FINE knacks for ladies! cheap, choice, brave, and new,Good pennyworths—but money cannot move:I keep a fair but for the Fair to view—A beggar may be liberal of love.Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true,The heart is true.Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;My trifles come as treasures from my mind:It is a precious jewel to be plain;Sometimes in shell the orient’st pearls we find:—Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!Of me a grain!
FINE knacks for ladies! cheap, choice, brave, and new,Good pennyworths—but money cannot move:I keep a fair but for the Fair to view—A beggar may be liberal of love.Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true,The heart is true.Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;My trifles come as treasures from my mind:It is a precious jewel to be plain;Sometimes in shell the orient’st pearls we find:—Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!Of me a grain!
FINE knacks for ladies! cheap, choice, brave, and new,Good pennyworths—but money cannot move:I keep a fair but for the Fair to view—A beggar may be liberal of love.Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true,The heart is true.
Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;My trifles come as treasures from my mind:It is a precious jewel to be plain;Sometimes in shell the orient’st pearls we find:—Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!Of me a grain!
59.
Christ Church MS.
HEY nonny no!Men are fools that wish to die!Is’t not fine to dance and singWhen the bells of death do ring?Is’t not fine to swim in wine,And turn upon the toe,And sing hey nonny no!When the winds blow and the seas flow?Hey nonny no!
HEY nonny no!Men are fools that wish to die!Is’t not fine to dance and singWhen the bells of death do ring?Is’t not fine to swim in wine,And turn upon the toe,And sing hey nonny no!When the winds blow and the seas flow?Hey nonny no!
HEY nonny no!Men are fools that wish to die!Is’t not fine to dance and singWhen the bells of death do ring?Is’t not fine to swim in wine,And turn upon the toe,And sing hey nonny no!When the winds blow and the seas flow?Hey nonny no!
60.
Christ Church MS.
YET if His Majesty, our sovereign lord,Should of his own accordFriendly himself invite,And say ‘I’ll be your guest to-morrow night,’How should we stir ourselves, call and commandAll hands to work! ‘Let no man idle stand!‘Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall;See they be fitted all;Let there be room to eatAnd order taken that there want no meat.See every sconce and candlestick made bright,That without tapers they may give a light.‘Look to the presence: are the carpets spread,The dazie o’er the head,The cushions in the chairs,And all the candles lighted on the stairs?Perfume the chambers, and in any caseLet each man give attendance in his place!’Thus, if a king were coming, would we do;And ’twere good reason too;For ’tis a duteous thingTo show all honour to an earthly king,And after all our travail and our cost,So he be pleased, to think no labour lost.But at the coming of the King of HeavenAll’s set at six and seven;We wallow in our sin,Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn.We entertain Him always like a stranger,And, as at first, still lodge Him in the manger.
YET if His Majesty, our sovereign lord,Should of his own accordFriendly himself invite,And say ‘I’ll be your guest to-morrow night,’How should we stir ourselves, call and commandAll hands to work! ‘Let no man idle stand!‘Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall;See they be fitted all;Let there be room to eatAnd order taken that there want no meat.See every sconce and candlestick made bright,That without tapers they may give a light.‘Look to the presence: are the carpets spread,The dazie o’er the head,The cushions in the chairs,And all the candles lighted on the stairs?Perfume the chambers, and in any caseLet each man give attendance in his place!’Thus, if a king were coming, would we do;And ’twere good reason too;For ’tis a duteous thingTo show all honour to an earthly king,And after all our travail and our cost,So he be pleased, to think no labour lost.But at the coming of the King of HeavenAll’s set at six and seven;We wallow in our sin,Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn.We entertain Him always like a stranger,And, as at first, still lodge Him in the manger.
YET if His Majesty, our sovereign lord,Should of his own accordFriendly himself invite,And say ‘I’ll be your guest to-morrow night,’How should we stir ourselves, call and commandAll hands to work! ‘Let no man idle stand!
‘Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall;See they be fitted all;Let there be room to eatAnd order taken that there want no meat.See every sconce and candlestick made bright,That without tapers they may give a light.
‘Look to the presence: are the carpets spread,The dazie o’er the head,The cushions in the chairs,And all the candles lighted on the stairs?Perfume the chambers, and in any caseLet each man give attendance in his place!’
Thus, if a king were coming, would we do;And ’twere good reason too;For ’tis a duteous thingTo show all honour to an earthly king,And after all our travail and our cost,So he be pleased, to think no labour lost.
But at the coming of the King of HeavenAll’s set at six and seven;We wallow in our sin,Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn.We entertain Him always like a stranger,And, as at first, still lodge Him in the manger.
61.
Song of Mary the Mother ofChrist(London: E. Alide), 1601
HIERUSALEM, my happy home,When shall I come to thee?When shall my sorrows have an end,Thy joys when shall I see?O happy harbour of the Saints!O sweet and pleasant soil!In thee no sorrow may be found,No grief, no care, no toil.There lust and lucre cannot dwell,There envy bears no sway;There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,But pleasure every way.Thy walls are made of precious stones,Thy bulwarks diamonds square;Thy gates are of right orient pearl,Exceeding rich and rare.Thy turrets and thy pinnaclesWith carbuncles do shine;Thy very streets are paved with gold,Surpassing clear and fine.Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem,Would God I were in thee!Would God my woes were at an end,Thy joys that I might see!Thy gardens and thy gallant walksContinually are green;There grows such sweet and pleasant flowersAs nowhere else are seen.Quite through the streets, with silver sound,The flood of Life doth flow;Upon whose banks on every sideThe wood of Life doth grow.There trees for evermore bear fruit,And evermore do spring;There evermore the angels sit,And evermore do sing.Our Lady singsMagnificatWith tones surpassing sweet;And all the virgins bear their part,Sitting about her feet.Hierusalem, my happy home,Would God I were in thee!Would God my woes were at an end,Thy joys that I might see!
HIERUSALEM, my happy home,When shall I come to thee?When shall my sorrows have an end,Thy joys when shall I see?O happy harbour of the Saints!O sweet and pleasant soil!In thee no sorrow may be found,No grief, no care, no toil.There lust and lucre cannot dwell,There envy bears no sway;There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,But pleasure every way.Thy walls are made of precious stones,Thy bulwarks diamonds square;Thy gates are of right orient pearl,Exceeding rich and rare.Thy turrets and thy pinnaclesWith carbuncles do shine;Thy very streets are paved with gold,Surpassing clear and fine.Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem,Would God I were in thee!Would God my woes were at an end,Thy joys that I might see!Thy gardens and thy gallant walksContinually are green;There grows such sweet and pleasant flowersAs nowhere else are seen.Quite through the streets, with silver sound,The flood of Life doth flow;Upon whose banks on every sideThe wood of Life doth grow.There trees for evermore bear fruit,And evermore do spring;There evermore the angels sit,And evermore do sing.Our Lady singsMagnificatWith tones surpassing sweet;And all the virgins bear their part,Sitting about her feet.Hierusalem, my happy home,Would God I were in thee!Would God my woes were at an end,Thy joys that I might see!
HIERUSALEM, my happy home,When shall I come to thee?When shall my sorrows have an end,Thy joys when shall I see?
O happy harbour of the Saints!O sweet and pleasant soil!In thee no sorrow may be found,No grief, no care, no toil.
There lust and lucre cannot dwell,There envy bears no sway;There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,But pleasure every way.
Thy walls are made of precious stones,Thy bulwarks diamonds square;Thy gates are of right orient pearl,Exceeding rich and rare.
Thy turrets and thy pinnaclesWith carbuncles do shine;Thy very streets are paved with gold,Surpassing clear and fine.
Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem,Would God I were in thee!Would God my woes were at an end,Thy joys that I might see!
Thy gardens and thy gallant walksContinually are green;There grows such sweet and pleasant flowersAs nowhere else are seen.
Quite through the streets, with silver sound,The flood of Life doth flow;Upon whose banks on every sideThe wood of Life doth grow.
There trees for evermore bear fruit,And evermore do spring;There evermore the angels sit,And evermore do sing.
Our Lady singsMagnificatWith tones surpassing sweet;And all the virgins bear their part,Sitting about her feet.
Hierusalem, my happy home,Would God I were in thee!Would God my woes were at an end,Thy joys that I might see!
62.
Robert Jones’sSecond Book ofSongs and Airs, 1601
LOVE wing’d my Hopes and taught me how to flyFar from base earth, but not to mount too high:For true pleasureLives in measure,Which if men forsake,Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take.But my vain Hopes, proud of their new-taught flight,Enamour’d sought to woo the sun’s fair light,Whose rich brightnessMoved their lightnessTo aspire so highThat all scorch’d and consumed with fire now drown’d in woe they lie.And none but Love their woeful hap did rue,For Love did know that their desires were true;Though fate frownèd,And now drownèdThey in sorrow dwell,It was the purest light of heav’n for whose fair love they fell.
LOVE wing’d my Hopes and taught me how to flyFar from base earth, but not to mount too high:For true pleasureLives in measure,Which if men forsake,Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take.But my vain Hopes, proud of their new-taught flight,Enamour’d sought to woo the sun’s fair light,Whose rich brightnessMoved their lightnessTo aspire so highThat all scorch’d and consumed with fire now drown’d in woe they lie.And none but Love their woeful hap did rue,For Love did know that their desires were true;Though fate frownèd,And now drownèdThey in sorrow dwell,It was the purest light of heav’n for whose fair love they fell.
LOVE wing’d my Hopes and taught me how to flyFar from base earth, but not to mount too high:For true pleasureLives in measure,Which if men forsake,Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take.
But my vain Hopes, proud of their new-taught flight,Enamour’d sought to woo the sun’s fair light,Whose rich brightnessMoved their lightnessTo aspire so highThat all scorch’d and consumed with fire now drown’d in woe they lie.
And none but Love their woeful hap did rue,For Love did know that their desires were true;Though fate frownèd,And now drownèdThey in sorrow dwell,It was the purest light of heav’n for whose fair love they fell.
63.
Davison’sPoetical Rhapsody, 1602
MY Love in her attire doth show her wit,It doth so well become her;For every season she hath dressings fit,For Winter, Spring, and Summer.No beauty she doth missWhen all her robes are on:But Beauty’s self she isWhen all her robes are gone.
MY Love in her attire doth show her wit,It doth so well become her;For every season she hath dressings fit,For Winter, Spring, and Summer.No beauty she doth missWhen all her robes are on:But Beauty’s self she isWhen all her robes are gone.
MY Love in her attire doth show her wit,It doth so well become her;For every season she hath dressings fit,For Winter, Spring, and Summer.No beauty she doth missWhen all her robes are on:But Beauty’s self she isWhen all her robes are gone.
64.
Davison’sPoetical Rhapsody, 1602
AT her fair hands how have I grace entreatedWith prayers oft repeated!Yet still my love is thwarted:Heart, let her go, for she’ll not be converted—Say, shall she go?O no, no, no, no, no!She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.How often have my sighs declared my anguish,Wherein I daily languish!Yet still she doth procure it:Heart, let her go, for I can not endure it—Say, shall she go?O no, no, no, no, no!She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.But shall I still a true affection owe her,Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her,And shall she still disdain me?Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me—Say, shall she go?O no, no, no, no, no!She made me hers, and hers she will retain me.But if the love that hath and still doth burn meNo love at length return me,Out of my thoughts I’ll set her:Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her!Say, shall she go?O no, no, no, no, no!Fix’d in the heart, how can the heart forget her?
AT her fair hands how have I grace entreatedWith prayers oft repeated!Yet still my love is thwarted:Heart, let her go, for she’ll not be converted—Say, shall she go?O no, no, no, no, no!She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.How often have my sighs declared my anguish,Wherein I daily languish!Yet still she doth procure it:Heart, let her go, for I can not endure it—Say, shall she go?O no, no, no, no, no!She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.But shall I still a true affection owe her,Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her,And shall she still disdain me?Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me—Say, shall she go?O no, no, no, no, no!She made me hers, and hers she will retain me.But if the love that hath and still doth burn meNo love at length return me,Out of my thoughts I’ll set her:Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her!Say, shall she go?O no, no, no, no, no!Fix’d in the heart, how can the heart forget her?
AT her fair hands how have I grace entreatedWith prayers oft repeated!Yet still my love is thwarted:Heart, let her go, for she’ll not be converted—Say, shall she go?O no, no, no, no, no!She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.
How often have my sighs declared my anguish,Wherein I daily languish!Yet still she doth procure it:Heart, let her go, for I can not endure it—Say, shall she go?O no, no, no, no, no!She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.
But shall I still a true affection owe her,Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her,And shall she still disdain me?Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me—Say, shall she go?O no, no, no, no, no!She made me hers, and hers she will retain me.
But if the love that hath and still doth burn meNo love at length return me,Out of my thoughts I’ll set her:Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her!Say, shall she go?O no, no, no, no, no!Fix’d in the heart, how can the heart forget her?
?F.orW. Davison
65.
John Dowland’sThird and LastBook of Songs or Airs, 1603
WEEP you no more, sad fountains;What need you flow so fast?Look how the snowy mountainsHeaven’s sun doth gently waste!But my Sun’s heavenly eyesView not your weeping,That now lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.Sleep is a reconciling,A rest that peace begets;Doth not the sun rise smilingWhen fair at even he sets?Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!Melt not in weeping,While she lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.
WEEP you no more, sad fountains;What need you flow so fast?Look how the snowy mountainsHeaven’s sun doth gently waste!But my Sun’s heavenly eyesView not your weeping,That now lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.Sleep is a reconciling,A rest that peace begets;Doth not the sun rise smilingWhen fair at even he sets?Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!Melt not in weeping,While she lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.
WEEP you no more, sad fountains;What need you flow so fast?Look how the snowy mountainsHeaven’s sun doth gently waste!But my Sun’s heavenly eyesView not your weeping,That now lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.
Sleep is a reconciling,A rest that peace begets;Doth not the sun rise smilingWhen fair at even he sets?Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!Melt not in weeping,While she lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.
66.
John Dowland’sThird and LastBook of Songs or Airs, 1603
ISAW my Lady weep,And Sorrow proud to be advancèd soIn those fair eyes where all perfections keep.Her face was full of woe;But such a woe (believe me) as wins more heartsThan Mirth can do with her enticing parts.Sorrow was there made fair,And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing;Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:She made her sighs to sing,And all things with so sweet a sadness moveAs made my heart at once both grieve, and love.O fairer than aught elseThe world can show, leave off in time to grieve!Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:Tears kill the heart, believe.O strive not to be excellent in woe,Which only breeds your beauty’s overthrow.
ISAW my Lady weep,And Sorrow proud to be advancèd soIn those fair eyes where all perfections keep.Her face was full of woe;But such a woe (believe me) as wins more heartsThan Mirth can do with her enticing parts.Sorrow was there made fair,And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing;Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:She made her sighs to sing,And all things with so sweet a sadness moveAs made my heart at once both grieve, and love.O fairer than aught elseThe world can show, leave off in time to grieve!Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:Tears kill the heart, believe.O strive not to be excellent in woe,Which only breeds your beauty’s overthrow.
ISAW my Lady weep,And Sorrow proud to be advancèd soIn those fair eyes where all perfections keep.Her face was full of woe;But such a woe (believe me) as wins more heartsThan Mirth can do with her enticing parts.
Sorrow was there made fair,And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing;Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:She made her sighs to sing,And all things with so sweet a sadness moveAs made my heart at once both grieve, and love.
O fairer than aught elseThe world can show, leave off in time to grieve!Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:Tears kill the heart, believe.O strive not to be excellent in woe,Which only breeds your beauty’s overthrow.
67.
Thomas Bateson’sFirst Set ofEnglish Madrigals, 1604
SISTER, awake! close not your eyes!The day her light discloses,And the bright morning doth ariseOut of her bed of roses.See the clear sun, the world’s bright eye,In at our window peeping:Lo, how he blusheth to espyUs idle wenches sleeping!Therefore awake! make haste, I say,And let us, without staying,All in our gowns of green so gayInto the Park a-maying!
SISTER, awake! close not your eyes!The day her light discloses,And the bright morning doth ariseOut of her bed of roses.See the clear sun, the world’s bright eye,In at our window peeping:Lo, how he blusheth to espyUs idle wenches sleeping!Therefore awake! make haste, I say,And let us, without staying,All in our gowns of green so gayInto the Park a-maying!
SISTER, awake! close not your eyes!The day her light discloses,And the bright morning doth ariseOut of her bed of roses.
See the clear sun, the world’s bright eye,In at our window peeping:Lo, how he blusheth to espyUs idle wenches sleeping!
Therefore awake! make haste, I say,And let us, without staying,All in our gowns of green so gayInto the Park a-maying!
68.
Captain Tobias Hume’sThe FirstPart of Airs, &c., 1605
FAIN would I change that noteTo which fond Love hath charm’d meLong, long to sing by rote,Fancying that that harm’d me:Yet when this thought doth come,‘Love is the perfect sumOf all delight,’I have no other choiceEither for pen or voiceTo sing or write.O Love! they wrong thee muchThat say thy sweet is bitter,When thy rich fruit is suchAs nothing can be sweeter.Fair house of joy and bliss,Where truest pleasure is,I do adore thee:I know thee what thou art,I serve thee with my heart,And fall before thee.
FAIN would I change that noteTo which fond Love hath charm’d meLong, long to sing by rote,Fancying that that harm’d me:Yet when this thought doth come,‘Love is the perfect sumOf all delight,’I have no other choiceEither for pen or voiceTo sing or write.O Love! they wrong thee muchThat say thy sweet is bitter,When thy rich fruit is suchAs nothing can be sweeter.Fair house of joy and bliss,Where truest pleasure is,I do adore thee:I know thee what thou art,I serve thee with my heart,And fall before thee.
FAIN would I change that noteTo which fond Love hath charm’d meLong, long to sing by rote,Fancying that that harm’d me:Yet when this thought doth come,‘Love is the perfect sumOf all delight,’I have no other choiceEither for pen or voiceTo sing or write.
O Love! they wrong thee muchThat say thy sweet is bitter,When thy rich fruit is suchAs nothing can be sweeter.Fair house of joy and bliss,Where truest pleasure is,I do adore thee:I know thee what thou art,I serve thee with my heart,And fall before thee.
69.
Thomas Ford’sMusic ofSundry Kinds, 1607
SINCE first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye;If now I be disdainèd I wish my heart had never known ye.What? I that loved and you that liked, shall we begin to wrangle?No, no, no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle.If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me;Or if my hands had stray’d but a touch, then justly might you leave me.I ask’d you leave, you bade me love; is’t now a time to chide me?No, no, no, I’ll love you still what fortune e’er betide me.The Sun, whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder,And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder:Where beauty moves and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me,There, O there! where’er I go I’ll leave my heart behind me!
SINCE first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye;If now I be disdainèd I wish my heart had never known ye.What? I that loved and you that liked, shall we begin to wrangle?No, no, no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle.If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me;Or if my hands had stray’d but a touch, then justly might you leave me.I ask’d you leave, you bade me love; is’t now a time to chide me?No, no, no, I’ll love you still what fortune e’er betide me.The Sun, whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder,And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder:Where beauty moves and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me,There, O there! where’er I go I’ll leave my heart behind me!
SINCE first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye;If now I be disdainèd I wish my heart had never known ye.What? I that loved and you that liked, shall we begin to wrangle?No, no, no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle.
If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me;Or if my hands had stray’d but a touch, then justly might you leave me.I ask’d you leave, you bade me love; is’t now a time to chide me?No, no, no, I’ll love you still what fortune e’er betide me.
The Sun, whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder,And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder:Where beauty moves and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me,There, O there! where’er I go I’ll leave my heart behind me!
70.
Thomas Ford’sMusic ofSundry Kinds, 1607
THERE is a Lady sweet and kind,Was never face so pleased my mind;I did but see her passing by,And yet I love her till I die.Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles,Beguiles my heart, I know not why,And yet I love her till I die.Cupid is wingèd and doth range,Her country so my love doth change:But change she earth, or change she sky,Yet will I love her till I die.
THERE is a Lady sweet and kind,Was never face so pleased my mind;I did but see her passing by,And yet I love her till I die.Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles,Beguiles my heart, I know not why,And yet I love her till I die.Cupid is wingèd and doth range,Her country so my love doth change:But change she earth, or change she sky,Yet will I love her till I die.
THERE is a Lady sweet and kind,Was never face so pleased my mind;I did but see her passing by,And yet I love her till I die.
Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles,Beguiles my heart, I know not why,And yet I love her till I die.
Cupid is wingèd and doth range,Her country so my love doth change:But change she earth, or change she sky,Yet will I love her till I die.
71.
John Wilbye’sSecond Set of Madrigals, 1609
LOVE not me for comely grace,For my pleasing eye or face,Nor for any outward part,No, nor for a constant heart:For these may fail or turn to ill,So thou and I shall sever:Keep, therefore, a true woman’s eye,And love me still but know not why—So hast thou the same reason stillTo doat upon me ever!
LOVE not me for comely grace,For my pleasing eye or face,Nor for any outward part,No, nor for a constant heart:For these may fail or turn to ill,So thou and I shall sever:Keep, therefore, a true woman’s eye,And love me still but know not why—So hast thou the same reason stillTo doat upon me ever!
LOVE not me for comely grace,For my pleasing eye or face,Nor for any outward part,No, nor for a constant heart:For these may fail or turn to ill,So thou and I shall sever:Keep, therefore, a true woman’s eye,And love me still but know not why—So hast thou the same reason stillTo doat upon me ever!
72.
John Attye’sFirst Book of Airs, 1622
ON a time the amorous SilvySaid to her shepherd, ‘Sweet, how do ye?Kiss me this once and then God be with ye,My sweetest dear!Kiss me this once and then God be with ye,For now the morning draweth near.’With that, her fairest bosom showing,Op’ning her lips, rich perfumes blowing,She said, ‘Now kiss me and be going,My sweetest dear!Kiss me this once and then be going,For now the morning draweth near.’With that the shepherd waked from sleeping,And spying where the day was peeping,He said, ‘Now take my soul in keeping,My sweetest dear!Kiss me and take my soul in keeping,Since I must go, now day is near.’
ON a time the amorous SilvySaid to her shepherd, ‘Sweet, how do ye?Kiss me this once and then God be with ye,My sweetest dear!Kiss me this once and then God be with ye,For now the morning draweth near.’With that, her fairest bosom showing,Op’ning her lips, rich perfumes blowing,She said, ‘Now kiss me and be going,My sweetest dear!Kiss me this once and then be going,For now the morning draweth near.’With that the shepherd waked from sleeping,And spying where the day was peeping,He said, ‘Now take my soul in keeping,My sweetest dear!Kiss me and take my soul in keeping,Since I must go, now day is near.’
ON a time the amorous SilvySaid to her shepherd, ‘Sweet, how do ye?Kiss me this once and then God be with ye,My sweetest dear!Kiss me this once and then God be with ye,For now the morning draweth near.’With that, her fairest bosom showing,Op’ning her lips, rich perfumes blowing,She said, ‘Now kiss me and be going,My sweetest dear!Kiss me this once and then be going,For now the morning draweth near.’With that the shepherd waked from sleeping,And spying where the day was peeping,He said, ‘Now take my soul in keeping,My sweetest dear!Kiss me and take my soul in keeping,Since I must go, now day is near.’
1542-1626
73.
IN the merry month of May,In a morn by break of day.Forth I walk’d by the wood-sideWhen as May was in his pride:There I spièd all alonePhillida and Coridon.Much ado there was, God wot!He would love and she would not.She said, Never man was true;He said, None was false to you.He said, He had loved her long;She said, Love should have no wrong.Coridon would kiss her then;She said, Maids must kiss no menTill they did for good and all;Then she made the shepherd callAll the heavens to witness truthNever loved a truer youth.Thus with many a pretty oath,Yea and nay, and faith and troth,Such as silly shepherds useWhen they will not Love abuse,Love, which had been long deluded,Was with kisses sweet concluded;And Phillida, with garlands gay,Was made the Lady of the May.
IN the merry month of May,In a morn by break of day.Forth I walk’d by the wood-sideWhen as May was in his pride:There I spièd all alonePhillida and Coridon.Much ado there was, God wot!He would love and she would not.She said, Never man was true;He said, None was false to you.He said, He had loved her long;She said, Love should have no wrong.Coridon would kiss her then;She said, Maids must kiss no menTill they did for good and all;Then she made the shepherd callAll the heavens to witness truthNever loved a truer youth.Thus with many a pretty oath,Yea and nay, and faith and troth,Such as silly shepherds useWhen they will not Love abuse,Love, which had been long deluded,Was with kisses sweet concluded;And Phillida, with garlands gay,Was made the Lady of the May.
IN the merry month of May,In a morn by break of day.Forth I walk’d by the wood-sideWhen as May was in his pride:There I spièd all alonePhillida and Coridon.Much ado there was, God wot!He would love and she would not.She said, Never man was true;He said, None was false to you.He said, He had loved her long;She said, Love should have no wrong.Coridon would kiss her then;She said, Maids must kiss no menTill they did for good and all;Then she made the shepherd callAll the heavens to witness truthNever loved a truer youth.Thus with many a pretty oath,Yea and nay, and faith and troth,Such as silly shepherds useWhen they will not Love abuse,Love, which had been long deluded,Was with kisses sweet concluded;And Phillida, with garlands gay,Was made the Lady of the May.
74.
The Arbor of AmorousDevices, 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.
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.
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.
1552-1618
75.
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.
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.
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.
76.
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.
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.
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.
77.
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.
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.
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.
78.
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.
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.
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.
1552-1599
79.
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 passèd time.
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 passèd time.
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 passèd time.
79.make] mate.
79.make] mate.
80.
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 Phœbe 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.
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 Phœbe 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.
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 Phœbe 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.
medled] mixed. yfere] together.
medled] mixed. yfere] together.
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 lovèd Lillies:The pretie Pawnce,And the Chevisaunce,Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.Now ryse up, Elisa, deckèd 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.
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 lovèd Lillies:The pretie Pawnce,And the Chevisaunce,Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.Now ryse up, Elisa, deckèd 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.
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 lovèd Lillies:The pretie Pawnce,And the Chevisaunce,Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.
Now ryse up, Elisa, deckèd 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.
soote] sweet. coronations] carnations. sops-in-wine] striped pinks. pawnce] pansy. chevisaunce] wallflower. flowre delice] iris.
soote] sweet. coronations] carnations. sops-in-wine] striped pinks. pawnce] pansy. chevisaunce] wallflower. flowre delice] iris.
81.
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 chauncèd 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, entraylèd 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 amazèd 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,Prepared 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 blessèd 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, enrangèd 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 agèd 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 gaynèd 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 bathèd 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.
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 chauncèd 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, entraylèd 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 amazèd 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,Prepared 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 blessèd 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, enrangèd 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 agèd 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 gaynèd 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 bathèd 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.
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 chauncèd 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, entraylèd 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 amazèd 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,Prepared 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 blessèd 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, enrangèd 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 agèd 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 gaynèd 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 bathèd 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.
82.