Yet hope I well that, when this storme is past, Will shine again, and looke on me at last, What guyle is this, that those her golden tresses And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses, And, being caught, may craftily enfold Theyr weaker harts, which are not wel aware? Take heed, therefore, myne eyes, how ye doe stare Henceforth too rashly on that guilefull net, In which, if ever ye entrapped are, Out of her bands ye by no meanes shall get. To covet fetters, though they golden bee! Sweet Smile! the daughter of the Queene of Love, With which she wants to temper angry Jove, More sweet than Nectar, or Ambrosiall meat, Joy of my life! full oft for loving you I blesse my lot, that was so lucky placed : Som hevenly wit, whose verse could have enchased But since ye deignd so goodly to relent To me your thrall, in whom is little worth; EPITHALAMION. Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes, But joyed in theyr praise; { And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne, Your dolefull dreriment: Now lay those sorrowful 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 unto my selfe alone will sing; The woods shall to me answer, and my Eccho ring. * Early, before the worlds light-giving lampe 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 heare Both of the rivers and the forrests greene, And of the sea that neighbours to her neare: Al with gay girlands goodly wel bescene. For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses, And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, 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. Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time; Hark! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies 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, For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, My love is now awake out of her dreames, And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed were With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams More bright than 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 begot, In Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night; Doe make and still repayre: And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene, Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride : And, as ye her array, still throw betweene Some 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: Fit for so joyfull day : The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see, O fayrest Phoebus! father of the Muse! Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight, Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing, That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring, Loe! where she comes along with portly pace, Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best. Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre, Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre; And, being crowned with a girland greene, Seeme lyke some mayden Queene. Her modest eyes, abashed to behold So many gazers as on her do stare, Upon the lowly ground affixed are; Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold, |