U 552-1599]
¶Prothalamion
¶Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayreSweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly playA gentle spirit, that lightly did delayHot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre;When I, (whom suUein care.Through discontent of my long fruidesse stayIn Princes Court, and expectation vayneOf idle hopes, which still doe fly away,Like empty shaddowes, did afflict my brayne,)Walkt forth to ease my payneAlong the shoare of silver streaming Themmes;Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes,Was paynted all with variable flowers.And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmesFit to decke maydens bowres.And crowne their ParamoursAgainst the Brydale dale, which is not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
¶There, in a Meadow, by the Rivers side,A Flocke of Nymphes I chaunced to espy.All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby.[230]With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde,As each had bene a Bryde;And each one had a little wicker basket,Made of fine twigs, entrayled curiously,In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,And with fine Fingers cropt full featouslyThe tender stalkes on hye.Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew,They gathered some; the Violet, pallid blew,The little D a z i e , that at evening closes,The virgin Lillie, and the Primrose trew,With store of vermeil Roses,To decke their Bridegromes posiesAgainst the Brydale day, which was not long:Sweete Them me s ! runne softly, till I end my Song.
¶With that I saw two Swannes of goodly heweCome softly swimming downe along the Lee;Two fairer Birds I yet did never see;The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew,Did never whiter shew;Nor Jove himselfe, when he a Swan would be,For love of Leda, whiter did appeare;Yet Led a was (they say) as white as he,Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare;So purely white they were,That even the gentle streame, the which them bare,Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spareTo wet their silken feathers, least they mightSoyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,And marre their beauties bright,That shone as heavens light,Against their Brydale day, which was not long:Sweete Them me s ! runne softly, till I end my Song.
¶Eftsoones the Nymph e s , which now had Flowers their fill,Ran all in haste to see that silver brood,As they came floating on the Cristal Flood;Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still,Their wondring eyes to fill;[231]Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre,Of Fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deemeThem heavenly borne, or to be that same payreWhich through the Skie draw Venus silver Teem e :For sure they did not seemeTo be begot of any earthly Seede,But rather Angels, or of Angels breede;Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say,In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weedeThe earth did fresh aray;So fresh they seem'd as day,Even as their Brydale day, which was not long:Sweete Them me s ! runne softly, till I end my Song.
¶Then forth they all out of their baskets drewGreat store of Flowers, the honour of the field,That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,All which upon those goodly Birds they threwAnd all the Waves did strew,That like old Peneus Waters they did seeme,When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore,Scattred with Flowres, through Thessaly they streeme,That they appeare, through Lillies plenteous store,Like a Brydes Chamber flore.Two of those Nymph e s , meane while, two Garlands boundOf freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found,The which presenting all in trim Array,Their snowie Foreheads therewithall they crownd,Whil'st one did Sing this Lay ,Prepar'd against that Day ,Against their Brydale day, which was not long:Sweete Them me s ! runne softly, till I end my Song.
¶'Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament,And heavens glorie, whom this happie howerDoth leade unto your lovers blisfull bower,Joy may you have, and gentle hearts contentOf your loves couplement;And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love,With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile,[232]Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to removeAll Loves dislike, and friendships faultie guileFor ever to assoile.Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord,And blessed Plentie wait upon your bord;And let your bed with pleasures chast abound,That fruitfull issue may to you afford.Which may your foes confound.And make your joyes redoundUpon your Brydale day, which is not long;Sweete Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my Song.'
¶So ended she; and all the rest aroundTo her redoubled that her undersong,Which said their brydale daye should not be long:And gentle Eccho from the neighbor groundTheir accents did resound.So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along,Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low,As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong.Yet did by signes his glad afFection show.Making his streame run slow.And all the foule which in his flood did dwellGan flock about these twaine, that did excellThe rest, so far as Cynthia doth shendThe lesser starres. So they, enranged well.Did on those two attend.And their best service lendAgainst their wedding day, which was not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
¶At length they all to mery London came,To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse,That to me gave this Lifes first native sourse,Though from another place I take my name,An house of auncient fame:There when they came, whereas those bricky towresThe which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde.Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers.There whylome wont the Templar Knights to byde,[233]Till they decayd through pride:Next whereunto there standes a stately place,Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly graceOf that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell,Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case;But ah! here fits not wellOlde woes, but joyes, to tellAgainst the Brydale daye, which is not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
¶Yet therein now doth lodge a noble Peer,Great Englands glory, and the Worlds wide wonder.Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did thunder.And Hercules two pillors standing neereDid make to quake and feare:Faire branch of Honor, flower of Chevalrie!That flllest England with thy triumphes fame,Joy have thou of thy noble victorie.And endlesse happinesse of thine owne nameThat promiseth the same;That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes,Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes;And great Elisaes glorious name may ringThrough al the world, fil'd with thy wide Alarmes,Which some brave muse may singTo ages following,Upon the Brydale day, which is not long:Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
¶From those high Towers this noble Lord issuing.Like Radiant Hesper, when his golden hayreIn th' Ocean billowes he hath bathed fayre.Descended to the Rivers open vewing,With a great train ensuing.Above the rest were goodly to bee seeneTwo gentle Knights of lovely face and feature,Beseeming well the bower of anie Queene,With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature.Fit for so goodly stature.That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight,[234]Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright;They two , forth pacing to the Rivers side,Received those two faire Brides, their Loves delight;Which , at th' appointed tyde,Each one did make his BrydeAgainst their Brydale day, which is not long:Sweete Them me s ! runne softly, till I end my Song.
Epithalamion
¶YE learned sisters, which have oftentimesBeene to me ayding, others to adorne,Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,That even the greatest did not greatly scorneTo heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,But joyed in theyr praise;And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,And teach the woods and waters to lamentYour doleful dreriment:Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside;And , having all your heads with girlands crownd,Help e me mine owne loves prayses to resound;N e let the same of any be en vide:So Orpheus did for his owne bride!So I unto my selfe alone will sing;The woods shall to me answer, and my Eccho ring.
¶Early, before the worlds light-giving lampeHis golden beame upon the hils doth spred,Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,Do eye awake; and, with fresh lusty-hed,Go to the bowre of my beloved love,My truest turtle dove;Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,And long since ready forth his maske to move,With his bright Tea d 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,[235]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,Do eye to her of joy and solace sing,That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.
¶Bring with you all the Nymph e s that you can heareBoth of the rivers and the forrests greene,And of the sea that neighbours to her neare:A l with gay girlands goodly wel beseene.And let them also with them bring in handAnother gay girlandFor my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses,Bound truelove wize, with a blew silke riband.And let them make great store of bridale poses,And let them eeke bring store of other flowers,To deck the bridale bowers.And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread,For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong,Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along,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.
¶Ye Nymph e s of Mulla, which with carefull heedThe silver scaly trouts doe tend full well,And greedy pikes which use therein to feed:(Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell;)And ye likewise, which keep the rushy lake,Where none doo fishes take;By n d up the locks the which hang scattered light,And in his waters, which your mirror make,Behold your faces as the christall bright,That when you come whereas my love doth lie,No blemish she may spie.And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keep the deere,That on the hoary mountayne used to towre;[236]And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure,With your steel darts doo chace from coming neer.Be also present heere,To helpe to decke her, and to help to sing,That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.
¶Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time;The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed,All ready to her silver coche to clyme;And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed.Hark! how the cheereful birds do chaunt theyr laiesAnd carrol of Loves praise.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?When meeter were that ye should now awake,T' awayt the comming of your joyous make.And hearken to the birds love-learned song.The deawy leaves among!For they of joy and pleasance to you sing.That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.
¶My love is now awake out of her dreames.And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed wereWith darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beamsMore bright then 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 begotIn Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night;Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot,And al, that ever in this world is fayre.Doe make and still repayre:And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene,The which doe still adorne her beauties pride,Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride:And, as ye her array, still throw betweene[237]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:Let all the virgins therefore well awayt:And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome,Prepare yourselves; for he is comming strayt.Set all your things in seemely good array,Fit for so joy full 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,Her beauty to disgrace.O fay rest Phcebus! father of the Muse !If ever I did honour thee aright,Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight,Do e not thy servants simple boone refuse;But let this day, let this one day, be myne;Let all the rest be thine.Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing,That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring.
¶Hark e ! how the Minstrils gin to shrill aloudTheir merry Musick that resounds from far,The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling C r o u d ,That well agree withouten breach or jar.But, most of all, the Dam z e l s doe deliteWhen they their tymbrels smyte,And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet,That all the sences they doe ravish quite;The whyles the boyes run up and downe the street,Crying aloud with strong confused noyce,As if it were one voyce,Hymen , i o Hymen , Hymen , they do shout;That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrillDoth reach, and all the firmament doth fill;To which the people standing all about,As in approvance, doe thereto applaud,[238]And loud advaunce her laud;And evermore they Hymen , Hymen sing,That a l the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.
¶Loe ! where she comes along with portly pace,Lyke Phoebe, from her chamber of the East,A r y sing forth to run her mighty race,Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best.So well it her beseemes, that ye would weeneSome angell she had beene.Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre,Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene,Do e lyke a golden mantle her attyre;And , being crowned with a girland greene,Seeme lyke some mayden Queene.Her modest eyes, abashed to beholdSo many gazers as on her do stare,Upon the lowly ground affixed are;N e dare lift up her countenance too bold,But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud,So farre from being proud.Nathless doe ye still loud her prayses sing,That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.
¶Tell me, ye merchants daughters, did ye seeSo fayre a creature in your towne before;So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,Adorned with beautyes grace and vertues store?Her goodly eyes lyke Saphyres shining bright,Her forehead yvory white,Her cheeks lyke apples which the sun hath rudded,Her lips like cherryes charming men to byte,Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrudded,Her paps lyke lyllies budded,Her snowie neck lyke to a marble towre;And all her body like a pallace fayre,Ascending up, with many a stately stayre,To honours seat and chastities sweet bowre.Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze,Upon her so to gaze,[239]Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,To which the woods did answer, and your eccho ring?
¶But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,The inward beauty of her lively spright,Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high degree,Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,And stand astonisht lyke to those which redMedusaes mazeful hed.There dwels sweet love, and constant chastity,Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood,Regard of honour, and mild modesty;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;N e thought of thing uncomely ever mayThereto approch to tempt her mind to ill.Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures,And unrevealed pleasures,Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing,That a l the woods should answer, and your eccho ring.
¶Open the temple gates unto my love,Open them wide that she may enter in,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 reverence,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 mayThe sacred ceremonies there partake,The which do endlesse matrimony make;And let the roring Organs loudly playThe praises of the Lord in lively notes;The whiles, with hollow throates,[240]The Choristers the joyous An the me sing,That a l 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 stayneLike crimsin dyde in grayne:That even th' Angels , which continuallyAbout 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 one 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 a l is done: bring home the bride againe;Bring home the triumph of our victory:Bring home with you the glory of her gaineWith joyance bring her and with jollity.Never had man more joy full 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,Poure out to all that wull,And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine,That they may sweat, and drunken be withall.Crown eye God Bacchus with a coronall,And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine;And let the Graces daunce unto the rest,[241]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 ordained was,To chose the longest day in all the yeare,The 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 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 creastAppeare 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 sightOf these glad many, which for joy doe sing,That all the woods them answer, and their eccho ring.[242]Now ceasse, 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 tookIn 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 eccho 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 annoyThe 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 lieAnd begot Majesty.And let the mayds and yong men cease to sing;N e let the woods them answer nor theyr eccho ring.[243]Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull tearesBe heard all night within, nor yet without:N e let false whispers, breeding hidden feares,Breake gentle sleepe with misconceived dout.Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadfull sights,Make sudden sad affrights;N e let house-fyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes,N e let the Pouke, nor other evill sprights,Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes,N e let hob Goblins, names whose sence we see not,Fray us with things that be not;Let not the shriech O u l e nor the Storke be heard,Nor the night Raven, that still deadly yels:Nor dammed ghosts, cald up with mighty spels,Nor griesly vultures, make us once affeard:N e let th' unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still crokingMake us to wish theyr choking.Let none of these theyr drery accents sing;N e let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring.
¶But still let 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 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 spreadTo 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 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;N e will the woods now answer, nor your Eccho ring.[244]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 goddesse, do thou not envyMy love with me to spy:For thou likewise didst love, though now unthoughtAnd for a fleece of wooll, which privilyThe Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought,His pleasures with thee wrought.Therefore to us be favourable now;And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge,And generation goodly dost enlarge,Encline thy will t'effect our wishfull vow,And the chaste womb e informe with timely seed,That may our comfort breed:Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing;N e let the woods us answere, nor our Eccho ring.
¶And thou, great Juno! which with awful mightThe lawes of wedlock still dost patronize;And the religion of the faith first plightWith sacred rites hast taught to solemnize;And eeke for comfort often called artOf women in their smart;Eternally bind thou this lovely band,And all thy blessings unto us impart.And thou, glad Genius! in whose gende handThe bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine,Without blemish or staine;And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delightWith secret ayde doest succor and supply,Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny;Send us the timely fruit of this same night.And thou, fayre He be ! and thou, Hymen free!Grant that it may so be.Till which we cease your further prayse to sing;N e any woods shall answer, nor your Eccho ring.
¶And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods,In which a thousand torches flaming bright[245]Do e burne, that to us wretched earthly clodsIn 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 possesseWith 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.
A DittyIn praise of Eliza, Queen of the Shepherds
¶SEE where she sits upon the grassie greene,( O seemely sight!)Yclad in Scarlot, like a mayden Queene,And ermines white:Upon her head a Cremosin coronetWith Damaske roses and Daffadillies set:Bay leaves betweene,And primroses greene,Embellish the sweete Violet.
¶Tell me, have ye seene her angelick faceLike Phoebe fayre?[246]Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,Can you well compare?The Redde rose medled with the White yfere,In either cheeke depeincten lively chere:Her modest eye,Her Majestie,Where have you seene the like but there?
¶I see Calliope speede her to the place,Where my Goddesse shines;And after her the other Muses traceWith their Violines.Bene they not Bay braunches which they do beare,All for Elisa in her hand to weare?So sweetely they play,And sing all the way,That it a heaven is to heare.
¶Lo , how finely the Graces can it footeTo the Instrument:They dauncen defny, and singen soote,In their meriment.Wants not a fourth Grace to make the daunce evenLet that row me to my Lady be yeven.She shal be a Grace,To fyll the fourth place,And reigne with the rest in heaven.
¶Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine,With Gelliflowres;Bring Coronations, and Sops-in-wineWorn e of Paramoures:Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies,And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and loved Lillies:The pretie Pawnee,And the Chevisaunce,Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.
¶Now ryse up, Elisa, decked as thou artIn royall aray;[247]And now ye daintie Damsells may departEche one her way .I feare I have troubled your troupes to longeLet dame Elisa thanke you for her song:And if you come hetherWhen Damsines I gether,I will part them all you among .
Perigot and Willie's Roundelay
¶IT fell upon a holly eve,He y ho, hollidaye!When holly fathers wont to shrieve,Now gynneth this roundelay.Sitting upon a hill so hye,He y ho, the high hyll!The while my flocke did feede thereby,The while the shepheard selfe did spill:
¶I saw the bouncing Bellibone,He y ho, Bonibell!Tripping over the dale alone:She can trippe it very well;Well decked in a frocke of gray,He y ho, gray is greete!And in a kirtle of greene saye,The greene is for maydens meete.
¶A chapelet on her head she wore,He y ho, chapelet!Of sweete violets therein was store,—She sweeter then the violet.My sheepe did leave theyr wonted foode,He y ho, seely sheepe!And g a z don her, as they were wood,— Wood e as he, that did them keepe.
¶As the bonnilasse passed bye,He y ho, bonilasse!She rovde at me with glauncing eye,As cleare as the christall glasse:[248]All as the sunnye beame so bright,He y ho, the sunne beame!Glaunceth from Phcebus face forthright,So love into my hart did streame:
¶Or as the thonder cleaves the cloudes,He y ho, the thonder!Wherein the lightsome levin shroudes,So cleaves thy soule asonder:Or as Dame Cynthias silver rayeHe y ho, the moonelight!Upon the glyttering wave doth playe:Such play is a pitteous plight!
¶The glaunce into my heart did glide,He y ho, the glyder!Therewith my soule was sharply gryde;Such woundes soone wexen wider.Hasting to raunch the arrow out,He y ho, Perigot!I left the head in my hart roote:It was a desperate shot.
¶There it ranckleth ay more and more,He y ho, the arrowe!N e can I find salve for my sore:Love is a cureless sorrowe.And though my bale with death I brought,He y ho, heavie cheere!Yet should thilk lasse not from my thoughtSo you may buye gold to deare.
¶But whether in paynefull love I pyne,He y ho, pinching payne!Or thrive in welth, she shalbe mine.But if thou can her obteine.And if for gracelesse griefe I dye,He y ho, graceless griefe!Witnesse, shee slewe me with her eye:Let thy follye be the priefe.[249]And you that sawe it, simple shepe,Hey ho, the fayre flocke!For priefe thereof my death shall weepe,And mone with many a mocke.So learnd I love on a hollye eve,—Hey ho, holidaye!That ever since my hart did greve:Now endeth our roundelay.
Easter
¶MOST glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day,Didst make Thy triumph over death and sin;And, having harrowd hell, didst bring awayCaptivity 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.
WHAT GUILE Is THIS?
¶WHAT guile is this, that those her golden tressesShe doth attire under a net of gold;And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,That which is gold or hair may scarce be told?Is it that men's frail eyes, which gaze too bold,She may entangle in that golden snare;And, being caught, may craftily enfoldTheir weaker hearts, which are not well aware?Take heed, therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stareHenceforth too rashly on that guileful net,In which, if ever ye entrapped are,Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.Fondness it were for any, being free,To cover fetters, though they golden be.
Fair Is My Love
¶FAIR is my love, when her fair golden hairsWith the loose wind ye waving chance to mark;Fair, when the rose in her red cheeks appears;Or in her eyes the fire of love does spark.Fair, when her breast, like a rich-laden bark,With precious merchandise she forth doth lay;Fair, when that cloud of pride, which oft doth darkHer goodly light, with smiles she drives away.But fairest she, when so she doth displayThe gate with pearls and rubies richly dight;Through which her words so wise do make their wa;To bear the message of her gende sprite.The rest be works of nature's wonderment:But this the work of heart's astonishment.
So OFT AS I HER BEAUTY DO BEHOLD
¶So oft as I her beauty do behold,And therewith do her cruelty compare,I marvel of what substance was the mould,The which her made at once so cruel fair,Not earth, for her high thoughts more heavenly areNot water, for her love doth burn like fire;Not air, for she is not so light or rare;Not fire, for she doth freeze with faint desire.Then needs another element inquireWhereof she mote be made—that is, the sky;For to the heaven her haughty looks aspire,And eke her mind is pure immortal high.Then, sith to heaven ye likened are the best,Be like in mercy as in all the rest.
Rudely Thou Wrongest My DearHeart's Desire
¶RUDELY thou wrongest my dear heart's desire,In finding fault with her too portly pride:The thing which I do most in her admire,Is of the world unworthy most envied;[251]For in those lofty looks is close impliedScorn of base things, and 'sdain of foul dishonour,Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide,That loosely they ne dare to look upon her.Such pride is praise, such portliness is honour,That boldened innocence bears in her eyes;And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner,Spreads in defiance of all enemies.Was never in this world aught worthy tried,Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.
One Day I Wrote Her Name UponThe Strand
¶ONE day I wrote her name upon the strand,But came the waves and washed it away:Again I wrote it with a second hand,But came the tide and made my pains his prey.Vain man (said she) that dost in vain assayA mortal thing so to immortalise;For I myself shall like to this decay,And eke my name be wiped out likewise.Not so (quod I); let baser things deviseTo die in dust, but you shall live by fame;My verse your virtues rare shall eternise,And in the heavens write your glorious name:Where, when as Death shall all the world subdue,Our love shall live, and later life renew.
Like as the Culver, on the Bared Bough
¶LIKE as the culver, on the bared bough,Sits mourning for the absence of her mate;And, in her songs, sends many a wishful vowFor his return that seems to linger late:So I alone, now left disconsolate,Mourn to myself the absence of my love;And, wandering here and there all desolate,Seek with my plaints to match that mournful doveNe joy of aught that under heaven doth hove,Can comfort me, but her own joyous sight[252]Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,In her unspotted pleasance to delight.Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I miss,And dead my life that wants such lively bliss.