Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,

Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,

And teach the woods and waters to lament Your dolefull dreriment:

Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside, And having all your heads with girland crownd,

Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound;

Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride:
So I unto my selfe alone will sing;
The woods shall to me auswer, and my
eccho ring.

Early, before the worlds light giving lampe
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unclearefull
dampe,

Doe ye awake, and, with fresh lustyhed,
Go to the bowre of my beloved love,
My truest turtle dove:

Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,

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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 keepe the dere

That on the hoary mountayne use to towre, And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure,

With your steele darts doo chace from comming neer,

Be also present heere,

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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 cheerefull birds do chaunt
theyr laies,

And carroll of loves praise!

The merry larke hir mattins sings aloft, 80
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.

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Set all your things in seemely good aray,
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,
Her beauty to disgrace.

O fayrest Phoebus, father of the Muse,
If ever I did honour thee aright,

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Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight,

Doe 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.

Harke how the minstrels gin to shrill aloud
Their merry musick that resounds from far,
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud,
That well agree withouten breach or jar. 132
But most of all the damzels doe delite,
When 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.

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Her modest eyes, abashed to behold
So many gazers as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixed are;
Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold,
But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud,
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, So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store?

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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 uncruded,

Her paps lyke lyllies budded,

Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre, And all her body like a pallace fayre,

Ascending uppe, with many a stately stayre, To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre. Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze, 181 Upon her so to gaze,

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 de

With trembling steps and humble reverence,
She commeth in before th' Almighties vew:
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.

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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 gravne:

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That even th' angels, which continually
About the sacred altare doe remaine,
Forget their service and about her fly,
Ofte peeping in her face, that seemes 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.

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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.