Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face,
Like Phoebe fayre?

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 sawe Phoebus thrust out his golden hedde,

Upon her to gaze:

But, when he sawe how broade her beames did spredde, It did him amaze.

He blusht to see another Sunne belowe,

Ne durst againe his fyrye face out showe:

Let him, if he dare,

His brightnesse compare

With hers, to have the overthrowe.

Shewe thyselfe, Cynthia, with thy silver rayes,
And be not abasht:

When shee the beames of her beauty displayes,
O, how art thou dasht!

But I will not match her with Latonaes seede,
Such follie great sorow to Niobe did breede:
Now she is a stone,

And makes dayly mone,
Warning all other to take heede.

Pan may be proud that ever he begot

Such a Bellibone;

And Syrinx rejoyse that ever was her lot
To beare such a one.

Soone as my younglings cryen for the dam
To her will I offer a milkwhite Lamb:
Shee is my goddesse plaine,

And I her shepherd's swayne,

Albee forswonck and forswatt I am.

I see Calliope speede her to the place
Where my Goddesse shines;

And after her the other Muses trace,
With their Violines.

Bene they not Bay braunches which they do beare,
All for Elisa in her hand to weare?

So sweetly they play,

And sing all the way,

That it a heaven is to heare.

Lo how finely the Graces can it foote

To the Instrument :

They dauncen deffly, and singen soote,

In their meriment.

Wants not a fourth Grace, to make the daunce even?

Let that rowme to my Lady be

She shal be a Grace,

To fyll the fourth place,

yeven :

And reigne with the rest in heaven.

And whither rennes this bevie of Ladies bright,

Raunged in a rowe?

They bene all Ladyes of the lake behight,

That unto her goe.

Chloris, that is the chiefest Nymph of all,

Of Olive braunches beares a Coronall:

Olives bene for peace,

When wars doe surcease:

Such for a Princesse bene principall.

Ye shepheards daughters, that dwell on the greene,
Hye you there apace:

Let none come there but that Virgins bene,

To adorne her grace:

And, when you come whereas shee is in place,
See that your rudeness doe not you disgrace:
Binde your fillets faste,

And girde in your waste,

For more finenesse, with a tawdrie lace.

Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine,
With Gelliflowres ;

Bring Coronations, and Sops in wine,
Worne of Paramoures:

Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies,
And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and loved Lillies:
The pretie Pawnce,

And the Chevisaunce,

Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.

Now ryse up, Elisa, decked as thou art
In royall aray;

And now ye daintie Damsells may depart
Eche one her way.

I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe :
Let dame Elisa thanke you for her song:

And if you come hether

When Damsines I gether,

I will part them all you among.

Epithalamion, 1595

Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne,

E. SPENSER

Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To 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 lament

Your dolefull dreriment:

Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside;

And, having all your heads with girlands 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 answer, and my Eccho ring.

Early, before the worlds light-giving lampe
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,
Doe ye 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 Tead 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,

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,

Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing,

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

Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare
Both of the rivers and the forrests greene,

And of the sea that neighbours to her neare :
Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene.
And let them also with them bring in hand
Another gay girland,

For 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 Nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heed
The 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 keepe the rushy lake,
Where none doo fishes take;

Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd 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 keepe the dore,
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,

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!

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 dimmed were

With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere.