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Upon your brydale day, which is not long:
Sweete Themmes, run softlie, till I end my song."

So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,
Which said their bridale daye should not be long;
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground
Their accents did resound.

So forth those joyous birdes did passe along,
Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde low,
As he would speake but that he lackt a tong,
Yeat did by signes his glad affection show,
Making his streame run slow.

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And all the foule which in his flood did dwell

Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell

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The rest so far as Cynthia doth shend

The lesser starres: so they, enrangèd well,
Did on those two attend,

And their best service lend

Against their wedding-day, which was not long:

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Sweete Themmes, run softly, till I end my song.

At length they all to mery London came,

To mery London, my most kyndly nurse,

That to me gave this lifes first native sourse,
Though from another place I take my name,
An house of auncient fame.

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There when they came, whereas those bricky towres,
The which on Themmes brode agèd backe doe ryde,
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde, 135
Till they decayd through pride:

Next whereunto there standes a stately place,
Where oft I gaynèd giftes and goodly grace

Of that great lord which therein wont to dwell,

Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case.
But, ah, here fits not well

Olde woes but joyes to tell,

Against the bridale daye, which is not long:

Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song.

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Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,

Great Englands glory and the worlds wide wonder,

Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did

thunder,

And Hercules two pillors standing neere

Did make to quake and feare.

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Faire branch of honor, flower of chevalrie,

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That fillest England with thy triumphes fame,
Joy have thou of thy noble victorie,

And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name,
That promiseth the same;

That through thy prowesse and victorious armes

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Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes,
And great Elisaes glorious name may ring

Through al the world, filed with thy wide alarmes;
Which some brave Muse may sing

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To ages following,

Upon the brydale day, which is not long:

Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song.

From those high towers this noble lord issuing,

Like radiant Hesper when his golden hayre
In th' ocean billowes he hath bathèd fayre,
Descended to the rivers open vewing,

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With a great traine ensuing.

Above the rest were goodly to bee seene

Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,
Beseeming well the bower of anie queene,

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With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature

Fit for so goodly stature,

That like the twins of Jove they seemed in sight,
Which decke the bauldricke of the heavens bright.
They two, forth pacing to the rivers side,

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Received those two faire brides, their loves delight;
Which, at th' appointed tyde,

Each one did make his bryde,

Against their brydale day, which is not long:

Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 180

1596.

1596.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH

THE SILENT LOVER

Passions are likened best to floods and streams;
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb:
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words, in words discover
That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

HIS PILGRIMAGE

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,

My bottle of salvation,

1651?

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My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

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Whilst my soul, like a quiet palmer,

Travelleth towards the land of heaven,
Over the silver mountains,

ΤΟ

Where spring the nectar fountains.

There will I kiss

The bowl of bliss,

And drink mine everlasting fill

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Upon every milken hill.

My soul will be a-dry before,

But, after, it will thirst no more.

Then, by that happy blissful day,

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me.
I'll take them first,

To quench their thirst

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No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey,

For there Christ is the King's Attorney,

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Who pleads for all, without degrees,

And He hath angels but no fees.

And when the grand twelve-million jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,

Against our souls black verdicts give,

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Christ pleads His death; and then we live.

Be Thou my speaker, taintless Pleader!

Unblotted Lawyer! true Proceeder!

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and spread,

Set on my soul an everlasting head!

Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,

To tread those blest paths, which before I writ. About 1603.

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THE CONCLUSION

Even such is Time, that takes on trust

Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;

Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days:

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But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.

1628.

1618?

JOHN LYLY

SONG BY APELLES

Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid.

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;

Loses them too. Then down he throws

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The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);

With these, the crystal of his brow,

And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love, has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

1581?

1584.

WHAT BIRD SO SINGS, YET SO DOES WAIL

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?

O'tis the ravished nightingale;

ΙΟ

“Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries,

And still her woes at midnight rise:

Brave prick-song! Who is 't now we hear?

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None but the lark so shrill and clear;

Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings,

The morn not waking till she sings.

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