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Let no lamenting cries nor doleful tears
Be heard all night within, nor yet without;
Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden fears,
Break gentle sleep with misconceived doubt:
Let no deluding dreams, nor dreadful sights,
Make sudden sad affrights;

Ne let house-fires, nor lightnings, helpless harms,
Ne let the ponk, nor other evil sprights,

Ne let mischievous witches with their charms,

Ne let hob-goblins, names whose sense we see not,
Fray us with things that be not:

Let not the skriech-owl nor the stork be heard,
Nor the night-raven, that still deadly yells,

Nor damned ghosts, call'd up with mighty spells,
Nor griesly vultures, make us once affeard:

Ne let th' unpleasant quire of frogs still croking
Make us to wish their choking;

Let none of these their drery accents sing,

Ne let the woods them answer, nor their eccho ring;

But let still Silence true night-watches keep,
That sacred Peace may in assurance reign,
And timely Sleep, when it is time to sleep,
May pour his limbs forth on your pleasant plain;
The whiles an hundred little winged Loves,

Like divers-fethered doves,

Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,

And in the secret dark, that noné reproves,

Their pretty stealths shall work, and snares shall spread

To filch away sweet snatches of delight,

Conceal'd through covert night,

Ye Sons of Venus! play your sports at will,
For greedy Pleasure, careless of your toyes,
Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes
Than what ye do, all be it good or ill.
All night, therefore, attend your merry play,
For it will soon be day:

Now none doth hinder you that say or sing,

Ne will the woods now answer, nor your eccho ring.

Who is the same which at my window peeps?

Or whose is that fair face which shines so bright?

Is it not Cynthia, she that never sleeps,

But walks about high heaven all the night?

O! fairest Goddess! do thou not envy

My love with me to spy;

For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,
And for a fleece of wool, which privily

The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought,
His pleasures with thee wrought:

Therefore to us be favourable now,

And sith of womens labours thou hast charge,
And generation goodly doost enlarge,

Encline thy will t' effect our wishful vow,
And the chaste womb inform with timely seed,
That may our comfort breed;

Till which we cease our hopeful hap to sing,
Ne let the woods us answer, nor our eccho ring.

And thou, great Juno! which with aweful might
The laws of wedlock still doost patronize,
And the religion of the faith first plight,
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize,
And eke for comfort often called art
Of women in their smart,

Eternally bind thou this lovely band,
And all thy blessing unto us impart.

And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand
The bridale bowre and genial bed remain,

Without blemish or stain,

And the sweet pleasures of their love's delight
With secret aid doost succour and supply,
Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny,
Send us the timely fruit of this same night.
And thou, fair Hebe! and thou, Hymen! free
Grant that it so may be.

Till which we cease your further praise to sing,
Ne any woods shall answer, nor your eccho ring.

And ye, high Heavens! the temple of the gods,
In which a thousand torches flaming bright
Do burn, that to us wretched earthly clods
In dreadful darkness lend desired light;
And all ye Powers which in the same remain,
More than we men can feign,

Pour out your blessing on us plenteously,

And happy influence upon us rain,

That we may rise a large posterity,

Which from the earth, which they may long possess

With lasting happiness,

Up to your haughty palaces may mount,
And for the guerdon of their glorious merit
May heavenly tabernacles there inherit,
Of blessed saints for to encrease the count:
So let us rest, sweet Love! in hope of this,
And cease till then our timely joys to sing,
The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring.

Song made in lieu of many ornaments

With which my love should duly have been deckt.
Which cutting off through hasty accidents,
Ye would not stay your due time to expect,
But promis'd both to recompence,

Be unto her a goodly ornament,

And for short time an endless monument.



AIR is my love, when her fair golden hairs With the loose wind ye waving chance to mark, Fair when the rose in her red cheek appears, Or in her eyes the fire of love doth spark; Fair when her brest, like a rich laden bark With precious merchandize, she forth doth lay; Fair when that cloud of pride, which oft doth dark Her goodly light, with smiles she drives away;

But fairest she when so she doth display

The gate with pearls and rubies richly dight,
Through which her words so wise do make their way,
To bear the message of her gentle spright:
The rest be works of Nature's wonderment,
But this the work of hearts' astonishment.


THE doubt which ye misdeem, fair love! is vain, That fondly fear to lose your liberty,


one, two liberties ye gain,

And make him bound that bondage erst did fly, Sweet be the bands the which true Love doth tye, Without constraint or dread of any ill;

The gentle bird feels no captivity

Within her cage, but sings and feeds her fill. There pride dare not approach, nor discord spill The league 'twixt them, that loyal love hath bound, But simple truth and mutual good-will

Seeks with sweet peace to salve each other's wound; There Faith doth fearless dwell in brasen towre, And spotless Pleasure builds her sacred bowre.


UDELY thou wrongest my dear heart's desire,
In finding fault with her too portly pride:
The thing which I do most in her admire,
Is of the world unworthy most envide;
For in those lofty looks is close implide

Sorn of base things and 'sdeign of foul dishonour,
Threatning rash eyes which gaze on her so wide,
That loosely they ne dare to look upon her.
Such pride is praise, such portliness is honour,
That boldness innocence bears in her eyes,
And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner,
Spreads in defiance of all enemies.

Was never in this world ought worthy tride,
Without some sparke of such self-pleasing pride.


FRESH Spring, the herald of love's mighty king,

In whose coat-armour richly are displaid

All sorts of flowres the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously array'd,

Go to my love, where she is careless laid,
Yet in her winter's bowre not well awake,
Tell her the joyous Time will not be staid,
Unless she do him by the fore-lock take:
Bid her, therefore, her self soon ready make
To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew,
Where every one that misseth then her make
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
Make haste, therefore, sweet Love! whilst it is prime,
For none can call again the passed time.


IKE as a huntsman after weary chace,

Seeing the game from him escape away, Sits down to rest him in some shady place, With panting hounds beguiled of their prey; So after long pursute and vain assay, When I all weary had the chace forsook, The gentle deer return'd the self-same way, Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook; There she beholding me with milder look, Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide, Till I in hand her yet half trembling took, And with her own good-will her firmly tide: Strange thing me seem'd to see a beast so wild So goodly wone, with her own will beguil'd.

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