Nicholas Breton (?). 1542-1626
74. A Cradle Song The Arbor of Amorous Devices, 1593-4
COME little babe, come silly soul,Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,Born as I doubt to all our dole,And to thyself unhappy chief:Sing lullaby, and lap it warm,Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
Thou little think'st and less dost knowThe cause of this thy mother's moan;Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,And I myself am all alone:Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?And know'st not yet what thou dost ail.
Come, little wretch—ah, silly heart!Mine only joy, what can I more?If there be any wrong thy smart,That may the destinies implore:'Twas I, I say, against my will,I wail the time, but be thou still.
And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face!Would God Himself He might thee see!—No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace,I know right well, for thee and me:But come to mother, babe, and play,For father false is fled away.
Sweet boy, if it by fortune chanceThy father home again to send,If death do strike me with his lance,Yet mayst thou me to him commend:If any ask thy mother's name,Tell how by love she purchased blame.
Then will his gentle heart soon yield:I know him of a noble mind:Although a lion in the field,A lamb in town thou shalt him find:Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid,His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.
Then mayst thou joy and be right glad;Although in woe I seem to moan,Thy father is no rascal lad,A noble youth of blood and bone:His glancing looks, if he once smile,Right honest women may beguile.
Come, little boy, and rock asleep;Sing lullaby and be thou still;I, that can do naught else but weep,Will sit by thee and wail my fill:God bless my babe, and lullabyFrom this thy father's quality.
Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618
75. The Silent Lover i
PASSIONS are liken'd best to floods and streams:The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;So, when affection yields discourse, it seemsThe bottom is but shallow whence they come.They that are rich in words, in words discoverThat they are poor in that which makes a lover.
Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618
76. The Silent Lover ii
WRONG not, sweet empress of my heart,The merit of true passion,With thinking that he feels no smart,That sues for no compassion.
Silence in love bewrays more woeThan words, though ne'er so witty:A beggar that is dumb, you know,May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,My true, though secret passion;He smarteth most that hides his smart,And sues for no compassion.
Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618
77. His Pilgrimage
GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,My staff of faith to walk upon,My scrip of joy, immortal diet,My bottle of salvation,My gown of glory, hope's true gage;And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body's balmer;No other balm will there be given:Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,Travelleth towards the land of heaven;Over the silver mountains,Where spring the nectar fountains;There will I kissThe bowl of bliss;And drink mine everlasting fillUpon every milken hill.My soul will be a-dry before;But, after, it will thirst no more.
Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618
78. The Conclusion
EVEN such is Time, that takes in trustOur youth, our joys, our all we have,And pays us but with earth and dust;Who in the dark and silent grave,When we have wander'd all our ways,Shuts up the story of our days;But from this earth, this grave, this dust,My God shall raise me up, I trust.
Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599
79. Whilst it is prime
FRESH Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,In whose cote-armour richly are displaydAll sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,In goodly colours gloriously arrayd—Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid,Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew;Where every one, that misseth then her make,Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime;For none can call againe the passed time.
make] mate.
Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599
80. A Ditty In praise of Eliza, Queen of the Shepherds
SEE where she sits upon the grassie greene,(O seemely sight!)Yclad in Scarlot, like a mayden Queene,And ermines white:Upon her head a Cremosin coronetWith Damaske roses and Daffadillies set:Bay leaves betweene,And primroses greene,Embellish the sweete Violet.
Tell me, have ye seene her angelick faceLike Phoebe fayre?Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,Can you well compare?The Redde rose medled with the White yfere,In either cheeke depeincten lively chere:Her modest eye,Her Majestie,Where have you seene the like but there?
I see Calliope speede her to the place,Where my Goddesse shines;And after her the other Muses traceWith their Violines.Bene they not Bay braunches which they do beare,All for Elisa in her hand to weare?So sweetely they play,And sing all the way,That it a heaven is to heare.
Lo, how finely the Graces can it footeTo the Instrument:They dauncen deffly, and singen soote,In their meriment.Wants not a fourth Grace to make the daunce even?Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven.She shal be a Grace,To fyll the fourth place,And reigne with the rest in heaven.
Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine,With Gelliflowres;Bring Coronations, and Sops-in-wineWorne of Paramoures:Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies,And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and loved Lillies:The pretie Pawnce,And the Chevisaunce,Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.
Now ryse up, Elisa, decked as thou artIn royall aray;And now ye daintie Damsells may departEche one her way.I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe:Let dame Elisa thanke you for her song:And if you come hetherWhen Damsines I gether,I will part them all you among.
medled] mixed. yfere] together. soote] sweet. coronations] carnations. sops-in-wine] striped pinks. pawnce] pansy. chevisaunce] wallflower. flowre delice] iris.
Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599
81. Prothalamion
CALME was the day, and through the trembling ayreSweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly playA gentle spirit, that lightly did delayHot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre;When I, (whom sullein care,Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stayIn Princes Court, and expectation vayneOf idle hopes, which still doe fly away,Like empty shaddowes, did afflict my brayne,)Walkt forth to ease my payneAlong the shoare of silver streaming Themmes;Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes,Was paynted all with variable flowers,And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmesFit to decke maydens bowres,And crowne their ParamoursAgainst the Brydale day, which is not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
There, in a Meadow, by the Rivers side,A Flocke of Nymphes I chaunced to espy,All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby,With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde,As each had bene a Bryde;And each one had a little wicker basket,Made of fine twigs, entrayl`d curiously,In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,And with fine Fingers cropt full feateouslyThe tender stalkes on hye.Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew,They gathered some; the Violet, pallid blew,The little Dazie, that at evening closes,The virgin Lillie, and the Primrose trew,With store of vermeil Roses,To decke their Bridegromes posiesAgainst the Brydale day, which was not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
With that I saw two Swannes of goodly heweCome softly swimming downe along the Lee;Two fairer Birds I yet did never see;The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew,Did never whiter shew;Nor Jove himselfe, when he a Swan would be,For love of Leda, whiter did appeare;Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare;So purely white they were,That even the gentle streame, the which them bare,Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spareTo wet their silken feathers, least they mightSoyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,And marre their beauties bright,That shone as heavens light,Against their Brydale day, which was not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill,Ran all in haste to see that silver brood,As they came floating on the Christal Flood;Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still,Their wondring eyes to fill;Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre,Of Fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deemeThem heavenly borne, or to be that same payreWhich through the Skie draw Venus silver Teeme;For sure they did not seemeTo be begot of any earthly Seede,But rather Angels, or of Angels breede;Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say,In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weedeThe earth did fresh aray;So fresh they seem'd as day,Even as their Brydale day, which was not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
Then forth they all out of their baskets drewGreat store of Flowers, the honour of the field,That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,All which upon those goodly Birds they threwAnd all the Waves did strew,That like old Peneus Waters they did seeme,When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore,Scattred with Flowres, through Thessaly they streeme,That they appeare, through Lillies plenteous store,Like a Brydes Chamber flore.Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two Garlands boundOf freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found,The which presenting all in trim Array,Their snowie Foreheads therewithall they crownd,Whil'st one did sing this Lay,Prepar'd against that Day,Against their Brydale day, which was not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
'Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament,And heavens glorie, whom this happie howerDoth leade unto your lovers blisfull bower,Joy may you have, and gentle hearts contentOf your loves couplement;And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love,With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile,Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to removeAll Loves dislike, and friendships faultie guileFor ever to assoile.Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord,And blessed Plentie wait upon your bord;And let your bed with pleasures chast abound,That fruitfull issue may to you afford,Which may your foes confound,And make your joyes redoundUpon your Brydale day, which is not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my Song.'
So ended she; and all the rest aroundTo her redoubled that her undersong,Which said their brydale daye should not be long:And gentle Eccho from the neighbour groundTheir accents did resound.So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along,Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low,As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,Yet did by signes his glad affection show,Making his streame run slow.And all the foule which in his flood did dwellGan flock about these twaine, that did excellThe rest, so far as Cynthia doth shendThe lesser starres. So they, enranged well,Did on those two attend,And their best service lendAgainst their wedding day, which was not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
At length they all to mery London came,To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse,That to me gave this Lifes first native sourse,Though from another place I take my name,An house of auncient fame:There when they came, whereas those bricky towresThe which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde,Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers,There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde,Till they decayd through pride:Next whereunto there standes a stately place,Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly graceOf that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell,Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case;But ah! here fits not wellOlde woes, but joyes, to tellAgainst the Brydale daye, which is not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble Peer,Great Englands glory, and the Worlds wide wonder,Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did thunder,And Hercules two pillors standing neereDid make to quake and feare:Faire branch of Honor, flower of Chevalrie!That fillest England with thy triumphes fame,Joy have thou of thy noble victorie,And endlesse happinesse of thine owne nameThat promiseth the same;That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes,Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes;And great Elisaes glorious name may ringThrough al the world, fil'd with thy wide Alarmes,Which some brave muse may singTo ages following,Upon the Brydale day, which is not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly till I end my Song.
From those high Towers this noble Lord issuing,Like Radiant Hesper, when his golden hayreIn th' Ocean billowes he hath bathed fayre,Descended to the Rivers open vewing,With a great traine ensuing.Above the rest were goodly to bee seeneTwo gentle Knights of lovely face and feature,Beseeming well the bower of anie Queene,With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature,Fit for so goodly stature,That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight,Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright;They two, forth pacing to the Rivers side,Received those two faire Brides, their Loves delight;Which, at th' appointed tyde,Each one did make his BrydeAgainst their Brydale day, which is not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599
82. Epithalamion
YE learned sisters, which have oftentimesBeene to me ayding, others to adorne,Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,That even the greatest did not greatly scorneTo heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,But joyed in theyr praise;And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,And teach the woods and waters to lamentYour dolefull dreriment:Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside;And, having all your heads with girlands crownd,Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound;Ne let the same of any be envide:So Orpheus did for his owne bride!So I unto my selfe alone will sing;The woods shall to me answer, and my Eccho ring.
Early, before the worlds light-giving lampeHis golden beame upon the hils doth spred,Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,Doe ye awake; and, with fresh lusty-hed,Go to the bowre of my beloved love,My truest turtle dove;Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,And long since ready forth his maske to move,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 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 heareBoth 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 handAnother gay girlandFor 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,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 unto her sing,The woods shall to you answer, and your Eccho ring.
Ye Nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heedThe 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;Bynd up 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 love doth lie,No blemish she may spie.And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe the deere,That on the hoary mountayne used to towre;And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure,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 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 laiesAnd 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 dayes merriment.Ah! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long?When meeter were that ye 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.
My love is now awake out of her dreames,And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed wereWith darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beamsMore 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 begotIn 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: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 betweeneSome graces to be seene;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 fervent 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 aloudTheir 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 deliteWhen 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 shrillDoth 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 weeneSome angell she had beene.Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre,Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene,Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre;And, being crowned with a girland greene,Seeme lyke some mayden Queene.Her modest eyes, abashed to beholdSo 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 seeSo 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,Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded,Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte,Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrudded,Her paps lyke lyllies budded,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 your 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 redMedusaes mazeful hed.There dwels sweet love, and constant chastity,Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood,Regard of honour, and mild modesty;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 mayThereto approch to tempt her mind to ill.Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures,And unrevealed pleasures,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 mayThe sacred ceremonies there partake,The which do endlesse matrimony make;And let the roring Organs loudly playThe 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.
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 up in her cheekes,And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayneLike crimsin dyde in grayne:That even th' Angels, which continuallyAbout 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 ye, 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: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 creastAppeare 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 nights sad dread,How chearefully thou lookest from above,And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light,As joying in the sightOf these glad many, which for joy doe sing,That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring!
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 tookIn 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:The woods no more shall 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 annoyThe 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 lieAnd begot Majesty.And let the mayds and yong men 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 dreadfull sights,Make sudden sad affrights;Ne let house-fyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes,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 crokingMake 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,Their prety stealthes shal worke, and snares shal spreadTo 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?Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes,But walkes about high heaven al the night?O! fayrest goddesse, do thou not envyMy love with me to spy:For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,And for a fleece of wooll, which privilyThe Latmian shepherd 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 seedThat 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 mightThe lawes of wedlock still dost patronize;And the religion of the faith first plightWith sacred rites hast taught to solemnize;And eeke for comfort often called artOf women in their smart;Eternally bind thou this lovely band,And all thy blessings unto us impart.And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle handThe bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine,Without blemish or staine;And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delightWith 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 shall answer, nor your Eccho ring.
And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods,In which a thousand torches flaming brightDoe burne, that to us wretched earthly clodsIn dreadful darknesse lend desired lightAnd 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,Which from the earth, which they may long possesseWith 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 been 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.
tead] torch. ruddock] redbreast. croud] violin.
Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599
83. From 'Daphnaida' An Elegy
SHE fell away in her first ages spring,Whil'st yet her leafe was greene, and fresh her rinde,And whil'st her braunch faire blossomes foorth did bring,She fell away against all course of kinde.For age to dye is right, but youth is wrong;She fel away like fruit blowne downe with winde.Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.
Yet fell she not as one enforst to dye,Ne dyde with dread and grudging discontent,But as one toyld with travaile downe doth lye,So lay she downe, as if to sleepe she went,And closde her eyes with carelesse quietnesse;The whiles soft death away her spirit hent,And soule assoyld from sinfull fleshlinesse.
How happie was I when I saw her leadeThe Shepheards daughters dauncing in a rownd!How trimly would she trace and softly treadThe tender grasse, with rosie garland crownd!And when she list advance her heavenly voyce,Both Nymphes and Muses nigh she made astownd,And flocks and shepheards caused to rejoyce.
But now, ye Shepheard lasses! who shall leadYour wandring troupes, or sing your virelayes?Or who shall dight your bowres, sith she is deadThat was the Lady of your holy-dayes?Let now your blisse be turned into bale,And into plaints convert your joyous playes,And with the same fill every hill and dale.
For I will walke this wandring pilgrimage,Throughout the world from one to other end,And in affliction wast my better age:My bread shall be the anguish of my mind,My drink the teares which fro mine eyed do raine,My bed the ground that hardest I may finde;So will I wilfully increase my paine.
Ne sleepe (the harbenger of wearie wights)Shall ever lodge upon mine ey-lids more;Ne shall with rest refresh my fainting sprights,Nor failing force to former strength restore:But I will wake and sorrow all the nightWith Philumene, my fortune to deplore;With Philumene, the partner of my plight.
And ever as I see the starres to fall,And under ground to goe to give them lightWhich dwell in darknes, I to minde will callHow my fair Starre (that shinde on me so bright)Fell sodainly and faded under ground;Since whose departure, day is turnd to night,And night without a Venus starre is found.
And she, my love that was, my Saint that is,When she beholds from her celestiall throne(In which shee joyeth in eternall blis)My bitter penance, will my case bemone,And pitie me that living thus doo die;For heavenly spirits have compassionOn mortall men, and rue their miserie.
So when I have with sorowe satisfideTh' importune fates, which vengeance on me seeke,And th' heavens with long languor pacifide,She, for pure pitie of my sufferance meeke,Will send for me; for which I daylie long:And will till then my painful penance eeke.Weep, Shepheard! weep, to make my undersong!
Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599
84. Easter
MOST glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day,Didst make Thy triumph over death and sin;And, having harrowd hell, didst bring awayCaptivity thence captive, us to win:This joyous day, deare Lord, with joy begin;And grant that we, for whom thou diddest dye,Being with Thy deare blood clene washt from sin,May live for ever in felicity!
And that Thy love we weighing worthily,May likewise love Thee for the same againe;And for Thy sake, that all lyke deare didst buy,With love may one another entertayne!So let us love, deare Love, lyke as we ought,—Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.
John Lyly. 1553-1606
85. Cards and Kisses
CUPID and my Campaspe play'dAt cards for kisses—Cupid paid:He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;Loses them too; then down he throwsThe coral of his lips, the roseGrowing on 's cheek (but none knows how);With these, the crystal of his brow,And then the dimple of his chin:All these did my Campaspe win.At last he set her both his eyes—She won, and Cupid blind did rise.O Love! has she done this for thee?What shall, alas! become of me?
John Lyly. 1553-1606
86. Spring's Welcome
WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?O 'tis the ravish'd nightingale.Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu! she cries,And still her woes at midnight rise.Brave prick-song! Who is't now we hear?None but the lark so shrill and clear;Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,The morn not waking till she sings.Hark, hark, with what a pretty throatPoor robin redbreast tunes his note!Hark how the jolly cuckoos singCuckoo! to welcome in the spring!Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
Anthony Munday. 1553-1633
87. Beauty Bathing
BEAUTY sat bathing by a spring,Where fairest shades did hide her;The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,The cool streams ran beside her.My wanton thoughts enticed mine eyeTo see what was forbidden:But better memory said Fie;So vain desire was chidden—Hey nonny nonny O!Hey nonny nonny!
Into a slumber then I fell,And fond imaginationSeemed to see, but could not tell,Her feature or her fashion:But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,And sometimes fall a-weeping,So I awaked as wise that whileAs when I fell a-sleeping.
Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86
88. The Bargain
MY true love hath my heart, and I have his,By just exchange one for another given:I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,There never was a better bargain driven:My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one,My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:He loves my heart, for once it was his own,I cherish his because in me it bides:My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86
89. Song
WHO hath his fancy pleasedWith fruits of happy sight,Let here his eyes be raisedOn Nature's sweetest light;A light which doth disseverAnd yet unite the eyes,A light which, dying never,Is cause the looker dies.
She never dies, but lastethIn life of lover's heart;He ever dies that wastethIn love his chiefest part:Thus is her life still guardedIn never-dying faith;Thus is his death rewarded,Since she lives in his death.
Look then, and die! The pleasureDoth answer well the pain:Small loss of mortal treasure,Who may immortal gain!Immortal be her graces,Immortal is her mind;They, fit for heavenly places—This, heaven in it doth bind.
But eyes these beauties see not,Nor sense that grace descries;Yet eyes deprived be notFrom sight of her fair eyes—Which, as of inward gloryThey are the outward seal,So may they live still sorry,Which die not in that weal.
But who hath fancies pleasedWith fruits of happy sight,Let here his eyes be raisedOn Nature's sweetest light!
Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86
90. Voices at the Window
Who is it that, this dark night,Underneath my window plaineth?It is one who from thy sightBeing, ah, exiled, disdainethEvery other vulgar light.
Why, alas, and are you he?Be not yet those fancies changeed?Dear, when you find change in me,Though from me you be estranged,Let my change to ruin be.
Well, in absence this will die:Leave to see, and leave to wonder.Absence sure will help, if ICan learn how myself to sunderFrom what in my heart doth lie.
But time will these thoughts remove;Time doth work what no man knoweth.Time doth as the subject prove:With time still the affection growethIn the faithful turtle-dove.
What if you new beauties see?Will not they stir new affection?I will think they pictures be(Image-like, of saints' perfection)Poorly counterfeiting thee.
But your reason's purest lightBids you leave such minds to nourish.Dear, do reason no such spite!Never doth thy beauty flourishMore than in my reason's sight.
leave] cease.
Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86
91. Philomela
THE Nightingale, as soon as April bringethUnto her rested sense a perfect waking,While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;And mournfully bewailing,Her throat in tunes expressethWhat grief her breast oppresseth,For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.O Philomela fair, O take some gladnessThat here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Alas! she hath no other cause of anguishBut Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken;Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,Full womanlike complains her will was brokenBut I, who, daily craving,Cannot have to content me,Have more cause to lament me,Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladnessThat here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86
92. The Highway
HIGHWAY, since you my chief Parnassus be,And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,Tempers her words to trampling horses' feetMore oft than to a chamber-melody,—Now blessed you bear onward blessèd meTo her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;My Muse and I must you of duty greetWith thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed;By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot;Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;And that you know I envy you no lotOf highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss!
Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86
93. This Lady's Cruelty
WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face!What! may it be that even in heavenly placeThat busy archer his sharp arrows tries?Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case:I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd graceTo me, that feel the like, thy state descries.Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?Are beauties there as proud as here they be?Do they above love to be loved, and yetThose lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?Do they call 'virtue' there—ungratefulness?
Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86
94. Sleep
COME, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;With shield of proof shield me from out the preaseOf those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:O make in me those civil wars to cease;I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light,A rosy garland and a weary head;And if these things, as being thine by right,Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.
prease] press.
Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86
95. Splendidis longum valedico Nugis
LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things!Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy mightTo that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the lightThat doth both shine and give us sight to see.O take fast hold! let that light be thy guideIn this small course which birth draws out to death,And think how evil becometh him to slideWho seeketh Heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see:Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!
Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. 1554-1628
96. Myra
I, WITH whose colours Myra dress'd her head,I, that ware posies of her own hand-making,I, that mine own name in the chimneys readBy Myra finely wrought ere I was waking:Must I look on, in hope time coming mayWith change bring back my turn again to play?
I, that on Sunday at the church-stile foundA garland sweet with true-love-knots in flowers,Which I to wear about mine arms was boundThat each of us might know that all was ours:Must I lead now an idle life in wishes,And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?
I, that did wear the ring her mother left,I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed,I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,I, who did make her blush when I was named:Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked,Watching with sighs till dead love be awaked?
Was it for this that I might Myra seeWashing the water with her beauty's white?Yet would she never write her love to me.Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in delight?Mad girls may safely love as they may leave;No man can print a kiss: lines may deceive.
chimneys] cheminees, chimney-screens of tapestry work. deceive] betray.
Thomas Lodge. 1556?-1625
97. Rosalind's Madrigal
LOVE in my bosom like a beeDoth suck his sweet:Now with his wings he plays with me,Now with his feet.Within mine eyes he makes his nest,His bed amidst my tender breast;My kisses are his daily feast,And yet he robs me of my rest:Ah! wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, the percheth heWith pretty flight,And makes his pillow of my kneeThe livelong night.Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;He music plays if so I sing;He lends me every lovely thing,Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:Whist, wanton, still ye!
Else I with roses every dayWill whip you hence,And bind you, when you long to play,For your offence.I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in;I'll make you fast it for your sin;I'll count your power not worth a pin.—Alas! what hereby shall I winIf he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boyWith many a rod?He will repay me with annoy,Because a god.Then sit thou safely on my knee;Then let thy bower my bosom be;Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee;O Cupid, so thou pity me,Spare not, but play thee!
Thomas Lodge. 1556?-1625
98. Phillis 1
MY Phillis hath the morning sunAt first to look upon her;And Phillis hath morn-waking birdsHer risings still to honour.My Phillis hath prime-feather'd flowers,That smile when she treads on them;And Phillis hath a gallant flock,That leaps since she doth own them.But Phillis hath too hard a heart,Alas that she should have it!It yields no mercy to desert,Nor grace to those that crave it.
Thomas Lodge. 1556?-1625
99. Phillis 2
LOVE guards the roses of thy lipsAnd flies about them like a bee;If I approach he forward skips,And if I kiss he stingeth me.
Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,And sleeps within their pretty shine;And if I look the boy will lower,And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.
Love works thy heart within his fire,And in my tears doth firm the same;And if I tempt it will retire,And of my plaints doth make a game.
Love, let me cull her choicest flowers;And pity me, and calm her eye;Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowersThen will I praise thy deity.
But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve herIn spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
Thomas Lodge. 1556?-1625
100. Rosaline
LIKE to the clear in highest sphereWhere all imperial glory shines,Of selfsame colour is her hairWhether unfolded or in twines:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,Resembling heaven by every wink;The gods do fear whenas they glow,And I do tremble when I thinkHeigh ho, would she were mine!
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloudThat beautifies Aurora's face,Or like the silver crimson shroudThat Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace.Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her lips are like two budded rosesWhom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,Within whose bounds she balm enclosesApt to entice a deity:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her neck like to a stately towerWhere Love himself imprison'd lies,To watch for glances every hourFrom her divine and sacred eyes:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her paps are centres of delight,Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,Where Nature moulds the dew of lightTo feed perfection with the same:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red,With marble white, with sapphire blue,Her body every way is fed,Yet soft to touch and sweet in view:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Nature herself her shape admires;The gods are wounded in her sight;And Love forsakes his heavenly firesAnd at her eyes his brand doth light:Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoanThe absence of fair Rosaline,Since for a fair there 's fairer none,Nor for her virtues so divine:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
George Peele. 1558?-97
101. Fair and Fair
Oenone. FAIR and fair, and twice so fair,As fair as any may be;The fairest shepherd on our green,A love for any lady.Paris. Fair and fair, and twice so fair,As fair as any may be;Thy love is fair for thee aloneAnd for no other lady.Oenone. My love is fair, my love is gay,As fresh as bin the flowers in MayAnd of my love my roundelay,My merry, merry, merry roundelay,Concludes with Cupid's curse,—'They that do change old love for newPray gods they change for worse!'Ambo Simul. They that do change old love for new,Pray gods they change for worse!
Oenone. Fair and fair, etc.Paris. Fair and fair, etc.Thy love is fair, etc.Oenone. My love can pipe, my love can sing,My love can many a pretty thing,And of his lovely praises ringMy merry, merry, merry roundelaysAmen to Cupid's curse,—'They that do change,' etc.Paris. They that do change, etc.Ambo. Fair and fair, etc.
George Peele. 1558?-97
102. A Farewell to Arms (To Queen Elizabeth)
HIS golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd;O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurn'd,But spurn'd in vain; youth waneth by increasing:Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy psalms,A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:But though from court to cottage he depart,His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.
And when he saddest sits in homely cell,He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,—'Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.'Goddess, allow this aged man his rightTo be your beadsman now that was your knight.
Robert Greene. 1560-92
103. Samela
LIKE to Diana in her summer weed,Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,Goes fair Samela.Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feedWhen wash'd by Arethusa faint they lie,Is fair Samela.As fair Aurora in her morning grey,Deck'd with the ruddy glister of her loveIs fair Samela;Like lovely Thetis on a calmed dayWhenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move,Shines fair Samela.
Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivoryOf fair Samela;Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams;Her brows bright arches framed of ebony.Thus fair SamelaPasseth fair Venus in her bravest hue,And Juno in the show of majesty(For she 's Samela!),Pallas in wit,—all three, if you well view,For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity,Yield to Samela.
Robert Greene. 1560-92
104. Fawnia
AH! were she pitiful as she is fair,Or but as mild as she is seeming so,Then were my hopes greater than my despair,Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,That seems to melt even with the mildest touch,Then knew I where to seat me in a landUnder wide heavens, but yet there is not such.So as she shows she seems the budding rose,Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;Sovran of beauty, like the spray she grows;Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd flower.Yet were she willing to be pluck'd and worn,She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn.
Ah! when she sings, all music else be still,For none must be compared to her note;Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill,Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat.Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bedShe comforts all the world as doth the sun,And at her sight the night's foul vapour 's fled;When she is set the gladsome day is done.O glorious sun, imagine me the west,Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!
Robert Greene. 1560-92
105. Sephestia's Lullaby
WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.Mother's wag, pretty boy,Father's sorrow, father's joy;When thy father first did seeSuch a boy by him and me,He was glad, I was woe;Fortune changed made him so,When he left his pretty boy,Last his sorrow, first his joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.Streaming tears that never stint,Like pearl-drops from a flint,Fell by course from his eyes,That one another's place supplies;Thus he grieved in every part,Tears of blood fell from his heart,When he left his pretty boy,Father's sorrow, father's joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.The wanton smiled, father wept,Mother cried, baby leapt;More he crow'd, more we cried,Nature could not sorrow hide:He must go, he must kissChild and mother, baby bliss,For he left his pretty boy,Father's sorrow, father's joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
Alexander Hume. 1560-1609
106. A Summer Day
O PERFECT Light, which shaid awayThe darkness from the light,And set a ruler o'er the day,Another o'er the night—
Thy glory, when the day forth flies,More vively doth appearThan at mid day unto our eyesThe shining sun is clear.
The shadow of the earth anonRemoves and drawis by,While in the East, when it is gone,Appears a clearer sky.
Which soon perceive the little larks,The lapwing and the snipe,And tune their songs, like Nature's clerks,O'er meadow, muir, and stripe.
Our hemisphere is polisht clean,And lighten'd more and more,While everything is clearly seenWhich seemit dim before:
Except the glistering astres bright,Which all the night were clear,Offuskit with a greater lightNo longer do appear.
The golden globe incontinentSets up his shining head,And o'er the earth and firmamentDisplays his beams abread.
For joy the birds with boulden throatsAgainst his visage sheenTake up their kindly musick notesIn woods and gardens green.
The dew upon the tender crops,Like pearlis white and round,Or like to melted silver drops,Refreshis all the ground.
The misty reek, the clouds of rain,From tops of mountains skails,Clear are the highest hills and plain,The vapours take the vales.
The ample heaven of fabrick sureIn cleanness does surpassThe crystal and the silver pure,Or clearest polisht glass.
The time so tranquil is and stillThat nowhere shall ye find,Save on a high and barren hill,An air of peeping wind.
All trees and simples, great and small,That balmy leaf do bear,Than they were painted on a wallNo more they move or steir.
Calm is the deep and purple sea,Yea, smoother than the sand;The waves that weltering wont to beAre stable like the land.
So silent is the cessile airThat every cry and callThe hills and dales and forest fairAgain repeats them all.
The flourishes and fragrant flowers,Through Phoebus' fostering heat,Refresht with dew and silver showersCast up an odour sweet.
The cloggit busy humming bees,That never think to drone,On flowers and flourishes of treesCollect their liquor brown.
The Sun, most like a speedy postWith ardent course ascends;The beauty of the heavenly hostUp to our zenith tends.
The burning beams down from his faceSo fervently can beat,That man and beast now seek a placeTo save them from the heat.
The herds beneath some leafy treeAmidst the flowers they lie;The stable ships upon the seaTend up their sails to dry.
With gilded eyes and open wingsThe cock his courage shows;With claps of joy his breast he dings,And twenty times he crows.
The dove with whistling wings so blueThe winds can fast collect;Her purple pens turn many a hueAgainst the sun direct.
Now noon is went; gone is midday,The heat doth slake at last;The sun descends down West away,For three of clock is past.
The rayons of the sun we seeDiminish in their strength;The shade of every tower and treeExtendit is in length.
Great is the calm, for everywhereThe wind is setting down;The reek throws right up in the airFrom every tower and town.
The gloming comes; the day is spent;The sun goes out of sight;And painted is the occidentWith purple sanguine bright.
Our west horizon circularFrom time the sun be setIs all with rubies, as it were,Or roses red o'erfret.
What pleasure were to walk and see,Endlong a river clear,The perfect form of every treeWithin the deep appear.
O then it were a seemly thing,While all is still and calm,The praise of God to play and singWith cornet and with shalm!
All labourers draw home at even,And can to other say,Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,Which sent this summer day.
shaid] parted. stripe] rill. offuskit] darkened. boulden] swollen. sheen] bright. skails] clears. simples] herbs. cessile] yielding, ceasing. flourishes] blossoms.
George Chapman. 1560-1634
107. Bridal Song
O COME, soft rest of cares! come, Night!Come, naked Virtue's only tire,The reaped harvest of the lightBound up in sheaves of sacred fire.Love calls to war:Sighs his alarms,Lips his swords are,The field his arms.
Come, Night, and lay thy velvet handOn glorious Day's outfacing face;And all thy crowned flames commandFor torches to our nuptial grace.Love calls to war:Sighs his alarms,Lips his swords are,The field his arms.