeme a myle.

So sorrow still doth seeme too long to last,

but ioyous houres doo fly away too fast.

Sonnet. LXXXVIII.

Since I haue lackt the comfort of that light,

The which was wont to lead my thoughts astray:

I wander as in darknesse of the night,

affrayd of euery dangers least dismay.

Ne ought I see, though in the clearest day,

when others gaze vpon theyr shadowes vayne:

but th'onely image of that heauenly ray,

whereof some glance doth in mine eie remayne.

Of which beholding the Idæa playne,

through contemplation of my purest part:

with light thereof I doe my selfe sustayne,

and thereon feed my loue-affamisht hart.

But with such brightnesse whylest I fill my mind,

I starue my body and mine eyes doe blynd.

Sonnet. LXXXIX.

Lyke as the Culuer on the bared bough,

Sits mourning for the absence of her mate:

and in her songs sends many a wishfull vow,

for his returne that seemes to linger late.

So I alone now left disconsolate,

mourne to my selfe the absence of my loue:

and wandring here and there all desolate,

seek with my playnts to match that mournful doue:

Ne ioy of ought that vnder heauen doth houe,

can comfort me, but her owne ioyous sight:

whose sweet aspect both God and man can moue,

in her vnspotted pleasauns to delight.

Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,

and dead my life that wants such liuely blis.

[Anacreontics]

In youth before I waxed old,

The blynd boy Venus baby,

For want of cunning made me bold,

In bitter hyue to grope for honny.

But when he saw me stung and cry,

He tooke his wings and away did fly.

As Diane hunted on a day,

She chaunst to come where Cupid lay,

his quiuer by his head:

One of his shafts she stole away,

And one of hers did close conuay,

into the others stead:

With that loue wounded my loues hart,

but Diane beasts with Cupids dart.

I saw in secret to my Dame,

How little Cupid humbly came:

and sayd to her All hayle my mother.

But when he saw me laugh, for shame

His face with bashfull blood did flame,

not knowing Venus from the other.

Then neuer blush Cupid (quoth I)

for many haue err'd in this beauty.

Vpon a day as loue lay sweetly slumbring,

all in his mothers lap:

A gentle Bee with his loud trumpet murm'ring,

about him flew by hap.

Whereof when he was wakened with the noyse,

and saw the beast so small:

Whats this (quoth he) that giues so great a voyce,

that wakens men withall?

In angry wize he flyes about,

and threatens all with corage stout.

To whom his mother closely smiling sayd,

twixt earnest and twixt game:

See thou thy selfe likewise art lyttle made,

if thou regard the same.

And yet thou suffrest neyther gods in sky,

nor men in earth to rest:

But when thou art disposed cruelly,

theyr sleepe thou doost molest.

Then eyther change thy cruelty,

or giue lyke leaue vnto the fly.

Nathlesse the cruell boy not so content,

would needs the fly pursue:

And in his hand with heedlesse hardiment,

him caught for to subdue.

But when on it he hasty hand did lay,

the Bee him stung therefore:

Now out alasse (he cryde) and welaway,

I wounded am full sore:

The fly that I so much did scorne,

hath hurt me with his little borne.

Vnto his mother straight he weeping came,

and of his griefe complayned:

Who could not chose but laugh at his fond game,

though sad to see him pained.

Think now (quod she) my sonne how great the smart

of those whom thou dost wound:

Full many thou hast pricked to the hart,

that pitty neuer found:

Therefore henceforth some pitty take,

when thou doest spoyle of louers make.

She tooke him streight full pitiously lamenting,

and wrapt him in her smock:

She wrapt him softly, all the while repenting,

that he the fly did mock.

She drest his wound and it embaulmed wel

with salue of soueraigne might:

And then she bath'd him in a dainty well

the well of deare delight.

Who would not oft be stung as this,

to be so bath'd in Venus blis?

The wanton boy was shortly wel recured

of that his malady:

But he soone after fresh againe enured

his former cruelty.

And since that time he wounded hath my selfe

with his sharpe dart of loue:

And now forgets the cruell carelesse elfe,

his mothers heast to proue.

So now I languish till he please,

my pining anguish to appease.

Finis.

Epithalamion.

Ye learned sisters which haue oftentimes

Beene to me ayding, others to adorne:

Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,

That euen the greatest did not greatly scorne

To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,

But ioyed in theyr prayse.

And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,

Which death, or loue, or fortunes wreck did rayse,

Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,

And teach the woods and waters to lament

Your dolefull dreriment.

Now lay those soriowfull complaints aside,

And hauing all your heads with girland crownd,

Helpe me mine owne loues prayses to resound,

Ne let the same of any be enuide:

So Orpheus did for his owne bride,

So I vnto my selfe alone will sing,

The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.

Early before the worlds light giuing lampe,

His golden beame vpon the hils doth spred,

Hauing disperst the nights vnchearefull dampe,

Doe ye awake and with fresh lusty hed,

Go to the bowre of my beloued loue,

My truest turtle doue,

Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,

And long since ready forth his maske to moue,

With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake,

And many a bachelor to waite on him,

In theyr fresh garments trim.

Bid her awake therefore and soone her dight,

For lo the wished day is come at last,

That shall for al the paynes and sorrowes past,

Pay to her vsury of long delight:

And whylest she doth her dight,

Doe ye to her of ioy and solace sing,

That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring.

Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare

Both of the riuers and the forrests greene:

And of the sea that neighbours to her neare,

Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene.

And let them also with them bring in hand

Another gay girland

For my fayre loue of lillyes and of roses,

Bound trueloue wize with a blew silke riband.

And let them make great store of bridale poses,

And let them eeke bring store of other flowers

To deck the bridale bowers.

And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread,

For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong

Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along,

And diapred lyke the discolored mead.

Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt,

For she will waken strayt,

The whiles doe ye this song vnto her sing,

The woods shall to you answer and your Eccho ring.

Ye Nymphes of Mulla which with carefull heed,

The siluer scaly trouts doe tend full well,

And greedy pikes which vse therein to feed,

(Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell)

And ye likewise which keepe the rushy lake,

Where none doo fishes take,

Bynd vp the locks the which hang scatterd light,

And in his waters which your mirror make,

Behold your faces as the christall bright,

That when you come whereas my loue doth lie,

No blemish she may spie.

And eke ye lightfoot mayds which keepe the deere,

That on the hoary mountayne vse to towre,

And the wylde wolues which seeke them to deuoure,

With your steele darts doo chace from comming neer,

Be also present heere,

To helpe to decke her and to help to sing,

That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring.

Wake, now my loue, awake; for it is time,

The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed,

All ready to her siluer coche to clyme,

And Phœbus gins to shew his glorious hed.

Hark how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies

And carroll of loues praise.

The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft,

The thrush replyes, the Mauis descant playes,

The Ouzell shrills, the Ruddock warbles soft,

So goodly all agree with sweet consent,

To this dayes merriment.

Ah my deere loue why doe ye sleepe thus long,

When meeter were that ye should now awake,

T'awayt the comming of your ioyous make,

And hearken to the birds louelearned song,

The deawy leaues among.

For they of ioy and pleasance to you sing,

That all the woods them answer and theyr eccho ring.

My loue is now awake out of her dreames,

And her fayre eyes like stars that dimmed were

With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beames

More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere.

Come now ye damzels, daughters of delight,

Helpe quickly her to dight,

But first come ye fayre houres which were begot

In Ioues sweet paradice, of Day and Night,

Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot,

And al that euer in this world is fayre

Doe make and still repayre.

And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene,

The which doe still adorne her beauties pride:

Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride:

And as ye her array, still throw betweene

Some graces to be seene,

And as ye vse to Venus, to her sing,

The whiles the woods shal answer and your eccho ring.

Now is my loue all ready forth to come,

Let all the virgins therefore well awayt,

And ye fresh boyes that tend vpon her groome

Prepare your selues; for he is comming strayt.

Set all your things in seemely good aray

Fit for so ioyfull day,

The ioyfulst day that euer sunne did see.

Faire Sun, shew forth thy fauourable ray,

And let thy lifull heat not feruent be

For feare of burning her sunshyny face,

Her beauty to disgrace.

O fayrest Phœbus, father of the Muse,

If euer I did honour thee aright,

Or sing the thing, that mote thy mind delight,

Doe not thy seruants simple boone refuse,

But let this day let this one day be myne,

Let all the rest be thine.

Then I thy souerayne prayses loud wil sing,

That all the woods shal answer and theyr eccho ring.

Harke how the Minstrels gin to shrill aloud

Their merry Musick that resounds from far,

The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling Croud,

That well agree withouten breach or iar.

But most of all the Damzels doe delite,

When they their tymbrels smyte,

And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet,

That all the sences they doe rauish quite,

The whyles the boyes run vp and downe the street,

Crying aloud with strong confused noyce,

As if it were one voyce.

Hymen io Hymen, Hymen they do shout,

That euen to the heauens theyr shouting shrill

Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill,

To which the people standing all about,

As in approuance doe thereto applaud

And loud aduaunce her laud,

And euermore they Hymen Hymen sing,

That al the woods them answer and theyr eccho ring.

Loe where she comes along with portly pace,

Lyke Phœbe from her chamber of the East,

Arysing forth to run her mighty race,

Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best.

So well it her beseemes that ye would weene

Some angell she had beene.

Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre,

Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres a tweene,

Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre,

And being crowned with a girland greene,

Seeme lyke some mayden Queene.

Her modest eyes abashed to behold

So many gazers, as on her do stare,

Vpon the lowly ground affixed are.

Ne dare lift vp her countenance too bold,

But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud,

So farre from being proud.

Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing,

That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring.

Tell me ye merchants daughters did ye see

So fayre a creature in your towne before?

So sweet, so louely, and so mild as she,

Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store,

Her goodly eyes lyke Saphyres shining bright,

Her forehead yuory white,

Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded,

Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte,

Her brest like to a bowie of creame vncrudded,

Her paps lyke lyllies budded,

Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre,

And all her body like a pallace fayre,

Ascending vppe with many a stately stayre,

To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre.

Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze,

Vpon her so to gaze,

Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,

To which the woods did answer and your eccho ring?

Bvt if ye saw that which no eyes can see,

The inward beauty of her liuely spright,

Garnisht with heauenly guifts of high degree,

Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,

And stand astonisht lyke to those which red

Medusaes mazeful hed.

There dwels sweet loue and constant chastity,

Vnspotted fayth and comely womanhed,

Regard of honour and mild modesty,

There Vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne,

And giueth lawes alone.

The which the base affections doe obay,

And yeeld theyr seruices vnto her will,

Ne thought of thing vncomely euer may

Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill.

Had ye once scene these her celestial threasures,

And vnreuealed pleasures,

Then would ye wonder and her prayses sing,

That al the woods should answer and your echo ring.

Open the temple gates vnto my loue,

Open them wide that she may enter in,

And all the postes adorne as doth behoue,

And all the pillours deck with girlands trim,

For to recyue this Saynt with honour dew,

That commeth in to you.

With trembling steps and humble reuerence,

She commeth in, before th'almighties vew:

Of her ye virgins learne obedience,

When so ye come into those holy places,

To humble your proud faces;

Bring her vp to th'high altar that she may,

The sacred ceremonies there partake,

The which do endlesse matrimony make,

And let the roring Organs loudly play

The praises of the Lord in liuely notes,

The whiles with hollow throates

The Choristers the ioyous Antheme sing,

That al the woods may answere and their eccho ring.

Behold whiles she before the altar stands

Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes

And blesseth her with his two happy hands,

How the red roses flush vp in her cheekes,

And the pure snow with goodly vermill stayne,

Like crimsin dyde in grayne,

That euen th'Angels which continually,

About the sacred Altare doe remaine,

Forget their seruice and about her fly,

Ofte peeping in her face that seemes more fayre,

The more they on it stare.

But her sad eyes still fastened on the ground,

Are gouerned with goodly modesty,

That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry,

Which may let in a little thought vnsownd.

Why blush ye loue to giue to me your hand,

The pledge of all our band?

Sing ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing,

That all the woods may answere and your eccho ring.

Now al is done; bring home the bride againe,

Bring home the triumph of our victory,

Bring home with you the glory of her gaine,

With ioyance bring her and with iollity.

Neuer had man more ioyfull day then this,

Whom heauen would heape with blis.

Make feast therefore now all this liue long day,

This day for euer to me holy is,

Poure out the wine without restraint or stay,

Poure not by cups, but by the belly full,

Poure out to all that wull,

And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine,

That they may sweat, and drunken be withall.

Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall,

And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine,

And let the Graces daunce vnto the rest;

For they can doo it best:

The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing,

To which the woods shal answer and theyr eccho ring.

Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne,

And leaue your wonted labors for this day:

This day is holy; doe ye write it downe,

That ye for euer it remember may.

This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight,

With Barnaby the bright,

From whence declining daily by degrees,

He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,

When once the Crab behind his back he sees.

But for this time it ill ordained was,

To chose the longest day in all the yeare,

And shortest night, when longest fitter weare:

Yet neuer day so long, but late would passe.

Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away,

And bonefiers make all day,

And daunce about them, and about them sing:

That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Ah when will this long weary day haue end,

And lende me leaue to come vnto my loue?

How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend?

How slowly does sad Time his feathers moue?

Hast thee O fayrest Planet to thy home

Within the Westerne fome:

Thy tyred steedes long since haue need of rest.

Long though it be, at last I see it gloome,

And the bright euening star with golden creast

Appeare out of the East.

Fayre childe of beauty, glorious lampe of loue

That all the host of heauen in rankes doost lead,

And guydest louers through the nights dread,

How chearefully thou lookest from aboue,

And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light

As ioying in the sight

Of these glad many which for ioy doe sing,

That all the woods them answer and their echo ring.

Now ceasse ye damsels your delights forepast;

Enough is it, that all the day was youres:

Now day is doen, and night is nighing fast:

Now bring the Bryde into the brydall boures.

Now night is come, now soone her disaray,

And in her bed her lay;

Lay her in lillies and in violets,

And silken courteins ouer her display,

And odourd sheetes, and Arras couerlets.

Behold how goodly my faire loue does ly

In proud humility;

Like vnto Maia, when as Ioue her tooke,

In Tempe, lying on the flowry gras,

Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was,

With bathing in the Acidalian brooke.

Now it is night, ye damsels may be gon,

And leaue my loue alone,

And leaue likewise your former lay to sing:

The woods no more shal answere, nor your echo ring.

Now welcome night, thou night so long expected,

That long daies labour doest at last defray,

And all my cares, which cruell loue collected,

Hast sumd in one, and cancelled for aye:

Spread thy broad wing ouer my loue and me,

That no man may vs see,

And in thy sable mantle vs enwrap,

From feare of perrill and foule horror free.

Let no false treason seeke vs to entrap,

Nor any dread disquiet once annoy

The safety of our ioy:

But let the night be calme and quietsome,

Without tempestuous storms or sad afray:

Lyke as when Ioue with fayre Alcmena lay,

When he begot the great Tirynthian groome:

Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lie,

And begot Maiesty.

And let the mayds and yongmen cease to sing:

Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring.

Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares,

Be heard all night within nor yet without:

Ne let false whispers breeding hidden feares,

Breake gentle sleepe with misconceiued dout.

Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadful sights

Make sudden sad affrights;

Ne let housefyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes,

Ne let the Pouke, nor other euill sprights,

Ne let mischiuous witches with theyr charmes,

Ne let hob Goblins, names whose sence we see not,

Fray vs with things that be not.

Let not the shriech Oule, nor the Storke be heard:

Nor the night Rauen that still deadly yels,

Nor damned ghosts cald vp with mighty spels,

Nor griesly vultures make vs once affeard:

Ne let th'unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still croking

Make vs to wish theyr choking.

Let none of these theyr drery accents sing;

Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring.

But let stil Silence trew night watches keepe,

That sacred peace may in assurance rayne,

And tymely sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,

May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne,

The whiles an hundred little winged loues,

Like diuers fethered doues,

Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,

And in the secret darke, that none reproues,

Their prety stealthes shal worke, and snares shal spread

To filch away sweet snatches of delight,

Conceald through couert night.

Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will,

For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes,

Thinks more vpon her paradise of ioyes,

Then what ye do, albe it good or ill.

All night therefore attend your merry play,

For it will soone be day:

Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing,

Ne will the woods now answer, nor your Eccho ring.

Who is the same, which at my window peepes?

Or whose is that faire face, that shines so bright?

Is it not Cinthia, she that neuer sleepes,

But walkes about high heauen al the night?

O fayrest goddesse, do thou not enuy

My loue with me to spy:

For thou likewise didst loue, though now vnthought,

And for a fleece of woll, which priuily,

The Latmian shephard once vnto thee brought,

His pleasures with thee wrought.

Therefore to vs be fauorable now;

And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge,

And generation goodly dost enlarge,

Encline thy will t'effect our wishfull vow,

And the chast wombe informe with timely seed,

That may our comfort breed:

Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing,

Ne let the woods vs answere, nor our Eccho ring.

And thou great Iuno, which with awful might

The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize,

And the religion of the faith first plight

With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize:

And eeke for comfort often called art

Of women in their smart,

Eternally bind thou this louely band,

And all thy blessings vnto vs impart.

And thou glad Genius, in whose gentle hand,

The bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine,

Without blemish or staine,

And the sweet pleasures of theyr loues delight

With secret ayde doest succour and supply,

Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny,

Send vs the timely fruit of this same night.

And thou fayre Hebe, and thou Hymen free,

Grant that it may so be.

Til which we cease your further prayse to sing,

Ne any woods shal answer, nor your Eccho ring.

And ye high heauens, the temple of the gods,

In which a thousand torches flaming bright

Doe burne, that to vs wretched earthly clods,

In dreadful darknesse lend desired light;

And all ye powers which in the same remayne,

More then we men can fayne,

Poure out your blessing on vs plentiously,

And happy influence vpon vs raine,

That we may raise a large posterity,

Which from the earth, which they may long possesse,

With lasting happinesse,

Vp to your haughty pallaces may mount,

And for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit

May heauenly tabernacles there inherit,

Of blessed Saints for to increase the count.

So let vs rest, sweet loue, in hope of this,

And cease till then our tymely ioyes to sing,

The woods no more vs answer, nor our eccho ring.

Song made in lieu of many ornaments,

With which my loue should duly haue bene dect,

Which cutting off through hasty accidents,

Ye would not stay your dew time to expect,

But promist both to recompens,

Be vnto her a goodly ornament,

And for short time an endlesse moniment.

Finis.