from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:
‘Ye dayntye Nymphs, that in this blessed brooke
Doe bathe your brest,
Forsake your watry bowres, and hether looke,
At my request.
And eke you Virgins that on Parnasse dwell,
Whence floweth Helicon, the learned well,
Helpe me to blaze
Her worthy praise
Which in her sexe doth all excell.
‘Of fayre Elisa be your silver song,
That blessed wight:
The flowre of virgins, may shee florish long
In princely plight.
For shee is Syrinx daughter without spotte,
Which Pan, the shepheards god, of her begot:
So sprong her grace
Of heavenly race,
No mortall blemishe may her blotte.
‘See, where she sits upon the grassie greene,
(O seemely sight!)
Yclad in scarlot, like a mayden queene,
And ermines white.
Upon her head a cremosin coronet,
With damaske roses and daffadillies set:
Bayleaves betweene,
And primroses greene,
Embellish the sweete violet.
‘Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face,
Like Phœbe fayre?
Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,
Can you well compare?
The redde rose medled with the white yfere,
In either cheeke depeincten lively chere.
Her modest eye,
Her majestie,
Where have you seene the like, but there?
‘I sawe Phœbus thrust out his golden hedde,
Upon her to gaze:
But when he sawe how broade her beames did spredde,
It did him amaze.
He blusht to see another sunne belowe,
Ne durst againe his fyrye face out showe:
Let him, if he dare,
His brightnesse compare
With hers, to have the overthrowe.
‘Shewe thy selfe, Cynthia, with thy silver rayes,
And be not abasht:
When shee the beames of her beauty displayes,
O how art thou dasht!
But I will not match her with Latonaes seede;
Such follie great sorow to Niobe did breede:
Now she is a stone,
And makes dayly mone,
Warning all other to take heede.
‘Pan may be proud, that ever he begot
Such a bellibone,
And Syrinx rejoyse, that ever was her lot
To beare such an one.
Soone as my younglings cryen for the dam,
To her will I offer a milkwhite lamb:
Shee is my goddesse plaine,
And I her shepherds swayne,
Albee forswonck and forswatt I am.
‘I see Calliope speede her to the place,
Where my goddesse shines,
And after her the other Muses trace,
With their violines.
Bene they not bay braunches which they doe beare,
All for Elisa in her hand to weare?
So sweetely they play,
And sing all the way,
That it a heaven is to heare.
‘Lo how finely the Graces can it foote
To the instrument:
They dauncen deffly, and singen soote,
In their meriment.
Wants not a fourth Grace, to make the daunce even?
Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven:
She shalbe a Grace,
To fyll the fourth place,
And reigne with the rest in heaven.
‘And whither rennes this bevie of ladies bright,
Raunged in a rowe?
They bene all Ladyes of the Lake behight,
That unto her goe.
Chloris, that is the chiefest nymph of al,
Of olive braunches beares a coronall:
Olives bene for peace,
When wars doe surcease:
Such for a princesse bene principall.
‘Ye shepheards daughters, that dwell on the greene,
Hye you there apace:
Let none come there, but that virgins bene,
To adorne her grace.
And when you come whereas shee is in place,
See that your rudenesse doe not you disgrace:
Binde your fillets faste,
And gird in your waste,
For more finesse, with a tawdrie lace.
‘Bring hether the pincke and purple cullambine,
With gelliflowres;
Bring coronations, and sops in wine,
Worne of paramoures;
Strowe me the ground with daffadowndillies,
And cowslips, and kingcups, and loved lillies:
The pretie pawnce,
And the chevisaunce,
Shall match with the fayre flowre delice.
‘Now ryse up, Elisa, decked as thou art,
In royall aray;
And now ye daintie damsells may depart
Echeone her way.
I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe:
Let Dame Eliza thanke you for her song:
And if you come hether
When damsines I gether,
I will part them all you among.’
[Thenot] And was thilk same song of Colins owne making?
Ah, foolish boy, that is with love yblent!
Great pittie is, he be in such taking,
For naught caren, that bene so lewdly bent.
[Hobbinol] Sicker, I hold him for a greater fon,
That loves the thing he cannot purchase.
But let us homeward, for night draweth on,
And twincling starres the daylight hence chase.
~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
Doe bathe your brest,
Forsake your watry bowres, and hether looke,
At my request.
And eke you Virgins that on Parnasse dwell,
Whence floweth Helicon, the learned well,
Helpe me to blaze
Her worthy praise
Which in her sexe doth all excell.
‘Of fayre Elisa be your silver song,
That blessed wight:
The flowre of virgins, may shee florish long
In princely plight.
For shee is Syrinx daughter without spotte,
Which Pan, the shepheards god, of her begot:
So sprong her grace
Of heavenly race,
No mortall blemishe may her blotte.
‘See, where she sits upon the grassie greene,
(O seemely sight!)
Yclad in scarlot, like a mayden queene,
And ermines white.
Upon her head a cremosin coronet,
With damaske roses and daffadillies set:
Bayleaves betweene,
And primroses greene,
Embellish the sweete violet.
‘Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face,
Like Phœbe fayre?
Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,
Can you well compare?
The redde rose medled with the white yfere,
In either cheeke depeincten lively chere.
Her modest eye,
Her majestie,
Where have you seene the like, but there?
‘I sawe Phœbus thrust out his golden hedde,
Upon her to gaze:
But when he sawe how broade her beames did spredde,
It did him amaze.
He blusht to see another sunne belowe,
Ne durst againe his fyrye face out showe:
Let him, if he dare,
His brightnesse compare
With hers, to have the overthrowe.
‘Shewe thy selfe, Cynthia, with thy silver rayes,
And be not abasht:
When shee the beames of her beauty displayes,
O how art thou dasht!
But I will not match her with Latonaes seede;
Such follie great sorow to Niobe did breede:
Now she is a stone,
And makes dayly mone,
Warning all other to take heede.
‘Pan may be proud, that ever he begot
Such a bellibone,
And Syrinx rejoyse, that ever was her lot
To beare such an one.
Soone as my younglings cryen for the dam,
To her will I offer a milkwhite lamb:
Shee is my goddesse plaine,
And I her shepherds swayne,
Albee forswonck and forswatt I am.
‘I see Calliope speede her to the place,
Where my goddesse shines,
And after her the other Muses trace,
With their violines.
Bene they not bay braunches which they doe beare,
All for Elisa in her hand to weare?
So sweetely they play,
And sing all the way,
That it a heaven is to heare.
‘Lo how finely the Graces can it foote
To the instrument:
They dauncen deffly, and singen soote,
In their meriment.
Wants not a fourth Grace, to make the daunce even?
Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven:
She shalbe a Grace,
To fyll the fourth place,
And reigne with the rest in heaven.
‘And whither rennes this bevie of ladies bright,
Raunged in a rowe?
They bene all Ladyes of the Lake behight,
That unto her goe.
Chloris, that is the chiefest nymph of al,
Of olive braunches beares a coronall:
Olives bene for peace,
When wars doe surcease:
Such for a princesse bene principall.
‘Ye shepheards daughters, that dwell on the greene,
Hye you there apace:
Let none come there, but that virgins bene,
To adorne her grace.
And when you come whereas shee is in place,
See that your rudenesse doe not you disgrace:
Binde your fillets faste,
And gird in your waste,
For more finesse, with a tawdrie lace.
‘Bring hether the pincke and purple cullambine,
With gelliflowres;
Bring coronations, and sops in wine,
Worne of paramoures;
Strowe me the ground with daffadowndillies,
And cowslips, and kingcups, and loved lillies:
The pretie pawnce,
And the chevisaunce,
Shall match with the fayre flowre delice.
‘Now ryse up, Elisa, decked as thou art,
In royall aray;
And now ye daintie damsells may depart
Echeone her way.
I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe:
Let Dame Eliza thanke you for her song:
And if you come hether
When damsines I gether,
I will part them all you among.’
[Thenot] And was thilk same song of Colins owne making?
Ah, foolish boy, that is with love yblent!
Great pittie is, he be in such taking,
For naught caren, that bene so lewdly bent.
[Hobbinol] Sicker, I hold him for a greater fon,
That loves the thing he cannot purchase.
But let us homeward, for night draweth on,
And twincling starres the daylight hence chase.
~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
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