Epithalamion

Upon the bridal day, which is not long:

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

From those high towers this noble lord issuing,

Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair
In the ocean billows he hath bathèd fair,
Descended to the river's open viewing,
With a great train ensuing.

Above the rest were goodly to be seen
Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature
Beseeming well the bower of any queen,

With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature,
Fit for so goodly stature,

That like the twins of Jove they seemed in sight,
Which deck the baldrick of the heavens bright;
They two, forth pacing to the river's side,

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Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;
Which, at the appointed tide,

Each one did make his bride

Against their bridal day, which is not long:

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Edmund Spenser [1552?-1599]

EPITHALAMION

YE learned sisters, which have oftentimes

Been to me aiding, others to adorn,

Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful rhymes,

That even the greatest did not greatly scorn
To hear their names sung in your simple lays,

But joyèd in their praise;

And when ye list your own mishaps to mourn,
Which death, or love, or fortune's wreck did raise,

Your string could soon to sadder tenor turn,
And teach the woods and waters to lament

Your doleful dreariment:

Now lay those sorrowful complaints aside;

And, having all your heads with garlands crowned,

Help me mine own love's praises to resound;

Nor let the same of any be envide:

So Orpheus did for his own bride!

So I unto myself alone will sing;

The woods shall to me answer, and my echo ring.

Early, before the world's light-giving lamp
His golden beam upon the hills doth spread,
Having dispersed the night's unchcerful damp,
Do ye awake; and, with fresh lusty-hed,
Go to the bower of my beloved love,
My truest turtle dove;

Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,

And long since ready forth his mask to move,

With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake,

And many a bachelor to wait on him,

In their fresh garments trim.

Bid her awake therefore, and soon her dight,

For lo! the wishèd day is come at last,

That shall, for all the pains and sorrows past,

Pay to her usury of long delight:

And, whilst she doth her dight,

Do ye to her of joy and solace sing,

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

Bring with you all the Nymphs that you can hear, Both of the rivers and the forests green,

And of the sea that neighbors to her near,

All with gay garlands goodly well beseen.
And let them also with them bring in hand
Another gay garland,

For my fair love, of lilies and of roses,
Bound truelove wise with a blue silk riband;
And let them make great store of bridal posies,
And let them cke bring store of other flowers,
To deck the bridal bowers.

And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread,
For fear the stones her tender foot should wrong,
Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along,
And diapered like the discolored mead;
Which done, do at her chamber door await,
For she will waken straight;

Epithalamion

The whiles do ye this song unto her sing,

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The woods shall to you answer, and your echo ring.

Ye Nymphs of Mulla, which with careful heed
The silver scaly trouts do tend full well,
And greedy pikes which use therein to feed
(Those trouts and pikes all others do excel);
And ye likewise, which keep the rushy lake,
Where none do fishes take;

Bind up the locks the which hang scattered light,
And in his waters, which your mirror make,
Behold your faces as the crystal bright,

That when you come whereas my love doth lie,
No blemish she may spy.

And eke, ye lightfoot maids, which keep the deer,
That on the hoary mountain used to tower;

And the wild wolves, which seek them to devour,
With your steel darts do chase from coming near;
Be also present here,

To help to deck her, and to help to sing,

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

Wake, now, my love, awake! for it is time;
The rosy morn long since left Tithon's bed,
All ready to her silver coach to climb;

And Phoebus 'gins to show his glorious head.
Hark, how the cheerful birds do chant their lays
And carol of love's praise.

The merry lark her matins sings aloft;

The thrush replies; the mavis descant plays;
The ouzel shrills; the ruddock warbles soft;
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this day's merriment.

Ah! my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long,
When meeter were that ye should now awake,
To await the coming of your joyous mate,
And hearken to the birds' love-learnèd song,
The dewy leaves among!

For they of joy and pleasance to you sing,

That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.

My love is now awake out of her dreams,

And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were
With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams
More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear.
Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight,
Help quickly her to dight:

But first come, ye fair hours, which were begot
In Jove's sweet paradise of Day and Night;
Which do the seasons of the year allot,

And all that ever in this world is fair,

Do make and still repair:

And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian queen,
The which do still adorn her beauty's pride,

Help to adorn my beautifulest bride;

And as ye her array, still throw between

Some graces to be seen,

And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,

The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring.

Now is my love all ready forth to come:

Let all the virgins therefore well await:

And ye fresh boys, that tend upon her groom,
Prepare yourselves; for he is coming straight;

Set all your things in seemly good array,

Fit for so joyful day:

The joyfulest day that ever sun did see.
Fair Sun! show forth thy favorable ray,
And let thy life-full heat not fervent be,
For fear of burning her sunshiny face,
Her beauty to disgrace.

O fairest Phoebus! father of the Muse!

If ever I did honor thee aright,

Or sing the thing that might thy mind delight,

Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse;
But let this day, let this one day, be mine;

Let all the rest be thine.

Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing,

That all the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.

Hark! how the Minstrels 'gin to shrill aloud

Their merry music that resounds from far,

Epithalamion

The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud,
That well agree withouten breach or jar.
But, most of all, the Damsels do delight
When they their timbrels smite,

And thereunto do dance and carol sweet,

That all the senses they do ravish quite;
The whiles the boys run up and down the street,
Crying aloud with strong confusèd noise,

As if it were one voice,

Hymen, iö Hymen, Hymen, they do shout;
That even to the heavens their shouting shrill
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill;
To which the people standing all about,
As in approvance, do thereto applaud,
And loud advance her laud;

And evermore they Hymen, Hymen sing,

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That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.

Lo! where she comes along with portly pace,

Like Phoebe, from her chamber of the East,
Arising forth to run her mighty race,

Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best.
So well it her beseems, that ye would ween
Some angel she had been.

Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire,
Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween,

Do like a golden mantle her attire;

And, being crowned with a garland green,

Seem like some maiden queen.

Her modest eyes, abashèd to behold
So many gazers as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixèd are;
Nor dare lift up her countenance too bold,
But blush to hear her praises sung so loud,
So far from being proud.

Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing,

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

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see

So fair a creature in your town before;