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Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove
All loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile
For ever to assoile.1

Let endlesse peace your steadfast hearts accord,
And blessed plentie wait upon your bord;
And let your bed with pleasures chast abound,
That fruitfull issue may to you afford,

Which may your foes confound,

And make your ioyes redound



Upon your brydale day, which is not long :
Sweet Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my song.

So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,

Which said, their brydale daye should not be long:
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground
Their accents did resound.

So forth those ioyous Birdes did passe along
Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde low,
As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,
Yet 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
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend 2


The lesser stars. So they, enranged well,
Did on those two attend,

And their best service lend

Against their wedding day, which was not long: 125 Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.


Assoile, remove.

2 Shend, put to shame.

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:

There when they came, whereas those bricky towres
The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde,
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
There whylome1 wont the Templer Knights to byde,
Till they decayd through pride;

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

Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell.
Whose want too well now feels my freendles case;
But ah! here fits not well

Olde woes, but ioyes, to tell

Against the bridale daye, which is not long:

Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.

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:

Faire branch of honor, flower of chevalrie!

That fillest England with thy triumphs fame,

Ioy have thou of thy noble victorie,

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

1 Whylome, formerly.

Ver. 145.-A noble peer.] The Earl of Essex.


That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes, 155
Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes,
And great Elisaes glorious name may ring

Through al the world, fil'd with thy wide alarmes,
Which some brave Muse

To ages following,

may sing

Upon the brydale day, which is not long:


Sweet 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 bathed fayre,
Descended to the rivers open vewing,
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 any queene,



With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature,

Fit for so goodly stature,

That like the Twins of love they seem'd in sight, Which decke the bauldricke1 of the heavens bright; They two, forth pacing to the rivers side,

Receiv'd 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:



Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.

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