The Flower of the Mind

								




   Ye Nymphs of Mulla, which with careful heed

   The silver scaly trouts do tend full well,

   And greedy pikes which use therein to feed

   (Those trouts and pikes all others do excel);

   And ye likewise, which keep the rushy lake,

   Where none do fishes take;

   Bind up the locks the which hang scattered light,

   And in his waters, which your mirror make,

   Behold your faces as the crystal bright,

   That when you come whereas my love doth lie,

   No blemish she may spy.

   And eke, ye lightfoot maids, which keep the door,

   That on the hoary mountain used to tower;

   And the wild wolves, which seek them to devour,

   With your steel darts do chase from coming near;

   Be also present here,

   To help to deck her, and to help to sing,

   That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.



   Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time:

   The Rosy Morn long since left Tithon’s bed,

   All ready to her silver coach to climb;

   And Phœbus ’gins to show his glorious head.

   Hark! how the cheerful birds do chant their lays

   And carol of love’s praise.

   The merry Lark her matins sings aloft;

   The Thrush replies; the Mavis descant plays:

   The Ouzel shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft;

   So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,

   To this day’s merriment.

   Ah! my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long,

   When meeter were that ye should now awake,

   T’ await the coming of your joyous make,

   And hearken to the birds’ love-learned song,

   The dewy leaves among?

   For they of joy and pleasance to you sing,

   That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.



   My love is now awake out of her dreams,

   And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were

   With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams

   More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear.

   Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight,

   Help quickly her to dight!

   But first come, ye fair hours, which were begot,

   In Jove’s sweet paradise, of Day and Night;

   Which do the seasons of the year allot,

   And all, that ever in this world is fair,

   Do make and still repair:

   And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen,

   The which do still adorn her beauty’s pride,

   Help to adorn my beautifullest bride:

   And, as ye her array, still throw between

   Some graces to be seen;

   And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,

   The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring.



   Now is my love all ready forth to come:

   Let all the virgins therefore well await:

   And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon her groom,

   Prepare yourselves, for he is coming straight.

   Set all your things in seemly good array,

   Fit for so joyful day:

   The joyfullest day that ever Sun did see.

   Fair Sun! show forth thy favourable ray,

   And let thy life-full heat not fervent be,

   For fear of burning her sunshiny face,

   Her beauty to disgrace.

   O fairest Phœbus! father of the Muse!

   If ever I did honour thee aright,