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 creast Appeare 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 sight Of these glad many, which for joy doe sing, That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring!
Now cea.s.se, 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 took In 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 annoy The 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 lie And 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 d.a.m.ned ghosts, cald up with mighty spels, Nor griesly vultures, make us once affeard: Ne let th" unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still croking Make 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 a.s.surance 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 spread To filch away sweet s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 G.o.ddesse, do thou not envy My love with me to spy: For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought, And for a fleece of wooll, which privily The 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 seed That 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 might The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize; And the religion of the faith first plight With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize; And eeke for comfort often called art Of women in their smart; Eternally bind thou this lovely band, And all thy blessings unto us impart.
And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand The bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine, Without blemish or staine; And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delight With 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 G.o.ds, In which a thousand torches flaming bright Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods In dreadful darknesse lend desired light And 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 possesse With 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 a.s.soyld from sinfull fleshlinesse.
How happie was I when I saw her leade The Shepheards daughters dauncing in a rownd!
How trimly would she trace and softly tread The tender gra.s.se, 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 la.s.ses! who shall lead Your wandring troupes, or sing your virelayes?
Or who shall dight your bowres, sith she is dead That 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 night With 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 light Which dwell in darknes, I to minde will call How 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 compa.s.sion On mortall men, and rue their miserie.
So when I have with sorowe satisfide Th" 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 h.e.l.l, didst bring away Captivity 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"d At 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 throws The coral of his lips, the rose Growing 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