But let stil Silence trew night-watches keepe,
That sacred Peace may in assurance rayne,
And tymely Sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,

May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne;
The whiles an hundred little winged Loves,

Like divers-fethered doves,

Shall fly and flutter round about the bed,

And in the secret darke, that none reproves,

353

Their prety stealthes shall worke, and snares shall spread To filch away sweet snatches of delight,

Conceald through covert night.

Ye Sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will!
For greedy Pleasure, carelesse of your toyes,
Thinks more upon her Paradise of joyes,
Then what ye do, albe it good or ill,
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.

Who is the same, which at my window peepes ?
Or whose is that faire face that shines so bright?
Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes,
But walkes about high heaven al the night?

O! fayrest goddesse, do thou not envy

My Love with me to spy:

For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,

And for a fleece of wooll, which privily

The Latmian Shepherd once unto thee brought,

His pleasures with thee wrought.

Therefore to us be favorable now;

And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge,

And generation goodly dost enlarge,

Encline thy will t' effect our wishfull vow,
And the chast womb informe with timely seed,

That may our comfort breed:

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

And thou, great Juno! which with awful might
The Lawes 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 bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine,
Without blemish or staine;

And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delight
With secret ayde doost succour and supply,
Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny;
Send us the timely fruit of this same night.
And thou, fayre Hebe! and thou, Hymen free!
Grant that it may so be.

Till which we cease your further prayse to sing ;
woods shall answer, nor your eccho ring.

Ne

any

And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods,
In which a thousand torches flaming bright
Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods
In dreadfull darknese lend desired light;
And all ye powers which in the same remayne,
More than we men can fayne;

Poure out your blessing on us plentiously,

And happy influence upon us raine,

That we may raise a large posterity,

Which from the earth, which they may long possesse

With lasting happinesse,

Up to your haughty pallaces may mount;

And, for the guerdon of theyr 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 tymely joyes to sing:
The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring!

390

Song! made in lieu of many ornaments,

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

Ye would not stay your dew time to expect,
But promist both to recompens;
Be unto her a goodly ornament,

And for short time an endlesse moniment!

427

S

POEMS.

N youth, before I waxed old,

IN

The blynd boy, Venus baby,
For want of cunning made me bold,
In bitter hyve to grope for honny:
But, when he saw me stung and cry,
He tooke his wings and away did fly.

AS

S Diane hunted on a day,

She chaunst to come where Cupid lay,

His quiver by his head:

One of his shafts she stole away,

And one of hers did close convay

Into the others stead:

With that Love wounded my Loves hart,

But Diane beasts with Cupids dart.

I SAW, in secret to my Dame,

How little Cupid humbly came,

And said to her; "All hayle, my mother!"
But, when he saw me laugh, for shame
His face with bashfull blood did flame,
Not knowing Venus from the other.
"Then, never blush, Cupid, quoth I,
For many have err'd in this beauty."

UPON a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbring

All in his mothers lap;

A gentle Bee, with his loud trumpet murm'ring,
About him flew by hap.

Whereof when he was wakened with the noyse,
And saw the beast so small;

"Whats this (quoth he) that gives so great a voyce,
That wakens men withall?"

In

angry wize he flies about,

And threatens all with corage stout.

To whom his mother closely smiling sayd,

"Twixt earnest and 'twixt game:

"See! thou thy selfe likewise art lyttle made,

If thou regard the same.

And yet thou suffrest neyther Gods in sky,
Nor men in earth, to rest :

But, when thou art disposed cruelly,

Theyr sleepe thou doost molest.

Then eyther change thy cruelty,

Or give lyke leave unto the fly."
Nathelesse, the cruell boy, not so content,
Would needs the fly pursue;

And in his hand with heedlesse hardiment,
Him caught for to subdue.

But, when on it he hasty hand did lay,

The Bee him stung therefore:

"Now out alas, he cryde, and welaway, I wounded am full sore:

The fly, that I so much did scorne,

Hath hurt me with his little horne."

Unto his mother straight he weeping came,

And of his griefe complayned:

Who could not chuse but laugh at his fond game,

Though sad to see him pained.

"Think now (quoth she) my son, how great the smart

Of those whom thou dost wound:

Full many thou hast pricked to the hart,