And yield their services unto her will;
Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may
Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill.
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 into 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 whiles, with hollow throats,

The choristers the joyous anthem sing,

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

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks,
And blesseth her with his two happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,
And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stain,
Like crimson dyed in grain:

That even th' Angels, which continually
About the sacred altar do remain,

Forget their service and about her fly,

Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair,
The more they on it stare.

But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,
Are governed with goodly modesty,

That suffers not one look to glance awry,
Which may let in a little thought unsound.
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand,
The pledge of all our band?

Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluia sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your

echo ring.

Now all is done: bring home the bride again;
Bring home the triumph of our victory:
Bring home with you the glory of her gain
With joyance bring her and with jollity.
Never had man more joyful day than this
Whom heaven would heap with bliss,

Make feast therefore now all this live-long day;

This day for ever to me holy is.

Pour out the wine without restraint or stay,
Pour not by cups, but by the bellyful,

Pour out to all that will,

And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine,
That they may sweat, and drunken be withal.
Crown ye god Bacchus with a coronal,

And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine;
And let the Graces dance unto the rest,
For they can do it best:

The whiles the maidens do their carol sing,

To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.

Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town,

And leave your wonted labours for this day:

This day is holy; do ye write it down,

This day the sun is in his chiefest height,
With Barnaby the bright,

From whence declining daily by degrees,
He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,
When once the Crab behind his back he sees.
But for this time it ill ordained was,

To choose the longest day in all the year,
And shortest night, when longest fitter were:
Yet never day so long, but late would pass.
Ring ye the bells, to make it wear away,
And bonfires make all day;

And dance about them, and about them sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end,
And lend me leave to come unto my love?
How slowly do the hours their numbers spend!
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!
Haste thee, O fairest planet, to thy home,
Within the western foam:

Thy tired steeds long since have need of rest.
Long though it be, at last I see it gloom,
And the bright evening-star with golden crest
Appear out of the East.

Fair child of beauty! glorious lamp of love!
That all the host of heaven in ranks dost lead,

And guidest lovers through the night's sad dread,

How cheerfully thou lookest from above,

And seem'st to laugh atween thy twinkling light,
As joying in the sight

Of these glad many, which for joy do sing,

That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring!

Now cease, ye damsels, your delights forepast;
Enough it is that all the day was yours:

Now day is done, and night is nighing fast,

Now bring the bride into the bridal bowers.
The night is come, now soon her disarray,
And in her bed her lay;

Lay her in lilies and in violets,

And silken curtains over her display,

And odoured sheets, and Arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my fair love does lie,
In proud humility!

Like unto Maia, whenas Jove her took
In Tempe, lying on the flowery grass,
Twixt sleep and wake, after she weary was
With bathing in the Acidalian brook.
Now it is night, ye damsels may be gone,
And leave my love alone,

And leave likewise your former lay to sing:

The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo ring.

Now welcome, Night! thou night so long expected,
That long day's labour dost at last defray,

And all my cares, which cruel love collected,
Hast summed in one, and cancelled for aye:

Spread thy broad wing over my love and me,
That no man may us see;

And in thy sable mantle us enwrap,

From fear of peril and foul horror free.
Let no false treason seek us to entrap,
Nor any dread disquiet once annoy
The safety of our joy;

But let the night be calm and quietsome,
Without tempestuous storms or sad affray:
Like as when Jove with fair Alcmena lay,
When he begot the great Tirynthian groom:
Or like as when he with thyself did lie
And begot Majesty.

And let the maids and young men cease to sing;

Ne let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring.

Let no lamenting cries, nor doleful tears
Be heard all night within, nor yet without:
Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden fears,
Break gentle sleep with misconceived doubt
Let no deluding dreams, nor dreadful sights,
Make sudden sad affrights;

Ne let house-fires, nor lightning's helpless harms,
Ne let the Pouke1, nor other evil sprights,

Ne let mischievous witches with their charms
Ne let hob goblins, names whose sense we see not,
Fray us with things that be not:

Let not the screechowl nor the stork be heard,
Nor the night raven, that still deadly yells;
Nor damned ghosts, called up with mighty spells,
Nor griesly vultures, make us once affeared:
Ne let th' unpleasant choir of frogs still croaking
Make us to wish their choking.

Let none of these their dreary accents sing;

Ne let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring.

But let still Silence true night-watches keep,
That sacred Peace may in assurance reign,
And timely Sleep, when it is time to sleep,

May pour his limbs forth on your pleasant plain;
The whiles an hundred little winged loves,

Like diverse-feathered doves,

Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,

And in the secret dark, that none reproves,

Their pretty stealths shall work, and snares shall spread, To filch away sweet snatches of delight,

Concealed through covert night.

Ye sons of Venus, play your sports at will!
For greedy Pleasure, careless of your toys,
Thinks more upon her paradise of joys,

1 Puck.