Never had man more joyfull day then this, 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, 251 Poure 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 shal answer, and theyr eccho ring. 260 Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne, From whence declining daily by degrees, weare: 270 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 ceasse, ye damsels, your delights forepast; Enough is it 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 soone her disaray, 300 And in her bed her lay; Lay her in lillies and in violets, And silken courteins over her display, Like unto Maia, when as Jove her tooke, 310 And leave likewise your former lay to sing: The woods no more shal 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, 320 And in thy sable mantle us enwrap, But let the night be calme and quietsome, 331 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 winged loves, Like divers fethered doves, Shall fly and flutter round about our bed, And in the secret darke, that none reproves, Their prety stealthes shall worke, and snares shal spread 361 To filch away sweet snatches of delight, 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. There, in a meadow, by the rivers side, And each one had a little wicker basket, And with fine fingers cropt full feateously Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, They gathered some; the violet pallid blew, The little dazie, that at evening closes, 31 The virgin lillie, and the primrose trew, With store of vermeil roses, To decke their bridegromes posies Against the brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. Upon your brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, run softlie, till I end my song.' 110 So ended she; and all the rest around And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground Their 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, And all the foule which in his flood did dwell 121 From those high towers this noble lord issuing, Like radiant Hesper when his golden hayre Above the rest were goodly to bee seene Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature, Beseeming well the bower of anie queene, 170 With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature, Fit for so goodly stature: That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight, 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 bryde, Against their brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end |