Epithalamion 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, Above the rest were goodly to be seen Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature, 1183 That like the twins of Jove they seemed in sight, Each one did make his bride Against their bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. Edmund Spenser [1552?-1599] EPITHALAMION YE learned sisters, which have oftentimes Been to me aiding, others to adorn, Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful rhymes, That even the greatest did not greatly scorn But joyèd in their praise; And when ye list your own mishaps to mourn, Your doleful dreariment: Now lay those sorrowful complaints aside; And, having all your heads with garlands crowned, Nor let the same of any be envide: So Orpheus did for his own bride! So I unto myself alone will sing; The woods shall to me answer, and my echo ring. Early, before the world's light-giving lamp Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake, And long since ready forth his mask to move, With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake, And many a bachelor to wait on him, In their fresh garments trim. Bid her awake therefore, and soon her dight, For lo! the wishèd day is come at last, That shall, for all the pains and sorrows past, Pay to her usury of long delight: And, whilst she doth her dight, Do ye to her of joy and solace sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Bring with you all the Nymphs that you can hear, Both of the rivers and the forests green, And of the sea that neighbors to her near, All with gay garlands goodly well beseen. For my fair love, of lilies and of roses, And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, Epithalamion The whiles do ye this song unto her sing, 1185 The woods shall to you answer, and your echo ring. Ye Nymphs of Mulla, which with careful heed Bind up the locks the which hang scattered light, That when you come whereas my love doth lie, And eke, ye lightfoot maids, which keep the deer, And the wild wolves, which seek them to devour, To help to deck her, and to help, to sing, Wake, now, my love, awake! for it is time; echo ring. And Phoebus 'gins to show his glorious head. The merry lark her matins sings aloft; The thrush replies; the mavis descant plays; Ah! my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long, For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring. My love is now awake out of her dreams, But first come, ye fair hours, which were begot And all that ever in this world is fair, Do make and still repair: And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian queen, Help to adorn my beautifulest bride; And as ye her array, still throw between Some graces to be seen, And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring Now is my love all ready forth to come: Let all the virgins therefore well await: And ye fresh boys, that tend upon her groom, Fit for so joyful day: The joyfulest day that ever sun did see. O fairest Phoebus! father of the Muse! If ever I did honor thee aright, Or sing the thing that might thy mind delight, Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse; Let all the rest be thine. Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing, That all the woods shall answer, and their echo ring. Hark! how the Minstrels 'gin to shrill aloud Their merry music that resounds from far, The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud, And thereunto do dance and carol sweet, That all the senses they do ravish quite; As if it were one voice, Hymen, iö Hymen, Hymen, they do shout; And evermore they Hymen, Hymen sing, That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring. Lo! where she comes along with portly pace, Like Phoebe, from her chamber of the East, Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire, Do like a golden mantle her attire; And, being crowned with a garland green, Seem like some maiden queen. Her modest eyes, abashed to behold Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo 'ring. Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see So fair a creature in your town before; |