| |
| NOW is my love all ready forth to come: | |
| Let all the virgins therefore well awayt: | |
| And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome, | |
| Prepare yourselves; for he is coming strayt. | |
| Set all your things in seemely good array, | 5 |
| Fit for so joyfull day: | |
| The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see, | |
| Faire Sun! shew forth thy favourable ray, | |
| And let thy lifull heat not fervent be, | |
| For feare of burning her sunshyny face, | 10 |
| Her beauty to disgrace. | |
| O fayrest Phœbus! father of the Muse! | |
| If ever I did honour thee aright, | |
| Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight, | |
| Doe not thy servant’s simple boone refuse; | 15 |
| But let this day, let this one day, be myne; | |
| Let all the rest be thine. | |
| Then I thy soverayne prayses loud will sing, | |
| That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring. * * * * * | |
| Loe! where she comes along with portly pace, | 20 |
| Lyke Phœbe, from her chamber of the East. | |
| Arysing forth to run her mighty race, | |
| Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best. | |
| So well it her beseemes that ye would weene | |
| Some angell she had beene. | 25 |
| Her long, loose, yellow locks lyke golden wyre, | |
| Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene, | |
| Doe like a golden mantle her attyre; | |
| And, being crownèd with a garland greene, | |
| Seeme lyke some mayden Queene. | 30 |
| Her modest eyes abashèd to behold | |
| So many gazers as on her do stare, | |
| Upon the lowly ground affixèd are; | |
| Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold, | |
| But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud, | 35 |
| So farre from being proud. | |
| Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing, | |
| That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. | |
| |
| Tell me, ye merchants’ daughters, did ye see | |
| So fayre a creature in your towne before? | 40 |
| So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, | |
| Adorned with beauty’s grace and vertue’s store? | |
| Her goodly eyes lyke saphyres shining bright; | |
| Her forehead ivory white; | |
| Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded; | 45 |
| Her lips lyke cherries charming men to byte; | |
| Her brest lyke to a bowl of cream uncrudded; | |
| Her paps lyke lyllies budded; | |
| Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre; | |
| And all her body like a pallace fayre, | 50 |
| Ascending up with many a stately stayre, | |
| To honour’s seat and chastity’s sweet bowre. | |
| Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze | |
| Upon her so to gaze, | |
| Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, | 55 |
| To which the woods did answer, and your echo ring? | |
| |
| But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, | |
| The inward beauty of her lively spright, | |
| Garnisht with heavenly gifts of high degree, | |
| Much more then would ye wonder at that sight, | 60 |
| And stand astonisht, lyke to those which red | |
| Meduses mazeful hed. | |
| There dwels sweet love, and constant chastity, | |
| Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood, | |
| Regard of honour, and mild modesty; | 65 |
| There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne, | |
| And giveth lawes alone, | |
| The which the base affections doe obay, | |
| And yeeld theyr services unto her will; | |
| Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may | 70 |
| Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill. | |
| Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures, | |
| And unrevealèd pleasures, | |
| Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing, | |
| That al the woods should answer, and your eccho ring. * * * * * | 75 |
| Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, | |
| Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes, | |
| And blesseth her with his two happy hands, | |
| How the red roses flush up in her cheekes, | |
| And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayne, | 80 |
| Like crimson dyde in grayne: | |
| That even the Angels, which continually | |
| About the sacred Altare do remaine, | |
| Forget their service and about her fly, | |
| Ofte peeping in her face, that seemes more fayre | 85 |
| The more they on it stare. | |
| But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, | |
| Are governèd with goodly modesty, | |
| That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry | |
| Which may let in a little thought unsownd, | 90 |
| Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand. | |
| The pledge of all our band! | |
| Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing, | |
| That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. | |
| |
| Now al is done: bring home the bride againe— | 95 |
| Bring home the triumph of our victory; | |
| Bring home with you the glory of her gaine— | |
| With joyance bring her and with jollity. | |
| Never had man more joyful day than this, | |
| Whom heaven would heape with blis, | 100 |
| Make feast therefore now all this live-long day; | |
| This day for ever to me holy is. * * * * * | |
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