Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne,
And leave your wonted labors for this day:
This day is holy; doe
ye write it downe,
That ye for ever it remember may.
This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight,
From whence declining daily by degrees,
He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,
the Crab behind his back he sees.
But for this time it ill ordainàd was,
To chose the longest day in all the
And shortest night, when longest fitter weare:
Yet never day so long, but late would passe.
the bels, to make it weare away,
And bonefiers make all day;
And daunce about them, and about them
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.
Ah! when will this long weary day have end,
And lende me leave to come unto my love?
How slowly do
the houres theyr numbers spend!
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!
Hast thee, O fayrest
Planet, to thy home,
Within the Westerne fome:
Thy tyràd steedes long since have need of rest.
it be, at last I see it gloome,
And the bright evening-star with golden creast
Appeare out of the East.
childe of beauty! glorious lampe of love!
That all the host of heaven in ranks doost lead,
lovers through the nights sad dread.
How chearefully thou lookest from above,
And seemest to laugh
atweene thy twinkling light,
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 fore-past;
Enough it is 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 soon
And in her bed her lay;
Lay her in lillies and in violets,
And silken courteins over her display,
odourd sheetes, and Arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my faire love does ly,
In proud humility!
Maia, when as Jove her took
In Temple, lying on the flowry gras,
Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary
With bathing in the Acidalian brooke.
Now it is night, ye damsels may be gon,
And leave my love
And leave likewise your former lay to sing:
The woods no more shall 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 cancellàd for aye:
Spread thy broad wing over
my love and me,
That no man may us see;
And in thy sable mantle us enwrap,
From feare of perrill and foule horror free.
Let no false treason seeke us to entrap,
Nor any dread disquiet
The safety of our joy;
But let the night be calme, and quietsome,
Without tempestuous storms
or sad afray:
Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay,
When he begot the great Tirynthian groome:
lyke as when he with thy selfe did lie
And begot Majesty.
And let the mayds and yong men cease to sing;
let the woods them answer nor theyr eccho ring.
Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares,
Be heard all night within, nor yet without:
Ne let false whispers,
breeding hidden feares,
Breake gentle sleepe with misconceivàd dout.
Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadfull
Make sudden sad affrights;
Ne let house-fyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes,
Ne let the Pouke,
nor other evill sprights,
Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes,
Ne let hob Goblins, names whose
sence we see not,
Fray us with things that be not:
Let not the shriech Oule nor the Storke be heard,
the night Raven, that still deadly yels;
Nor damnàd ghosts, cald up with mighty spels,
Nor griesly vultures,
make us once affeard:
Ne let th unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still croking
Make us to wish theyr choking.
none of these theyr drery accents sing;
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring.
But let stil Silence trew night-watches keepe,
That sacred Peace may in assurance rayne,
Sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,
May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne;
The whiles an hundred
little wingàd loves,
Like divers-fethered doves,
Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,
And in the secret
darke, that none reproves,
Their prety stealthes shal worke, and snares shal spread
To filch away sweet
snatches of delight,
Conceald through covert night.
Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will!
pleasure, carelesse of your toyes,
Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes,
Then what ye do, albe it good
All night therefore attend your merry play,
For it will soone be day:
Now none doth hinder you, that
say or sing;
Ne will the woods now answer, nor your Eccho ring.