Prothalamion: A Spousall Verse

Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayreSweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly playA gentle spirit, that lightly did delayHot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre;When I (whom sullein care,Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stayIn princes court, and expectation vayneOf idle hopes, which still doe fly awayLike empty shadows, did afflict my brayne,)Walkt forth to ease my payneAlong the shoare of silver streaming Themmes;Whose rutty** bank, the which his river hemmes,Was paynted all with variable flowers,And all the meades adornd with dainty gemmes,Fit to decke maydens bowres,And crowne their paramoursAgainst the brydale day, which is not long@:Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.

There, in a meadow by the rivers side,A flocke of Nymphes I chaunced to espy,All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde,As each had bene a bryde;And each one had a little wicker basket,Made of fine twigs, entrayled curiously,In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket**,And with fine fingers cropt full feateously@The tender stalkes on hye.Of every sort which in that meadow grewThey gathered some; the violet, pallid blew,The little dazie, that at evening closes,The virgin lillie, and the primrose trew,With store of vermeil roses,To deck their bridegroomes posiesAgainst the brydale day, which was not long:Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.

With that I saw two Swannes of goodly heweCome softly swimming downe along the lee:Two fairer birds I yet did never see;The snow which doth the top of Pindus strewDid never whiter shew,Nor Jove himselfe, when he a swan would beFor love of Leda, whiter did appear;Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he,Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near:So purely white they were,That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,Seem’d foule to them, and bad his billowes spareTo wet their silken feathers, least they mightSoyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,And marre their beauties bright,That shone as heavens light,Against their brydale day, which was not long:Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.

Eftsoones, the Nymphes, which now had flowers their fill,Ran all in haste to see that silver brood,As they came floating on the cristal flood;Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still,Their wondring eyes to fill.Them seem’d they never saw a sight so fayreOf fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deemeThem heavenly borne, or to be that same payreWhich through the skie draw Venus stiver teeme;For sure they did not seemeTo be begot of any earthly seede,But rather angels, or of angels breede;Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say,In sweetest season, when each flower and weedeThe earth did fresh aray;So fresh they seem’d as day,Even as their brydale day, which was not long:Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.

Then forth they all out of their baskets drewGreat store of flowers, the honour of the field,That to the sense did fragrant odours yeild,All which upon those goodly birds they threw,And all the waves did strew,That like old Peneus waters they did seeme,When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore,Scattred with flowres, through Thessaly they streeme,That they appeare, through lillies plenteous store,Like a brydes chamber flore.Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two garlands boundOf freshest flowres which in that mead they found,The which presenting all in trim array,Their snowie foreheads therewithall they crownd,Whilst one did sing this lay,Prepar’d against that day,Against their brydale day, which was not long:Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.

“Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament,And heavens glorie, whom this happie howerDoth leade unto your lovers blissfull bower,Ioy may you have, and gentle hearts contentOf your loves couplement;And let faire Venus, that is Queene of Love,With her heart-quelling sonne upon you smile,Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to removeAll loves dislike, and friendships faultie guileFor ever to assoile.Let endlesse peace your steadfast hearts accord,And blessed plentie wait upon your bord;And let your bed with pleasures chast abound.That fruitfull issue may to you afford,Which may your foes confound,And make your ioyes redoundUpon your brydale day, which is not long:Sweet Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my song.”

So ended she; and all the rest aroundTo her redoubled that her undersong,Which said, their brydale daye should not be long:And gentle Eccho from the neighbour groundTheir accents did resound.So forth those ioyous birdes did passe alongAdowne the lee, that to them murmurde low,As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,Yet did by signes his glad affection show,Making his streame run slow.And all the foule which in his flood did dwellGan flock about these twaine, that did excellThe rest so far as Cynthia doth shend**The lesser stars. So they, enranged well,Did on those two attend,And their best service lendAgainst their wedding day, which was not long:Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.

At length they all to mery London came,To mery London, my most kyndly nurse,That to me gave this lifes first native sourse,Though from another place I take my name,An house of auncient fame.There when they came whereas those bricky towresThe which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde,Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers.—There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde,Till they decayd through pride,—Next whereunto there standes a stately place,Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly graceOf that great lord which therein wont to dwell,Whose want too well now feels my freendles case:But ah! here fits not wellOlde woes, but ioyes, to tell,Against the bridale daye, which is not long:Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,Great Englands glory and the worlds wide wonder,Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did thunder,And Hercules two pillors standing neereDid make to quake and feare.Faire branch of honor, flower of chevalrie!That fillest England with thy triumphs fame,Ioy have thou of thy noble victorie,And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name,That promiseth the same;That through thy prowesse and victorious armesThy country may be freed from forraine harmes,And great Elisaes glorious name may ringThrough al the world, fil’d with thy wide alarmes.Which some brave Muse may singTo ages following,Upon the brydale day, which is not long:Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.expedition against Cadiz, from which Essex returned in August, 1596.

From those high towers this noble lord issuing,Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hayreIn th’ocean billowes he hath bathed fayre,Descended to the rivers open vewing,With a great traine ensuing.Above the rest were goodly to bee sceneTwo gentle Knights of lovely face and feature,Beseeming well the bower of any queene,With gifts of wit and ornaments of natureFit for so goodly stature,That like the twins of Iove they seem’d in sight,Which decke the bauldricke of the heavens bright.They two, forth pacing to the rivers side,Receiv’d those two faire brides, their loves delight;Which, at th’appointed tyde,Each one did make his brydeAgainst their brydale day, which is not long:Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.