How cheerfully thou lookest from above,

And seem'st to laugh atween thy twinkling light,

As joying in the sight

Of these glad many, which for joy do sing,

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

Now cease, ye damsels, your delights forepast;
Enough it is that all the day was yours:

Now day is done, and night is nighing fast,
Now bring the Bride into the bridal bowers.
The night is come; now soon her disarray,
And in her bed her lay;

Lay her in lilies and in violets,

And silken curtains over her display,
And odoured sheets, and arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my fair love does lie,
In proud humility!

Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took
In Tempe, lying on the flowery grass,
'Twixt sleep and wake, after she weary was,
With bathing in the Acidalian brook.
Now it is night, ye damsels may be gone,

And leave my love alone,

And leave likewise your former lay to sing:

The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo ring.

Now welcome, night! thou night so long expected,
That long day's labour dost at last defray,

And all my cares, which cruel Love collected,
Hast summed in one, and cancelled 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 fear of peril and foul horror free.

Let no false treason seek us to entrap,
Nor any dread disquiet once annoy
The safety of our joy;

But let the night be calm, and quietsome,
Without tempestuous storms or sad affray :
Like as when Jove with fair Alcmena lay,
When he begot the great Tirynthian groom:
Or like as when he with thy self did lie
And begot Majesty.

And let the maids and young men cease to sing;

Ne let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring.

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 lightning's helpless harms,
Ne let the Pouke, nor other evil sprights,

Ne let mischievous witches with their charms,

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

Let not the shriek-owl nor the stork be heard,

Nor the night raven, that still deadly yells;
Nor damned ghosts, called up with mighty spells,
Nor grisly vultures, make us once afeard:

Ne let the unpleasant choir of frogs still croaking
Make us to wish their choking!

Let none of these their dreary accents sing;

Ne let the woods them answer, nor their echo 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-feathered doves,

Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,

And in the secret dark, that none reproves,

Their pretty stealths shall work, and snares shall spread
To filch away sweet snatches of delight,
Concealed through covert night.

Ye sons of Venus, play your sports at will!
For greedy Pleasure, careless of your toys,
Thinks more upon her paradise of joys,
Then what ye do, albeit 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 echo ring.

Who is the same, which at my window peeps,
Or whose is that fair face that 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 envý

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 women's labours thou hast charge,

And generation goodly dost enlarge,

Incline thy will to 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 echo ring.

And thou, great Juno! which with awful might
The laws of wedlock still dost 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 blessings unto us impart.

And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand
The bridal bower and genial bed remain,

Without blemish or stain;

And the sweet pleasures of their love's delight
With secret aid dost 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 may so be.

Till which we cease your further praise to sing;
Ne any woods shall answer, nor your echo 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 raise 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 increase 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 echo ring!

Song! made in lieu of many ornaments,

With which my Love should duly have been decked. Which cutting off through hasty accidents,

Ye would not stay your due time to expect,

But promised both to recompense;

Be unto her a goodly ornament,

And for short time an endless monument.

JOHN LYLY

1554 (?)-1606

THE SPRING

WHAT bird so sings, yet does so wail?
O, 'tis the ravished nightingale !
'Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu,' she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! who is 't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin-redbreast tunes his note;

Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing!
Cuckoo to welcome in the spring,
Cuckoo to welcome in the spring!