XVI

THE LONGING THAT CANNOT BE

UTTERED

N a day-alack the day!-

ΟΝ

Love, whose month is ever May,

Spied a blossom passing fair

Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, can passage find;
That the Lover, sick to death,

Wish himself the heaven's breath.

-Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ;
Air, would I might triumph so!

But, alack, my hand is sworn

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn;

Vow, alack, for youth unmeet,
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!

Do not call it sin in me,

That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou,—for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were,
And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.

XVII

EPITHALAMIUM

THEN is there mirth in Heaven,
When earthly things made even

Atone together!

Good duke, receive thy daughter :

Hymen from heaven brought her,

Yea, brought her hither,

That thou mightest join her hand with his Whose heart within his bosom is.

SONG

Wedding is great Juno's crown :

O blessed bond of board and bed!

'Tis Hymen peoples every town;

High Wedlock then be honoured : Honour, high honour and renown, To Hymen, god of every town!

XVIII

SONG OF BLESSING

HONOUR, riches, marriage-blessing,

Long continuance, and increasing,

Hourly joys be still upon you!

Juno sings her blessings on you.

Earth's increase, foison plenty,

Barns and garners never empty,

Vines with clustering bunches growing,

Plants with goodly burthen bowing;

Spring come to you at the farthest

In the very end of harvest !

Scarcity and want shall shun you;
Ceres' blessing so is on you.

XIX

MAN AND WOMAN

IGH no more, ladies, sigh no more,—

SIGH

Men were deceivers ever,

One foot in sea and one on shore,

To one thing constant never : -Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into, Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no more,
Of dumps so dull and heavy ;
The fraud of men was ever so

Since summer first was leafy :

—Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe

Into, Hey nonny, nonny.

XX

THE YOUTH'S DIRGE

COME away, come away, Death,

And in sad cypres let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!

My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strown ;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be

thrown :

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

To weep there.