283. A Nuptial Song or Epithalamy on Sir Clipseby Crew and His Lady

What's that we see from far? the spring of dayBloom'd from the east, or fair enjewell'd MayBlown out of April, or some newStar filled with glory to our view,Reaching at heaven,To add a nobler planet to the seven?Say, or do we not descrySome goddess in a cloud of tiffanyTo move, or rather theEmergent Venus from the sea?

'Tis she! 'tis she! or else some more divineEnlightened substance; mark how from the shrineOf holy saints she paces on,Treading upon vermilionAnd amber: spic-ing the chaft air with fumes of Paradise.Then come on, come on and yieldA savour like unto a blessed fieldWhen the bedabbled mornWashes the golden ears of corn.

See where she comes; and smell how all the streetBreathes vineyards and pomegranates: O how sweet!As a fir'd altar is each stone,Perspiring pounded cinnamon.The phœnix' nest,Built up of odours, burneth in her breast.Who, therein, would not consumeHis soul to ash-heaps in that rich perfume?Bestroking fate the whileHe burns to embers on the pile.

Hymen, O Hymen! tread the sacred ground;Show thy white feet and head with marjoram crown'd:Mount up thy flames and let thy torchDisplay the bridegroom in the porch,In his desiresMore towering, more disparkling than thy fires:Show her how his eyes do turnAnd roll about, and in their motions burnTheir balls to cinders: hasteOr else to ashes he will waste.

Glide by the banks of virgins, then, and passThe showers of roses, lucky four-leav'd grass:The while the cloud of younglings singAnd drown ye with a flowery spring;While some repeatYour praise and bless you, sprinkling you with wheat;While that others do divine,Bless'd is the bride on whom the sun doth shine;And thousands gladly wishYou multiply as doth a fish.

And, beauteous bride, we do confess y'are wiseIn dealing forth these bashful jealousies:In love's name do so; and a priceSet on yourself by being nice:But yet take heed;What now you seem be not the same indeed,And turn apostate: love will,Part of the way be met or sit stone-still.On, then, and though you slow-ly go, yet, howsoever, go.

And now y'are entered; see the coddled cookRuns from his torrid zone to pry and lookAnd bless his dainty mistress: seeThe aged point out, "This is sheWho now must swayThe house (love shield her) with her yea and nay":And the smirk butler thinks itSin in's napery not to express his wit;Each striving to deviseSome gin wherewith to catch your eyes.

To bed, to bed, kind turtles, now, and writeThis the short'st day, and this the longest night;But yet too short for you: 'tis weWho count this night as long as three,Lying alone,Telling the clock strike ten, eleven, twelve, one.Quickly, quickly then prepare,And let the young men and the bride-maids shareYour garters; and their jointsEncircle with the bridegroom's points.

By the bride's eyes, and by the teeming lifeOf her green hopes, we charge ye that no strife(Farther than gentleness tends) gets placeAmong ye, striving for her lace:O do not fallFoul in these noble pastimes, lest ye callDiscord in, and so divideThe youthful bridegroom and the fragrant bride:Which love forfend; but spokenBe't to your praise, no peace was broken.

Strip her of springtime, tender-whimpering maids,Now autumn's come, when all these flowery aidsOf her delays must end; disposeThat lady-smock, that pansy, and that roseNeatly apart,But for prick-madam and for gentle-heart,And soft maidens'-blush, the brideMakes holy these, all others lay aside:Then strip her, or unto herLet him come who dares undo her.

And to enchant ye more, see everywhereAbout the roof a siren in a sphere,As we think, singing to the dinOf many a warbling cherubin.O mark ye howThe soul of nature melts in numbers: nowSee, a thousand Cupids flyTo light their tapers at the bride's bright eye.To bed, or her they'll tire,Were she an element of fire.

And to your more bewitching, see, the proudPlump bed bear up, and swelling like a cloud,Tempting the two too modest; canYe see it brusle like a swan,And you be coldTo meet it when it woos and seems to foldThe arms to hug it? Throw, throwYourselves into the mighty overflowOf that white pride, and drownThe night with you in floods of down.

The bed is ready, and the maze of loveLooks for the treaders; everywhere is woveWit and new mystery; read, andPut in practice, to understandAnd know each wile,Each hieroglyphic of a kiss or smile;And do it to the full; reachHigh in your own conceit, and some way teachNature and art one morePlay than they ever knew before.

If needs we must for ceremony's sake,Bless a sack-posset, luck go with it, takeThe night-charm quickly, you have spellsAnd magics for to end, and hellsTo pass; but suchAnd of such torture as no one would grutchTo live therein for ever: fryAnd consume, and grow again to dieAnd live, and, in that case,Love the confusion of the place.

But since it must be done, despatch, and sewUp in a sheet your bride, and what if soIt be with rock or walls of brassYe tower her up, as Danae was;Think you that thisOr hell itself a powerful bulwark is?I tell ye no; but like aBold bolt of thunder he will make his way,And rend the cloud, and throwThe sheet about like flakes of snow.

All now is hushed in silence: midwife-moonWith all her owl-eyed issue begs a boon,Which you must grant; that's entrance; withWhich extract, all we can call pithAnd quintessenceOf planetary bodies, so commence,All fair constellationsLooking upon ye, that two nations,Springing from two such firesMay blaze the virtue of their sires.