There drincks she nectar with ambrosia mixt, And joyes enjoyes that mortall men doe misse. The honour nowe of highest gods she is, That whilome was poore shepheards pryde, While here on earth she did abyde. Ceasse now, my song, my woe now wasted is; IN O joyfull verse! PROTHALAMION OR A SPOUSALL VERSE MADE BY EDM. SPENSER HONOUR OF THE DOUBLE MARIAGE OF THE TWO HONOURABLE & VERTUOUS LADIES, THE LADIE ELIZABETH AND THE LADIE KATHERINE SOMERSET, DAUGHTERS ΤΟ THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARLE OF WORCESTER AND ESPOUSED ΤΟ THE TWO WORTHIE GENTLEMEN MASTER HENRY GILFORD, AND MASTER WILLIAM PETER, ESQUYERS CALME was the day, and through the trembling ayre Sweete breathing Zephyrus did softly play, When I, whom sullein care, In princes court, and expectation vayne Walkt forth to ease my payne Whose rutty bancke, the which his river hemmes, Was paynted all with variable flowers, And all the meades adornd with daintie Against the brydale day, which is not long : Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. There, in a meadow, by the rivers side, As each had bene a bryde: 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, To decke their bridegromes posies Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. With that I saw two swannes of goodly hewe Come 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 appear: neare: So purely white they were, That even the gentle streame, the which them bare, Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare To wet their silken feathers, least they might Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre, And marre their beauties bright, Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. Eftsoones the nymphes, which now had flowers their fill, Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, As they came floating on the christal flood; Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still, Their wondring eyes to fill. Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre, Of fowles so lovely, that they sure did deeme Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre Which through the skie draw Venus silver teeme; For sure they did not seeme In sweetest season, when each flower and weede The earth did fresh aray; So fresh they seem'd as day, Even as their brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. That they appeare, through lillies plenteous store, Like a brydes chamber flore. Two of those nymphes, meane while, two garlands bound Of 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, Against their brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. "Ye gentle birdes, the worlds faire ornament, And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower Doth leade unto your lovers blissful bower, Joy may you have and gentle hearts con tent Of your loves couplement : And let faire Venus, that is Queene of Love, With her heart-quelling sonne upon you smile, Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove All loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile For 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, 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 Yet did by signes his glad affection show, And all the foule which in his flood did Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, Whose dreadfull name late through all And Hercules two pillors standing neere Faire branch of honor, flower of cheval- That fillest England with thy triumphes fame, Gan flock about these twaine, that did Joy have thou of thy noble victorie, excell The rest so far as Cynthia doth shend And their best service lend, Against their wedding day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, run softly, till I end my song. At length they all to mery London came, sourse; Though from another place I take my name, An house of auncient fame. There when they came, whereas those bricky towres, The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde, Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, There whylome wont the Templer Knights Till they decayd through pride: Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly grace Of that great lord which therein wont to dwell, Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case: But ah! here fits not well Olde woes, but joyes to tell, Against the bridale daye, which is not long: And endlesse happinesse of thine owne Which decke the bauldricke of the heavens bright. They two, forth pacing to the rivers side, Received those two faire brides, their loves delight, Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I Which, at th' appointed tyde, end my song. Each one did make his bryde, Against their brydale day, which is not long: Sweet Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. EPITHALAMION YE learned sisters, which have oftentimes Beene to me ayding, others to adorne, Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight, For lo the wishèd 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, Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull Bring with you all the nymphes that you rymes, can heare 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 deere, That on the hoary mountayne used to towre; And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure, With your steele darts doo chace from comming 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 cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies And carroll 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, 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! Nor 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 dimmèd were With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams More bright than 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 begot In 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 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 your selves; for he is comming strayt. Set all your things in seemely good aray, The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see. O fayrest Phoebus! father of the Muse! 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 minstrils gin to shrill aloud Their merry musick that resounds from far, The pipe, the tabour, and the trembling croud, |