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So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store?

Her goodly eyes lyke saphyres shining bright,

Her forehead yvory white,

Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded,

Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte, Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrudded,

Her paps lyke lyllies budded,

Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre;

And all her body like a pallace fayre, Ascending up, with many a stately stayre, To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre. Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze, Upon her so to gaze,

Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, To which the woods did answer, and your eccho ring?

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And all the postes adorne as doth behove, And all the pillours deck with girlands

trim,

For to receyve this saynt with honour dew, That commeth in to you.

With trembling steps, and humble rever

ence,

She commeth in, before th' Almighties view;

Of her ye virgins learne obedience,
When so ye come into those holy places,
To humble your proud faces:

Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endlesse matrimony make;
And let the roring organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord in lively notes;
The whiles, with hollow throates,
The choristers the joyous antheme sing,
That al the woods may answere, and their
eccho ring.

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

Like crimsin dyde in grayne:

That even th' angles, which continually About the sacred altare doe remaine, Forget their service and about her fly, Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre,

The more they on it stare.

But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,

Are governed with goodly modesty,

That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry, Which may let in a little thought unsownd. 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 answere, and your eccho ring.

Now al is done: bring home the bride. againe ;

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 joyfull day then this, Whom heaven would heape with blis, Make feast therefore now all this live-long day;

This day for ever to me holy is.

Poure out the wine without restraint or stay,

Poure not by cups, but by the belly full,
Pour out to all that wull,

And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine,

That they may sweat, and drunken be withall.

Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall, And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine;

And let the Graces daunce unto the rest, For they can doo it best :

The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing,

To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne,
And leave your wonted labors for this day:
This day is holy; doe ye write it downe,
That ye for ever it remember may.
This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight,
With Barnaby the bright,

From whence declining daily by degrees,
He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,
When once the Crab behind his back he

sees.

But for this time it ill ordainèd was,

To chose the longest day in all the yeare, And shortest night, when longest fitter

weare:

Yet never day so long, but late would passe.

Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away, And bonefiers make all day;

And daunce about them, and about them sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end,

And lende me leave to come unto my love?

How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend?

How slowly does sad Time his feathers move?

Hast thee, O fayrest planet, to thy home, Within the westerne fome:

Thy tyrèd 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.

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,

Fayre childe of beauty! glorious lampe of Without tempestuous storms or sad afray:

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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 col

lected,

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 damned 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 assurance rayne, And tymely Sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,

May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne:

The whiles an hundred little wingèd 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 snatches of delight, Conceald through covert night.

Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will!

For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your

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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 has taught to solemnize;
And eeke for comfort often callèd 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 gods,

In which a thousand torches flaming bright Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods

In dreadful darknesse lend desirèd 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.

NICHOLAS BRETON

PHYLLIDA AND CORYDON

In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
Forth I walk'd by the wood-side
When as May was in his pride:
There I spied all alone
Phyllida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot!

He would love and she would not.
She said, Never man was true;
He said, None was false to you.
He said, He had loved her long;
She said, Love should have no wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then;
She said, Maids must kiss no men
Till they did for good and all;
Then she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness truth
Never loved a truer youth.
Thus with many a pretty oath,
Yea and nay, and faith and troth,
Such as silly shepherds use
When they will not Love abuse,
Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded;
And Phyllida, with garlands gay,
Was made the Lady of the May.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

THE BARGAIN

My true love hath my heart, and I have his,

By just exchange one for another given:

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