149. An Epithalamy to Sir Thomas Southwell and His Lady

Now, now's the time, so oft by truthPromis'd should come to crown your youth.Then, fair ones, do not wrongYour joys by staying long;Or let love's fire go out,By lingering thus in doubt;But learn that time once lostIs ne'er redeem'd by cost.Then away; come, Hymen, guideTo the bed the bashful bride.

Is it, sweet maid, your fault these holyBridal rites go on so slowly?Dear, is it this you dreadThe loss of maidenhead?Believe me, you will mostEsteem it when 'tis lost;Then it no longer keep,Lest issue lie asleep.Then, away; come, Hymen, guideTo the bed the bashful bride.

These precious, pearly, purling tearsBut spring from ceremonious fears.And 'tis but native shameThat hides the loving flame,And may a while controlThe soft and am'rous soul;But yet love's fire will wasteSuch bashfulness at last.Then, away; come, Hymen, guideTo the bed the bashful bride.

Night now hath watch'd herself half blind,Yet not a maidenhead resign'd!'Tis strange, ye will not flyTo love's sweet mystery.Might yon full moon the sweetsHave, promised to your sheets,She soon would leave her sphere,To be admitted there.Then, away; come, Hymen, guideTo the bed the bashful bride.

On, on devoutly, make no stay;While Domiduca leads the way,And Genius, who attendsThe bed for lucky ends.With Juno goes the HoursAnd Graces strewing flowers.And the boys with sweet tunes sing:Hymen, O Hymen, bringHome the turtles; Hymen, guideTo the bed the bashful bride.

Behold! how Hymen's taper-lightShows you how much is spent of night.See, see the bridegroom's torchHalf wasted in the porch.And now those tapers five,That show the womb shall thrive,Their silv'ry flames advance,To tell all prosp'rous chanceStill shall crown the happy lifeOf the goodman and the wife.

Move forward then your rosy feet,And make whate'er they touch turn sweet.May all, like flowery meads,Smell where your soft foot treads;And everything assumeTo it the like perfume,As Zephyrus when he 'spiresThrough woodbine and sweetbriars.Then, away; come, Hymen, guideTo the bed the bashful bride.

And now the yellow veil at lastOver her fragrant cheek is cast.Now seems she to expressA bashful willingness:Showing a heart consenting,As with a will repenting.Then gently lead her onWith wise suspicion;For that, matrons say, a measureOf that passion sweetens pleasure.

You, you that be of her nearest kin,Now o'er the threshold force her in.But to avert the worstLet her her fillets firstKnit to the posts, this pointRemembering, to anointThe sides, for 'tis a charmStrong against future harm;And the evil deads, the whichThere was hidden by the witch.

O Venus! thou to whom is knownThe best way how to loose the zoneOf virgins, tell the maidShe need not be afraid,And bid the youth applyClose kisses if she cry,And charge he not forbearsHer though she woo with tears.Tell them now they must adventure,Since that love and night bid enter.

No fatal owl the bedstead keeps,With direful notes to fright your sleeps;No furies here aboutTo put the tapers out,Watch or did make the bed:'Tis omen full of dread;But all fair signs appearWithin the chamber here.Juno here far off doth stand,Cooling sleep with charming wand.

Virgins, weep not; 'twill come when,As she, so you'll be ripe for men.Then grieve her not with sayingShe must no more a-maying,Or by rosebuds divineWho'll be her valentine.Nor name those wanton reaksYou've had at barley-breaks,But now kiss her and thus say,"Take time, lady, while ye may".

Now bar the doors; the bridegroom putsThe eager boys to gather nuts.And now both love and timeTo their full height do climb:Oh! give them active heatAnd moisture both complete:Fit organs for increase,To keep and to releaseThat which may the honour'd stemCircle with a diadem.

And now, behold! the bed or couchThat ne'er knew bride's or bridegroom's touch,Feels in itself a fire;And, tickled with desire,Pants with a downy breast,As with a heart possesst,Shrugging as it did moveEv'n with the soul of love.And, oh! had it but a tongue,Doves, 'twould say, ye bill too long.

O enter then! but see ye shunA sleep until the act be done.Let kisses in their close,Breathe as the damask rose,Or sweet as is that gumDoth from Panchaia come.Teach nature now to knowLips can make cherries growSooner than she ever yetIn her wisdom could beget.

On your minutes, hours, days, months, years,Drop the fat blessing of the spheres.That good which heav'n can giveTo make you bravely liveFall like a spangling dewBy day and night on you.May fortune's lily-handOpen at your command;With all lucky birds to sideWith the bridegroom and the bride.

Let bounteous Fates your spindles fullFill, and wind up with whitest wool.Let them not cut the threadOf life until ye bid.May death yet come at last,And not with desp'rate haste,But when ye both can say"Come, let us now away,"Be ye to the barn then borne,Two, like two ripe shocks of corn.