Song, made in lieu of many ornaments With which my love should duly have been decked,

Which cutting off through hasty accidents
Ye would not stay your due time to expect,
But promised both to recompense,
Be unto her a goodly ornament,

And for short time an endless moniment.

PROTHALAMION

CALM was the day, and through the trembling air

Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play,
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister
fair;

When I (whom sullen care,

Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
In princes' court, and expectation vain
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away,
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain)
Walked forth to ease my pain

Along the shore of silver streaming Thames;
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
Was painted all with variable flowers,
And all the meads adorned with dainty gems
Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
And crown their paramours,
Against the bridal day, which is not long.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my
song.

There, in a meadow, by the river's side,
A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy,
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untied,
As each had been a bride;

And each one had a little wicker basket,
Made of fine twigs entrailed curiously,
In which they gathered flowers to fill their
flasket,

With that I saw two swans of goodly hue
Come softly swimming down 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 himself, when he a swan would be
For love of Leda, whiter did appear;
Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he,
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
So purely white they were

That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,

Seemed foul to them, and bade his billows spare

To wet their silken feathers, lest they might
Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,
And mar their beauties bright,
That shone as heaven's light,
Against their bridal day, which was not long.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my
song.

Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,

Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, As they came floating on the crystal flood; Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still,

Their wondering eyes to fill;

Them seemed they never saw a sight so

fair

Of fowls so lovely, that they sure did deem Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair Which through the sky draw Venus' silver

team;

For sure they did not seem

To be begot of any earthly seed,
But rather angels, or of angels' breed;
Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they

say,

In sweetest season, when each flower and weed

The earth did fresh array;

Even as their bridal day, which was not

long.

Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my

song.

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew

Great store of flowers, the honor of the field, That to the sense did fragrant odors yield, All which upon those goodly birds they threw,

Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,

And blessed plenty wait upon your board; And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,

That fruitful issue may to you afford,
Which may your foes confound,
And make your joys redound

Upon your bridal day, which is not long." Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,
Which said their bridal day should not
be long;

And gentle Echo from the neighbor ground
Their accents did resound.

So forth those joyous birds did pass along,

Adown the Lee, that to them murmured

low,

As he would speak, but that he lacked a

tongue,

Yet did by signs his glad affection show, Making his stream run slow.

And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell

Gan flock about these twain, that did excel
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
The lesser stars. So they, enranged well,
Did on those two attend,

And their best service lend,

Against their wedding day, which was not long.

Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my

song.

At length they all to merry London came, To merry London, my most kindly nurse, That to me gave this life's first native

source,

Though from another place I take my

name,

An house of ancient fame.

There when they came, whereas those bricky towers

The which on Thames' broad, aged back do ride,

Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,

There whilom wont the Templar Knights to bide,

Till they decayed through pride; Next whereunto there stands a stately place,

Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace Of that great lord which therein wont to dwell,

Whose want too well now feels my friendless case

But ah! here fits not well
Old woes, but joys, to tell,
Against the bridal day, which is not long.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my

song.

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, Great England's glory, and the world's wide wonder,

Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder,

And Hercules' two pillars standing near Did make to quake and fear.

Fair branch of honor, flower of chivalry, That fillest England with thy triumph's fame,

Joy have thou of thy noble victory,
And endless happiness of thine own name,
That promiseth the same;

That through thy prowess and victorious

arms

Thy country may be freed from foreign harms;

And great Eliza's glorious name may ring Through all the world, filled with thy wide alarms,

Which some brave muse may sing
To ages following,

Upon the bridal day, which is not long. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

From those high towers this noble lord issuing,

Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair

In the ocean billows he hath bathëd fair, Descended to the river's open viewing, With a great train ensuing.

Above the rest were goodly to be seen Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,

Beseeming well the bower of any queen, With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature, Fit for so goodly stature,

That like the twins of Jove they seemed in sight,

Which deck the baldrick of the heavens bright.

They two, forth pacing to the river's side Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;

Which, at the appointed tide,

Each one did make his bride, Against their bridal day, which is not long.

Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my

song.

2

me, "look in

NOT at the first sight, nor with a dribbëd shot,

Love gave the wound which, while I breathe, will bleed;

But known worth did in mine of time proceed,

Till, by degrees, it had full conquest got. I saw, and liked; I liked, but loved not; I loved, but straight did not what Love decreed;

At length to Love's decrees I, forced, agreed, Yet with repining at so partial lot.

Now even that footstep of lost liberty
Is gone; and now, like slave-born Muscovite,
I call it praise to suffer tyranny;
And now employ the remnant of my wit
To make myself believe that all is well,
While, with a feeling skill, I paint my hell.

3

LET dainty wits cry on the Sister's nine,

That, bravely masked, their fancies may

be told;

Or, Pindar's apes, flaunt they in phrases

fine.

Enameling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold;

Or else let them in statelier glory shine, Ennobling new-found tropes with problems old;

Or with strange similes enrich each' line, Of herbs or beasts which Ind or Afric hold.

For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know; Phrases and problems from my reach do

grow,

And strange things cost too dear for my poor sprites.

How then? Even thus-in Stella's face I read

What Love and Beauty be; then all my deed

But copying is what, in her, Nature writes.

4

VIRTUE, alas, now let me take some rest; Thou set'st a bate between my will and wit; If vain Love have my simple soul oppressed, Leave what thou lik'st not, deal not thou with it.

Thy scepter use in some old Cato's breast. Churches or schools are for thy seat more fit;

I do confess-pardon a fault confessed-
My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit.
But if that needs thou wilt usurping be
The little reason that is left in me
And still the effect of thy persuasions
prove,

I swear, my heart such one shall show to thee

That shrines in flesh so true a deity

That, Virtue, thou thyself shalt be in love.

5

It is most true that eyes are formed to serve The inward light, and that the heavenly part Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve,

Rebels to Nature, strive for their own

smart.

It is most true, what we call Cupid's dart An image is, which for ourselves we carve, And, fools, adore in temple of our heart, Till that good god make church and church

men starve.

7

WHEN Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes,

In color black why wrapped she beams so bright?

Would she, in beamy black, like painter wise, Frame daintiest luster, mixed of shades and light?

Or did she else that sober hue devise

In object best to knit and strength our sight; Lest, if no veil these brave gleams did disguise,

They, sun-like, should more dazzle than delight?

Or would she her miraculous power show, That, whereas black seems beauty's contrary, She even in black doth make all beauties flow?

Both so, and thus-she, minding Love should be

And should in soul up to our country move. True, and yet true-that I must Stella love.

6

SOME lovers speak, when they their Muses entertain,

Of hopes begot by fear, of wot not what desires,

Of force of heavenly beams infusing hellish pain,

Of living deaths, dear wounds, fair storms, and freezing fires;

Some one his song in Jove and Jove's strange tales attires,

Bordered with bulls and swans, powdered with golden rain;

Another humbler wit to shepherd's pipe retires,

Yet hiding royal blood full oft in rural vein. To some a sweetest plaint a Sweetest style affords,

While tears pour out his ink, and sighs breathe out his words,

His paper pale despair, and pain his pen doth move.

I can speak what I feel, and feel as much as they,

But think that all the map of my state I display

When trembling voice brings forth, that I do Stella love.

weed