And thou, great Juno! which with awful might The laws of wedlock still dost patronize, And the religion of the faith first plight With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize; And eke for comfort often called art Of women in their smart; Eternally bind thou this lovely band, And all thy blessings unto us impart. And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand The bridal bower and genial bed remain, Without blemish or stain; And the sweet pleasures of their love’s delight With secret aid dost succour and supply, Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny; Send us the timely fruit of this same night. And thou, fair Hebe! and thou, Hymen free! Grant that it may so be. Till which we cease your further praise to sing; Ne any woods shall answer, nor your echo ring.
And ye high heavens, the Temple of the Gods, In which a thousand torches flaming bright Do burn, that to us wretched earthly clods In dreadful darkness lend desired light; And all ye powers which in the same remain, More than we men can feign! Pour out your blessing on us plenteously, And happy influence upon us rain, That we may raise a large posterity, Which from the earth, which they may long possess With lasting happiness, Up to your haughty palaces may mount; And, for the guerdon of their glorious merit, May heavenly tabernacles there inherit, Of blessed saints for to increase the count. So let us rest, sweet Love, in hope of this, And cease till then our timely joys to sing: The woods no more us answer, nor our echo ring!
_Song_! _made in lieu of many ornaments_, _With which my Love should duly have been decked_. _Which cutting off through hasty accidents_, _Ye would not stay your due time to expect_, _But promised both to recompense_; _Be unto her a goodly ornament_, _And for short time an endless monument_.
WHAT bird so sings, yet does so wail? O, ’tis the ravished nightingale! ‘Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu,’ she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song! who is’t now we hear? None but the lark so shrill and clear; Now at heaven’s gate she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings. Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat Poor robin-redbreast tunes his note; Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing! Cuckoo to welcome in the spring, Cuckoo to welcome in the spring!