THE GOLDEN POMP I HARK, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin II Shakespeare. MATIN-SONG PACK clouds, away, and welcome, day! A Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow : 1 Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them both I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast, And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! To give my Love good-morrow, T. Heywood. III WHILST IT IS PRIME FRESH Spring, the herald of love's mighty king, Go to my Love, where she is careless laid Yet in her Winter's bower not well awake: THE INVOCATION Bid her therefore herself soon ready make 3 Make haste therefore, sweet Love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passèd time. E. Spenser. IV THE INVOCATION PHOEBUS, arise ! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red; Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; In larger locks than thou wast wont before, And Emperor-like decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. This is that happy morn That day, long wished day Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn 1 Mate. |