Had ye once seen these, her celestial treasures,
And unrevealed pleasures,

Then would ye wonder, and her praises sing,
That all the woods should answer, and your echo ring.

Open the temple gates unto my love;
Open them wide that she may enter in ;
And all the posts adorn as doth behove,
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,
For to receive this saint with honour due,
That cometh in to you.

With trembling steps, and humble reverence,
She cometh in before th' Almighty's view.
Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience

When so ye come unto those holy places
To humble your proud faces.

Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endless matrimony make:
And let the roaring organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord in lively notes:
The whilst, with hollow throats,

The choristers the joyous anthem sing,

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

SPENSER.

TO THE MOON.

WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies!

How silently, and with how wan a face!

What! may it be, that e'en in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrow tries?

Sure if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.

Then, even of fellowship, O moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet

Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there-ungratefulness?

SIDNEY.

EPITHALAMION.

COME, come, dear Night! Love's mart of kisses,
Sweet close of his ambitious line,

The fruitful summer of his blisses;
Love's glory doth in darkness shine.

come,
soft rest of cares! come, Night,
Come, naked virtue's only 'tire,
The reaped harvest of the light,

Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire.

Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
On glorious Day's out-facing face;
And all thy crowned flames command,
For torches to our nuptial grace.

No need have we of factious day,
To cast, in envy of thy peace,
Herbals of discord in thy way;

Her beauty's day can never cease.

Rise, youths! Love's rite claims more than banquets, rise!

Now the bright marigolds that deck the skies,
Phoebus' celestial flowers, that, contrary

To his flowers here, ope when he shuts his eye,
And shuts when he does open, crown your sports!
Now, Love in Night, and Night in Love, exports
Courtship and dances; all your parts employ,
And suit Night's rich expansure with your joy:
Love paints his longings in sweet virgin's eyes;

Rise, youths! Love's rite claims more than banquets, rise !

CHAPMAN.

TIME GOES BY TURNS.

THE lopped tree in time may grow again,

Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain,

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,

She draws her favours to the lowest ebb; Her tides have equal times to come and go;

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web:

No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor every spring,
Not endless night, yet not eternal day:
The saddest birds a season find to sing,

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay

Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are crossed; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall;

Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. SOUTHWELL.

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

Go, Soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless errand:

Fear not to touch the best,
The truth shall be thy warrant ;
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Go, tell the court it glows,

And shines like rotten wood,
Go, tell the church it shows
What's good, and doth no good:
If Church and Court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell zeal it lacks devotion,

Tell love it is but lust,
Tell time it is but motion,
Tell flesh it is but dust;

And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell Fortune of her blindness,
Tell nature of decay,
Tell friendship of unkindness,

Tell justice of delay;

And if they will reply,

Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming,

Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming;

If arts and schools reply,

Give arts and schools the lie.

Tell faith it's fled the city,

Tell how the country erreth,

How manhood shakes off pity,
And virtue least preferreth;
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I

Commanded thee, done blabbing:

Although to give the lie

Deserves no less than stabbing;

Yet stab at thee who will,

No stab the soul can kill.

SOUTHWELL.