And shortest night, when longest fitter weare :
Yet never 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 have end,

And lende me leave to come unto my love?
How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend? 280
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move?
Hast thee O fayrest Planet to thy home
Within the Westerne fome :

Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest.
Long though it be, at last I see it gloome,
And the bright evening star with golden creast
Appeare out of the East.

Fayre childe of beauty, glorious lampe of love
That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead,
And guydest lovers through the nightes dread,
How chearefully thou lookest from above,

And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light

As joying in the sight

Of these glad many which for joy doe sing,

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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 over her display,
And odourd sheetes, and Arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my faire love does ly

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In proud humility;

Like unto Maia, when as Jove 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 leave my love alone,

And leave likewise your former lay to sing :

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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 love collected,
Hast sumd in one, and cancelled for aye :

Spread thy broad wing over my love and me,
That no man may us see,

And in thy sable mantle us enwrap,

From feare of perrill and foule horror free.
Let no false treason seeke us to entrap,
Nor any dread disquiet once annoy
The safety of our joy:

But let the night be calme and quietsome,
Without tempestuous storms or sad afray:
Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay,
When he begot the great Tirynthian groome :
Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lie,
And begot Majesty.

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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 misconceived dout.
Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadful sights
Make sudden sad affrights;

Ne let housefyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes, 340 Ne let the Pouke, nor other evill sprights,

Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes,

Ne let hob Goblins, names whose sence we see not,
Fray us with things that be not.

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

Nor the night Raven that still deadly yels,
Nor damned ghosts cald up with mighty spels,
Nor griesly vultures make us once affeard:

Ne let th'unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still croking
Make us 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 loves,

Like divers fethered doves,

Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,

And in the secret darke, that none reproves,

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Their prety stealthes shal worke, and snares shal spread To filch away sweet snatches of delight,

Conceald through covert night.

Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will,

For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes,
Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes,
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,

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Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes,

But walkes about high heaven al the night?

O fayrest goddesse, do thou not envy

My love with me to spy:

For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,
And for a fleece of woll, which privily,

The Latmian shephard once unto thee brought,
His pleasures with thee wrought.

Therefore to us be favorable 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 us answere, nor our Eccho ring.

And thou great Juno, 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 lovely band,
And all thy blessings unto us 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 loves delight
With secret ayde doest succour and supply,
Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny,
Send us 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.

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And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods,
In which a thousand torches flaming bright
Doe burne, that to us 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 us plentiously,

And happy influence upon us raine,

That we may raise a large posterity,

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Which from the earth, which they may long possesse,

With lasting happinesse,

Up to your haughty pallaces may mount,
And for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit
May heavenly tabernacles there inherit,

Of blessed Saints for to increase the count.
So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this,
And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing,

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

Song made in lieu of many ornaments,

With which my love should duly have bene dect,
Which cutting off through hasty accidents,

Ye would not stay your dew time to expect,
But promist both to recompens,

Be unto her a goodly ornament,

And for short time an endlesse moniment.

AN HYMNE IN HONOUR OF BEAUTIE

Ан whither, Love, wilt thou now carrie mee?
What wontlesse fury dost thou now inspire
Into my feeble breast, too full of thee?
Whylest seeking to aslake thy raging fyre,
Thou in me kindlest much more great desyre,
And up aloft above my strength doest rayse
The wondrous matter of my fyre to prayse.

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