The sparkes whereof let kindle thine own fyre, Ne ought I see, though in the clearest day,
And, catching hold on thine owne wicked hed, When others gaze upon theyr shadowes vayne,
Consume thee quite, that didst with guile con- But th' onely image of that heavenly ray,
spire
Whereof some glance doth in mine eie re-
In my sweet peace such breaches to have bred! Shame be thy meed, and mischiefe thy reward,
Dew to thy selfe, that it for me prepard!
Since I did leave the resence of my love,
Many long weary dayes I have outworne;
And many nights, that slowly seemd to move
Theyr sad protract from evening untill morne.
For, when as day the heaven doth adorne,
I wish that night the noyous day would end:
And, when as night hath us of light forlorne,
I wish that day would shortly reascend.
Thus I the time with expectation spend,
And faine my griefe with chaunges to be-
guile,
That further seemes his terme still to extend,
And maketh every minute seeme a myle.
So sorrow still doth seeme too long to last; But joyous houres doe fly away too fast.
Since I have lackt the comfort of that light, The which was wont to lead my thoughts astray;
1 wander as in darkenesse of the night, Affrayd of every dangers least dismay.
Of which beholding the Idea playne,
Through contemplation of my purest part,
With light thereof I doe my selfe sustayne,
And thereon feed my love-affamisht hart.
But, with such brightnesse whylest I fill
my mind,
I starve my body, and mine eyes doe blynd.
Lyke as the Culver, 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 love;
And, wandring here and there all desolate,
Seek with my playnts to match that mournful
Ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove
Can comfort me, but her owne joyous sight:
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can
In her unspotted pleasauns to delight.
Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
And dead my life that wants such lively blis.
See! thou thyselfe 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 give like leave unto the fly.'
Nathelesse, 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 wel-away!
I wounded am full sore:
The Fly, that I so much did scorne,
Hath hurt me with his little horne.'
Unto his mother straight he weeping came,
And of his griefe complayned:
Full many thou hast pricked to the hart,
That pitty never found:
Therefore, henceforth some pitty take,
When thou doest spoyle of lovers 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 salve of soveraigne 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
With his sharpe dart of love:
Who could not chose but laugh at his fond And now forgets the cruell carelesse elfe
Though sad to see him pained.
Think now (quod she) my sonne, Of those whom thou dost wound:
[game, His mothers heast to prove.
how great So now I languish, till he please
[the smart My pining anguish to appease.
YE learned sisters, which have oftentimes My truest turtle dove;
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne, [rymes, Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull And long since ready forth his maske to move,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne With his bright Tead that flames with many
To heare theyr names sung in your simple
But joyed in theyr praise;
[layes, And many a bachelor to waite on him,
And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne, In theyr fresh garments trim.
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did
Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight,
For lo! the wished day is come at last,
That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes past,
Pay to her usury of long delight:
And, whylest she doth her dight,
Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your
eccho ring.
Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can
Both of the rivers 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 love, of lillyes and of roses,
Bound truelove wize, with a blew silke riband.
And let them make great store of bridale poses,
And let them eeke bring store of other flowers, My love is now awake out of her dreames, To deck the bridale bowers. [tread, And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed
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;
And let the ground whereas her foot shall
[beams
For feare the stones her tender foot should With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly
More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere.
Come now, ye damzels, daughters of delight,
Helpe quickly her to dight:
[begot,
But first come ye fayre houres, which were
In Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night;
Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot,
And al, that ever in this world is fayre,
Doe make and still repayre: [Queene,
And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian
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;
The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing, The woods shall to you answer, and your Eccho ring.
Ye Nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull
The silver scaly trouts doe tend full well, And greedy pikes which use therein to feed; (Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell ;)
And ye likewise, which keepe the rushy lake, Where none doo fishes take: light, Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd And in his waters, which your mirror make, Behold your faces as the christall bright, That when you come whereas my love doth lie, No blemish she may spie.
And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe the dore,
That on the hoary mountayne used to towre; And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure, [neer; With your steele darts doo chace from comming 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 love, awake! for it is time;
The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed,
All ready to her silver coche to clyme;
And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed.
Hark! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt
theyr laies
And carroll of Loves praise.
The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft;
The Thrush replyes; the Mavis descant playes:
The Ouzell shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft;
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this daves merriment.
Ah! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long,
When meeter were that ve should now awake, T'awayt the comming of your joyous make, And hearken to the birds love-learned song, The deawy leaves among!
Nor they of joy and pleasance to you sing, That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.
And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,
The whiles the woods shal answer, and your
eccho ring.
Now is my love all ready forth to come :
Let all the virgins therefore well awayt:
And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome,
Prepare your selves; for he is comming strayt.
Set all your things in seemely good aray,
Fit for so joyfull day:
The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see.
Faire Sun! shew forth thy favourable ray,
And let thy lifull heat not fervert be,
For feare of burning her sunshyny face,
Her beauty to disgrace.
O fayrest Phoebus! father of the Muse!
If ever I did honour thee aright,
Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight,
Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse;
But let this day, let this one day, be myne;
Let all the rest be thine.
Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing, That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring.
Harke how the Minstrils 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 jar.
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 ravish quite;
The whyles the boyes run up and downe the
street,
Crying aloud with strong confused noyce,
As if it were one voyce,
Hymen, iö Hymen, Hymen, they do shout;
That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill;
To which the people standing all about,
As in approvance, doe thereto applaud,
And loud advaunce her laud;
And evermore they Hymen, Hymen sing,
That al the woods them answer, and theyr
eccho'ring.
Loe! where she comes along with portly pace,
Lyke Phoebe, 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
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,
Upon the lowly ground affixed are;
Ne dare lift up 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 lovely, and so mild as she,
Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store?
Her goodly eyes lyke Saphyres shining bright,
Her forehead yvory white,
There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne,
And giveth lawes alone,
The which the base affections doe obay,
And yeeld theyr services unto her will;
Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may
Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill.
Had ye once seene these her celestial threa-
And unrevealed pleasures,
[sures,
Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing,
That al the woods should answer, and your
echo ring.
Open the temple gates unto my love,
Open them wide that she may enter in,
And all the postes adorne as doth behove,
And all the pillours deck with girlands trim,
For to receyve this Saynt with honour dew,
That commeth in to you.
With trembling steps, and humble reverence,
She commeth in, before th' Almighties view;
Of her ye virgins learne obedience,
When so ye come into those holy places,
To humble your proud faces :
Bring her up 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 lively notes;
The whiles, with hollow throates,
The Choristers the joyous Antheme sing,
That al the woods may answere, and their
eccho ring.
[rudded, Behold, whiles she before the altar stands,
Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes,
Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte, And blesseth her with his two happy hands,
Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrudded, How the red roses flush up in her cheekes,
Her paps lyke lyllies budded,
And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayne
Like crimsin dyde in grayne:
Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre;
And all her body like a pallace fayre,
Ascending up, with many a stately stayre,
To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre.
Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze,
Upon her so to gaze,
Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,
To which the woods did answer, and
eccho ring?
But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
The inward beauty of her lively spright,
Garnisht with heavenly 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 love, and constant chastity,
Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood,
Regard of honour, and mild modesty;
That even th' Angels, which continually
About the sacred Altare doe remaine,
Forget their service and about her fly,
Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre,
The more they on it stare.
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,
Are governed with goodly modesty,
That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry,
Which may let in a little thought unsownd.
Why blush ve, love, to give 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 joyance bring her and with jollity.
Never had man more joyfull day then this,
Whom heaven would heape with blis,
Make feast therefore now all this live-long
day;
This day for ever 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 unto the rest,
For they can doo it best :
The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing, To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho ring.
Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne,
And leave your wonted labors for this day:
This day is holy; doe ye write it downe,
That ye for ever 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 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?
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move? Hast thee, O fayrest Planet, to thy home, Within the Westerne fome:
Now ceasse, ye damsels, your delights fore-past;
Enough it is that all the day was youres:
Now day is doen, and night is nighing fast,
Now bring the Bryde into the brydall boures.
The night is come, now soon 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,
In proud humility!
Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took
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,
The woods no more shall answere, nor your And leave likewise your former lay to sing: 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,
Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lie
When he begot the great Tirynthian groome:
And let the mayds and yongmen cease to sing,
And begot Majesty.
Ne let the woods them answer nor theyr
Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares, Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest. Be heard all night within, nor yet without: Long though it be, at last I see it gloome, Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares, And the bright evening-star with golden creast Breake gentle sleepe with misconceived dout. Appeare out of the East. [love! Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadfull sights, Fayre childe of beauty! glorious lampe of Make sudden sad affrights; [harmes, That all the host of heaven in rankes doost Ne let house-fyres, nor lightnings helpelesse lead, [dread, Ne let the Pouke, nor other evill sprights, And guydest lovers through the nights sad Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes, How chearefully thou lookest from above, Ne let hob Goblins, names whose sence we see And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling
As joying in the sight
Of these glad many, which for joy doe sing,
Fray us with things that be not:
Let not the shriech Oule no. the Storke be Nor the night Raven, that still deadly yels;
That all the woods them answer, and their Nor damned ghosts, cald up with mighty spels,
Nor griesly vultures, make us once affeard:
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