Epithalamions, or Marriage Songs

An Epithalamion, or Marriage Song on the Lady Elizabeth and Count Palatine Being Married on St. Valentine’s Day

I

Hail Bishop Valentine, whose day this is;
All the air is thy diocese,
And all the chirping choristers
And other birds are thy parishioners;
Thou marriest every year
The lyric lark, and the grave whispering dove,
The sparrow that neglects his life for love,
The household bird with the red stomacher;
Thou makest the blackbird speed as soon,
As doth the goldfinch, or the halcyon;
The husband cock looks out, and straight is sped,
And meets his wife, which brings her featherbed.
This day more cheerfully than ever shine;
This day, which might inflame thyself, old Valentine.

II

Till now, thou warm’d’st with multiplying loves
Two larks, two sparrows, or two doves;
All that is nothing unto this;
For thou this day couplest two phoenixes;
Thou makst a taper see
What the sun never saw, and what the ark
—Which was of fowls and beasts the cage and park⁠—
Did not contain, one bed contains, through thee;
Two phoenixes, whose joined breasts
Are unto one another mutual nests,
Where motion kindles such fires as shall give
Young phoenixes, and yet the old shall live;
Whose love and courage never shall decline,
But make the whole year through, thy day, O Valentine.

III

Up then, fair phoenix bride, frustrate the sun;
Thyself from thine affection
Takest warmth enough, and from thine eye
All lesser birds will take their jollity.
Up, up, fair bride, and call
Thy stars from out their several boxes, take
Thy rubies, pearls, and diamonds forth, and make
Thyself a constellation of them all;
And by their blazing signify
That a great princess falls, but doth not die.
Be thou a new star, that to us portends
Ends of much wonder; and be thou those ends.
Since thou dost this day in new glory shine,
May all men date records from this day, Valentine.

IV

Come forth, come forth, and as one glorious flame
Meeting another grows the same,
So meet thy Frederick, and so
To an inseparable union go,
Since separation
Falls not on such things as are infinite,
Nor things, which are but one, can disunite.
You’re twice inseparable, great, and one;
Go then to where the bishop stays,
To make you one, his way, which divers ways
Must be effected; and when all is past,
And that you’re one, by hearts and hands made fast,
You two have one way left, yourselves to entwine,
Besides this bishop’s knot, of Bishop Valentine.

V

But O, what ails the sun, that here he stays,
Longer today than other days?
Stays he new light from these to get?
And finding here such stars, is loth to set?
And why do you two walk,
So slowly paced in this procession?
Is all your care but to be look’d upon,
And be to others spectacle and talk?
The feast with gluttonous delays
Is eaten, and too long their meat they praise;
The masquers come late, and I think, will stay,
Like fairies, till the cock crow them away.
Alas! did not antiquity assign
A night as well as day, to thee, old Valentine?

VI

They did, and night is come; and yet we see
Formalities retarding thee.
What mean these ladies, which⁠—as though
They were to take a clock in pieces⁠—go
So nicely about the bride?
A bride, before a “Good night” could be said,
Should vanish from her clothes into her bed,
As souls from bodies steal, and are not spied.
But now she’s laid; what though she be?
Yet there are more delays, for where is he?
He comes and passeth through sphere after sphere;
First her sheets, then her arms, then anywhere.
Let not this day, then, but this night be thine;
Thy day was but the eve to this, O Valentine.

VII

Here lies a she sun, and a he moon there;
She gives the best light to his sphere;
Or each is both, and all, and so
They unto one another nothing owe;
And yet they do, but are
So just and rich in that coin which they pay,
That neither would, nor needs forbear, nor stay;
Neither desires to be spared nor to spare.
They quickly pay their debt, and then
Take no acquittances, but pay again;
They pay, they give, they lend, and so let fall
No such occasion to be liberal.
More truth, more courage in these two do shine,
Than all thy turtles have and sparrows, Valentine.

VIII

And by this act of these two phoenixes
Nature again restorèd is;
For since these two are two no more,
There’s but one phoenix still, as was before.
Rest now at last, and we⁠—
As satyrs watch the sun’s uprise⁠—will stay
Waiting when your eyes opened let out day,
Only desired because your face we see.
Others near you shall whispering speak,
And wagers lay, at which side day will break,
And win by observing, then, whose hand it is
That opens first a curtain, hers or his:
This will be tried tomorrow after nine,
Till which hour, we thy day enlarge, O Valentine.

Eclogue

1613, December 26

Allophanes finding Idios in the country in Christmas time, reprehends his absence from court, at the marriage of the Earl of Somerset; Idios gives an account of his purpose therein, and of his actions there.

Allophanes

Unseasonable man, statue of ice,
What could to country’s solitude entice
Thee, in this year’s cold and decrepit time?
Nature’s instinct draws to the warmer clime
Even smaller birds, who by that courage dare
In numerous fleets sail through their sea, the air.
What delicacy can in fields appear,
Whilst Flora herself doth a frieze jerkin wear?
Whilst winds do all the trees and hedges strip
Of leaves, to furnish rods enough to whip
Thy madness from thee, and all springs by frost
Have taken cold, and their sweet murmurs lost?
If thou thy faults or fortunes wouldst lament
With just solemnity, do it in Lent.
At court the spring already advanced is,
The sun stays longer up; and yet not his
The glory is; far other, other fires.
First, zeal to prince and state, then love’s desires
Burn in one breast, and like heaven’s two great lights,
The first doth govern days, the other, nights.
And then that early light which did appear
Before the sun and moon created were,
The prince’s favour, is diffused o’er all,
From which all fortunes, names, and natures fall.
Then from those wombs of stars, the bride’s bright eyes,
At every glance, a constellation flies,
And sows the court with stars, and doth prevent
In light and power, the all-eyed firmament.
First her eyes kindle other ladies’ eyes,
Then from their beams their jewels’ lustres rise,
And from their jewels torches do take fire,
And all is warmth, and light, and good desire.
Most other courts, alas! are like to hell,
Where in dark places, fire without light doth dwell;
Or but like stoves; for lust and envy get
Continual, but artificial heat.
Here zeal and love grown one all clouds digest,
And make our court an everlasting east.
And canst thou be from thence?

Idios

No, I am there;
As heaven⁠—to men disposed⁠—is everywhere,
So are those courts, whose princes animate
Not only all their house but all their state.
Let no man think, because he’s full, he hath all.
Kings⁠—as their pattern, God⁠—are liberal
Not only in fullness, but capacity,
Enlarging narrow men to feel and see,
And comprehend the blessings they bestow.
So, reclused hermits oftentimes do know
More of heaven’s glory than a worldling can.
As man is of the world, the heart of man
Is an epitome of God’s great book
Of creatures, and man need no farther look;
So is the country of courts, where sweet peace doth,
As their own common soul, give life to both;
And am I then from court?

Allophanes

Dreamer, thou art:
Think’st thou, fantastic, that thou hast a part
In the Indian fleet, because thou hast
A little spice or amber in thy taste?
Because thou art not frozen, art thou warm?
Seest thou all good, because thou seest no harm?
The earth doth in her inner bowels hold
Stuff well-disposed, and which would fain be gold;
But never shall, except it chance to lie
So upward, that heaven gild it with his eye.
As, for divine things, faith comes from above,
So, for best civil use, all tinctures move
From higher powers; from God religion springs,
Wisdom and honour from the use of kings:
Then unbeguile thyself, and know with me,
That angels, though on earth employ’d they be,
Are still in heaven, so he is still at home
That doth abroad to honest actions come.
Chide thyself then, O fool, which yesterday
Mightst have read bewray; more than all thy books
Hast thou a history, which doth present
A court, where all affections do assent
Unto the king’s, and that that king’s are just;
And where it is no levity to trust;
Where there is no ambition, but to obey;
Where men need whisper nothing, and yet may;
Where the king’s favours are so placed, that all
Find that the king therein is liberal
To them, in him, because his favours bend
To virtue, to the which they all pretend?
Thou hast no such; yet here was this, and more.
An earnest lover, wise then, and before,
Our little Cupid hath sued livery,
And is no more in his minority;
He is admitted now into that breast
Where the king’s counsels and his secrets rest.
What hast thou lost, O ignorant man?

Idios

I knew
All this, and only therefore I withdrew.
To know and feel all this, and not to have
Words to express it, makes a man a grave
Of his own thoughts; I would not therefore stay
At a great feast, having no grace to say.
And yet I ’scaped not here; for being come,
Full of the common joy, I utter’d some.
Read then this nuptial song, which was not made
Either the court or men’s hearts to invade;
But since I’m dead and buried, I could frame
No epitaph, which might advance my fame
So much as this poor song, which testifies
I did unto that day some sacrifice.

Epithalamion

I

The Time of the Marriage

Thou art reprieved, old year, thou shalt not die;
Though thou upon thy deathbed lie,
And should’st within five days expire,
Yet thou art rescued by a mightier fire,
Than thy old soul, the sun,
When he doth in his largest circle run.
The passage of the west or east would thaw,
And open wide their easy liquid jaw
To all our ships, could a Promethean art
Either unto the northern pole impart
The fire of these inflaming eyes, or of this loving heart.

II

Equality of Persons

But undiscerning Muse, which heart, which eyes,
In this new couple, dost thou prize,
When his eye as inflaming is
As hers, and her heart loves as well as his?
Be tried by beauty, and then
The bridegroom is a maid, and not a man;
If by that manly courage they be tried,
Which scorns unjust opinion; then the bride
Becomes a man. Should chance or envy’s art
Divide these two, whom nature scarce did part,
Since both have the inflaming eye, and both the loving heart?

III

Raising of the Bridegroom

Though it be some divorce to think of you
Single, so much one are you two,
Let me here contemplate thee,
First, cheerful bridegroom, and first let me see,
How thou prevent’st the sun,
And his red foaming horses dost outrun;
How, having laid down in thy Sovereign’s breast
All businesses, from thence to reinvest
Them when these triumphs cease, thou forward art
To show to her, who doth the like impart,
The fire of tby inflaming eyes, and of thy loving heart.

IV

Raising of the Bride

But now to thee, fair bride, it is some wrong,
To think thou wert in bed so long.
Since soon thou liest down first, ’tis fit
Thou in first rising shouldst allow for it.
Powder thy radiant hair,
Which if without such ashes thou wouldst wear,
Thou which, to all which come to look upon,
Wert meant for Phoebus, wouldst be Phaëton.
For our ease, give thine eyes th’ unusual part
Of joy, a tear; so quench’d, thou mayst impart,
To us that come, thy inflaming eyes; to him, thy loving heart.

V

Her Apparelling

Thus thou descend’st to our infirmity,
Who can the sun in water see.
So dost thou, when in silk and gold
Thou cloud’st thyself; since we which do behold
Are dust and worms, ’tis just,
Our objects be the fruits of worms and dust.
Let every jewel be a glorious star,
Yet stars are not so pure as their spheres are;
And though thou stoop, to appear to us, in part,
Still in that picture thou entirely art,
Which thy inflaming eyes have made within his loving heart.

VI

Going to the Chapel

Now from your easts you issue forth, and we,
As men, which through a cypress see
The rising sun, do think it two;
So, as you go to church, do think of you;
But that veil being gone,
By the church rites you are from thenceforth one.
The church triumphant made this match before,
And now the militant doth strive no more.
Then, reverend priest, who God’s Recorder art,
Do, from his dictates, to these two impart
All blessings which are seen, or thought, by angel’s eye or heart.

VII

The Benediction

Blest pair of swans, O may you interbring
Daily new joys, and never sing;
Live, till all grounds of wishes fail,
Till honour, yea, till wisdom grow so stale,
That new great heights to try,
It must serve your ambition, to die;
Raise heirs, and may here, to the world’s end, live
Heirs from this king, to take thanks, you, to give.
Nature and grace do all, and nothing art;
May never age or error overthwart
With any west these radiant eyes, with any north this heart.

VIII

Feasts and Revels

But you are over-blest. Plenty this day
Injures; it causeth time to stay;
The tables groan, as though this feast
Would, as the flood, destroy all fowl and beast.
And were the doctrine new
That the earth moved, this day would make it true;
For every part to dance and revel goes,
They tread the air, and fall not where they rose.
Though six hours since the sun to bed did part,
The masks and banquets will not yet impart
A sunset to these weary eyes, a centre to this heart.

IX

The Bride’s Going to Bed

What mean’st thou, bride, this company to keep?
To sit up, till thou fain wouldst sleep?
Thou mayst not, when thou’rt laid, do so;
Thyself must to him a new banquet grow;
And you must entertain
And do all this day’s dances o’er again.
Know that if sun and moon together do
Rise in one point, they do not set so too.
Therefore thou mayst, fair bride, to bed depart;
Thou art not gone, being gone; where’er thou art,
Thou leavest in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy loving heart.

X

The Bridegroom’s Coming

As he that sees a star fall, runs apace,
And finds a jelly in the place,
So doth the bridegroom haste as much,
Being told this star is fallen, and finds her such.
And as friends may look strange,
By a new fashion, or apparel’s change,
Their souls, though long acquainted they had been,
These clothes, their bodies, never yet had seen.
Therefore at first she modestly might start,
But must forthwith surrender every part,
As freely as each to each before gave either eye or heart.

XI

The Good-Night

Now, as in Tullia’s tomb, one lamp burnt clear,
Unchanged for fifteen hundred year,
May these love-lamps we here enshrine,
In warmth, light, lasting, equal the divine.
Fire ever doth aspire,
And makes all like itself, turns all to fire,
But ends in ashes; which these cannot do,
For none of these is fuel, but fire too.
This is joy’s bonfire, then, where love’s strong arts
Make of so noble individual parts
One fire of four inflaming eyes, and of two loving hearts.

Idios

As I have brought this song, that I may do
A perfect sacrifice, I’ll burn it too.

Allophanes

No, sir. This paper I have justly got,
For, in burnt incense, the perfume is not
His only that presents it, but of all;
Whatever celebrates this festival
Is common, since the joy thereof is so.
Nor may yourself be priest; but let me go
Back to the court, and I will lay it upon
Such altars, as prize your devotion.

Epithalamion Made at Lincoln’s Inn

The sunbeams in the east are spread;
Leave, leave, fair bride, your solitary bed;
No more shall you return to it alone;
It nurseth sadness, and your body’s print,
Like to a grave, the yielding down doth dint;
You, and your other you, meet there anon.
Put forth, put forth, that warm balm-breathing thigh,
Which when next time you in these sheets will smother,
There it must meet another,
Which never was, but must be, oft, more nigh.
Come glad from thence, go gladder than you came;
Today put on perfection, and a woman’s name.

Daughters of London, you which be
Our golden mines, and furnish’d treasury;
You which are angels, yet still bring with you
Thousands of angels on your marriage days;
Help with your presence, and devise to praise
These rites, which also unto you grow due;
Conceitedly dress her, and be assign’d
By you fit place for every flower and jewel;
Make her for love fit fuel,
As gay as Flora and as rich as Ind;
So may she, fair and rich, in nothing lame,
Today put on perfection, and a woman’s name.

And you frolic patricians,
Sons of those senators, wealth’s deep oceans;
Ye painted courtiers, barrels of other’s wits;
Ye countrymen, who but your beasts love none;
Ye of those fellowships, whereof he’s one,
Of study and play made strange hermaphrodites,
Here shine; this bridegroom to the temple bring.
Lo, in yon path which store of strew’d flowers graceth,
The sober virgin paceth;
Except my sight fail, ’tis no other thing.
Weep not, nor blush, here is no grief nor shame,
Today put on perfection, and a woman’s name.

Thy two-leaved gates, fair temple, unfold,
And these two in thy sacred bosom hold,
Till mystically join’d but one they be;
Then may thy lean and hunger-starvèd womb
Long time expect their bodies, and their tomb,
Long after their own parents fatten thee.
All elder claims, and all cold barrenness,
All yielding to new loves, be far forever,
Which might these two dissever;
Always, all th’other may each one possess;
For the best bride, best worthy of praise and fame,
Today puts on perfection, and a woman’s name.

Winter days bring much delight,
Not for themselves, but for they soon bring night;
Other sweets wait thee than these diverse meats,
Other disports than dancing jollities,
Other love-tricks than glancing with the eyes,
But that the sun still in our half sphere sweats;
He flies in winter, but he now stands still.
Yet shadows turn; noon point he hath attain’d;
His steeds will be restrain’d,
But gallop lively down the western hill.
Thou shalt, when he hath run the heaven’s half frame,
Tonight put on perfection, and a woman’s name.

The amorous evening star is rose,
Why then should not our amorous star enclose
Herself in her wish’d bed? Release your strings,
Musicians; and dancers take some truce
With these your pleasing labours, for great use
As much weariness as perfection brings.
You, and not only you, but all toil’d beasts
Rest duly; at night all their toils are dispensed;
But in their beds commenced
Are other labours, and more dainty feasts.
She goes a maid, who, lest she turn the same,
Tonight puts on perfection, and a woman’s name.

Thy virgin’s girdle now untie,
And in thy nuptial bed, love’s altar, lie
A pleasing sacrifice; now dispossess
Thee of these chains and robes, which were put on
To adorn the day, not thee; for thou, alone,
Like virtue and truth, art best in nakedness.
This bed is only to virginity
A grave, but to a better state, a cradle.
Till now thou wast but able
To be, what now thou art; then, that by thee
No more be said, “I may be,” but “I am,”
Tonight put on perfection, and a woman’s name.

Even like a faithful man content,
That this life for a better should be spent,
So she a mother’s rich stile doth prefer,
And at the bridegroom’s wish’d approach doth lie,
Like an appointed lamb, when tenderly
The priest comes on his knees, to embowel her.
Now sleep or watch with more joy; and, O light
Of heaven, tomorrow rise thou hot, and early;
This sun will love so dearly
Her rest, that long, long we shall want her sight.
Wonders are wrought, for she, which had no maim,
Tonight puts on perfection, and a woman’s name.