That even the greatest did not greatly scorne To heare theyr names sung in your simple

layes,

But joyèd in theyr praise;

And when ye list your owne mishaps to

mourne,

Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did

rayse,

Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne, And teach the woods and waters to lament Your dolefull dreriment:

Now lay those sorrow full complaints aside;
And, having all your heads with girlands
crownd,

Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound;
Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride!
So I unto my selfe alone will sing;

The woods shall to me answer, and my Eccho ring.

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Early, before the worlds light-giving lampe
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,
Doe ye awake; and, with fresh lusty-hed,
Go to the bowre of my beloved love,

My truest turtle dove;

Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,

And long since ready forth his maske to move, With his bright Tead that flames with many

a flake,

And many a bachelor to waite on him,
In theyr fresh garments trim.

Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight,
For lo! the wishèd day is come at last,

That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes

past,

Pay to her usury of long delight:

And, whylest she doth her dight,

Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your

eccho ring.

Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can

heare

Both of the rivers and the forrests greene, And of the sea that neighbours to her neare: Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene. And let them also with them bring in hand Another gay girland

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For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses, Bound truelove wize, with a blew silke riband. And let them make great store of bridale poses, And let them eeke bring store of other flowers, To deck the bridale bowers.

And let the ground whereas her foot shall

tread,

For feare the stones her tender foot should

wrong,

Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along,
And diapred lyke the discolored mead.

Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt,
For she will waken strayt;

The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing,
The woods shall to you answer, and your

Eccho ring.

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Ye Nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heed
The silver scaly trouts doe tend full well,
And greedy pikes which use therein to feed;
(Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell;)
And ye likewise, which keepe the rushy lake,
Where none doo fishes take;

Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd
light,

And in his waters, which your mirror make,
Behold your faces as the christall bright,

That when you come whereas my love doth lie,
No blemish she may spie.

And eke, ye light foot mayds, which keepe the deere,

That on the hoary mountayne used to towre; And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to

devoure,

With your steele darts doo chace from comming neer;

Be also present heere,

To helpe to decke her, and to help to sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your

eccho ring.

Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time;
The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed,
All ready to her silver coche to clyme;
And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed.

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Hark! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies

And carroll of Loves praise.

The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft;

The Thrush replyes; the Mavis descant playes; The Ouzell shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft; So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,

To this dayes merriment.

Ah! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long?

When meeter were that ye should now awake, T'awayt the comming of your joyous make, And hearken to the birds love-learnèd song, The deawy leaves among!

Nor they of joy and pleasance to you sing, That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.

My love is now awake out of her dreames,
And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmèd

were

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With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams

More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere. Come now, ye damzels, daughters of delight, Helpe quickly her to dight:

But first come ye fayre houres, which were
begot

In Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night;
Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot,
And al, that ever in this world is fayre,
Doe make and still repayre:

And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian

Queene,

The which doe still adorne her beauties pride,

Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride:

And, as ye her array, still throw betweene

Some graces to be seene;

And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,

The whiles the woods shal answer, and your

eccho ring.

Now is my love all ready forth to come:

Let all the virgins therefore well awayt:

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And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome,
Prepare your selves; for he is comming strayt.
Set all your things in seemely good aray,
Fit for so joyfull day:

The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see.
Faire Sun! shew forth thy favourable ray,
And let thy lifull heat not fervent be,
For feare of burning her sunshyny face,
Her beauty to disgrace.

O fayrest Phoebus! father of the Muse!
If ever I did honour thee aright,

Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight,
Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse;
But let this day, let this one day, be myne;
Let all the rest be thine.

Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing, That all the woods shal answer, and theyr

eccho ring.

Harke! how the Minstrils gin to shrill aloud Their merry Musick that resounds from far,

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