The rising sun, do think it two,
So, as you go to church, do think of you:
But that veil being gone,
By the church-rites you are from thenceforth one.
The church triumphant made this match before,
And now the militant doth strive no more.
Then, reverend priest, who God's recorder art,
Do from his dictates to these two impart
All blessings which are seen, or thought, by
angel's eye or heart.
Blest pair of swans, O may you interbring
Daily new joys, and never sing:
Live, till all grounds of wishes fail,
Till honor, yea till wisdom grow so stale,
That new great heights to try,
It must serve your ambition, to die ;
Raise heirs, and may here to the world's end live
Heirs from this king to take thanks; you, to give.
Nature and grace do all, and nothing art;
May never age or error overthwart
With any west these radiant eyes, with any north this heart.
But you are over-blest. Plenty this day
Injures; it causeth time to stay;
The tables groan, as though this feast Would, as the flood, destroy all fowl and beast.
And were the doctrine new
[true;
That the earth moved, this day would make it
For every part to dance and revel goes,
They tread the air, and fall not where they rose.
Though six hours since the sun to bed did part
The masks and banquets will not yet impart
A sunset to these weary eyes, a centre to this
heart.
IX. THE BRIDE'S GOING TO BED
What mean'st thou, bride, this company to keep? To sit up, till thou fain would sleep?
Thou may'st not, when thou'rt laid, do so.
Thyself must to him a new banquet grow,
And you must entertain,
And do all this day's dances o'er again.
Know, that if sun and moon together do
Rise in one point, they do not set so too.
Therefore thou may'st, fair bride, to bed depart;
Thou art not gone being gone; where'er thou art,
Thou leav'st in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy
loving heart.
X. THE BRIDEGROOM'S COMING.
As he that sees a star fall, runs apace
And finds a jelly in the place,
So doth the bridegroom haste as much,
Being told this star is fall'n, and finds her such.
And as friends may look strange
By a new fashion, or apparel's change,
Their souls, though long acquainted they ha
been,
These clothes, their bodies, never yet had see
Therefore at first she modestly might start,
But must forthwith surrender every part
As freely, as each to each before gave either hand
or heart.
Now, as in Tullia's tomb one lamp burnt clear,
Unchanged for fifteen hundred year,
May these love-lamps we here enshrine,
In warmth, light, lasting, equal the divine.
Fire ever doth aspire,
And makes all like itself, turns all to fire,―
But ends in ashes; which these cannot do,
For none of these is fuel, but fire too.
This is joy's bonfire, then, where love's strong arts Make of so noble individual parts
One fire of four inflaming eyes, and of two loving hearts.
As I have brought this song, that I
A perfect sacrifice, I'll burn it too.
No, Sir, this paper I have justly got,
For in burnt incense the perfume is not
His only, that presents it, but of all;
Whatever celebrates this festival
Is common, since the joy thereof is so.
Nor may yourself be priest: but let me go
Back to the court, and I will lay't upon
Such altars as prize your devotion.
THE sunbeams in the east are spread,
Leave, leave, fair bride, your solitary bed;
No more shall you return to it alone;
It nurseth sadness; and your body's print,
Like to a grave, the yielding down doth dint.
You and your other you meet there anon ;
Put forth, put forth, that warm balm-breathing
thigh,
Which when next time you in these sheets will smother,
There it must meet another,
Which never was, but must be oft more nigh;
Come glad from thence, go gladder than you
To-day put on perfection, and a woman's name.
Daughters of London, you which be
Our golden mines, and furnished treasury;
You which are angels, yet still bring with you
Thousands of angels on your marriage-days,
Help with your presence, and devise to praise
These rites, which also unto you grow due.
Conceitedly dress her, and be assigned
By you fit place for every flower and jewel,
Make her for love fit fuel
As gay as Flora, and as rich as Ind;
So may she fair and rich, in nothing lame,
To-day put on perfection, and a woman's name.
And you, frolic patricians,
Sons of those senators, wealth's deep oceans;
Ye painted courtiers, barrels of others' wits;
Ye countrymen, who but your beasts love none;
Ye of those fellowships, whereof he's one,
Of study and play made strange hermaphro dites,
Here shine; this bridegroom to the Temple
Lo, in yon path, which store of strewed flowers
The sober virgin paceth;
Except my sight fail, 't is no other thing.
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