Or like as when he with thyself 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 housefires, nor lightnings helpless harms,
Ne let the Ponke,1 nor other evil sprites,

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 screech owl, nor the stork be heard :
Nor the night raven that still deadly yells,
Nor damned ghosts call'd up with mighty spells,
Nor grisly vultures make us once affeard:

Ne let th' unpleasant quire 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

1 Puck,

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
Than 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, that 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 not thou 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 women's labours thou hast charge,
And generation goodly dost enlarge,
Incline 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 echo ring.

And thou, great Juno, which with awful might
The laws of wedlock still doth patronise,
And the religion of the faith first plight
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnise:
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 loves' 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 fain;

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 deckt,

Which cutting off through hasty accidents,
Ye would not stay your due time to expect,
But promist both to recompense;

Be unto her a goodly ornament,

And for short time an endless monument.

EDMUND SPENSER

AMORETTI1

HIS holy season fit to fast and

pray

THI

Men to devotion ought to be inclined :

Therefore, I likewise on so holy day

For my sweet Saint some service fit will find.
Her temple fair is built within my mind
In which her glorious image placed is ;

On which my thoughts do day and night attend
Like sacred priests that never think amiss.

There I to her as the author of

my bliss
Will build an altar to appease her ire :
And on the same my heart will sacrifice,
Burning in flames of pure and chaste desire:
The which vouchsafe O goddess! to accept
Amongst thy dearest relics to be kept.

EDMUND SPENSER

LIKE as a ship that through the ocean wide

By conduct of some star doth make her way Whenas a storm hath dimm'd her trusty guide, Out of her course doth wander far astray,

So I whose star, that wont with her bright ray

1 Sonnets from the "Amoretti," a series of love sonnets, written by Spenser about 1592-94. These are numbers 22, 34, 55, 73, 75, 81.

Me to direct, with clouds is overcast,

Do wander now, in darkness and dismay,
Through hidden perils round about me plac'd.
Yet hope I well, that when this storm is past,
My Helice the lodestar of my life

Will shine again, and look on me at last,
With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief.
Till then I wander careful comfortless,
In secret sorrow and sad pensiveness.

EDMUND SPENSER

O oft as I her beauty do behold,

S°

And therewith do her cruelty compare,
I marvel of what substance was the mould
The which her made at once so cruel fair.

Not earth; for her high thoughts more heavenly are:
Not water; for her love doth burn like fire:
Not air; for she is not so light or rare :

Not fire; for she doth freeze with faint desire.
Then needs another element inquire
Whereof she mote be made; that is the sky:
For to the heaven her haughty looks aspire,
And eke her mind is pure and immortal high.
Then sith to heaven ye likened are the best,
Belike in mercy as in all the rest.

EDMUND SPENSER

EING myself captivèd here in care

BE

My heart, (whom none with servile bands can tie

But the fair tresses of your golden hair)

Breaking his prison, forth to you doth fly.

Like as a bird that in one's hand doth spy