Arising forth to run her mighty race,
Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best.
So well it her beseems, that ye would ween
Some angel she had been.
Her long, loose yellow locks, like golden wire,
Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween,
Do like a golden mantle her attire ;
And being crowned with a garland green,
Seem like some maiden queen.
Her modest eyes, abashed to behold
So many gazers as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixed are;
Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold,
But blush to hear her praises sung so loud,
So far from being proud.
Natheless do ye still loud her praises sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.
Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see
So fair a creature in your town before?
So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,
Adorn'd with Beauty's grace, and Virtue's store?
Her goodly eyes like sapphires shining bright,
Her forehead ivory white;
Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath rudded,
Her lips like cherries, charming men to bite,
Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded,
Her paps like lillies budded,
Her snowy neck like to a marble tower;
And all her body like a palace fair,
Ascending up with many a stately stair
To Honour's seat and Chastity's sweet bower.
Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze,
Upon her so to gaze,
Whilst ye forget your former lay to sing,
To which the woods did answer, and your echo ring.
But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
The inward beauty of her lively sprite,
Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree,
Much more, then, would ye wonder at that sight,
And stand astonish'd, like to those which read
Medusa's amazeful head.
There dwells sweet Love and constant Chastity,
Unspotted Faith, and comely Womanhood,
Regard of Honour, and mild Modesty.
There Virtue reigns as queen in royal throne,
And giveth laws alone,
The which the base affections do obey,
And yield their services unto her will;
Ne thought of things 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
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 whilst, with hollow throats,
The choristers the joyous anthem sing,
That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring.
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That vallies, groves, and hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountains yield.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle:
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs ;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight, each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love *.
This song is printed in England's Helicon, and it is sung by Maudlin, the pretty milkmaid, in Walton's Angler, where Raleigh's answer to it is sung by her mother.
THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD'S INVITATION.
If all the world and Love were young,
And truth on every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Time drives the flock from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And Age complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is Fancy's spring, but Sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs;
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