Who still with counterfeit confusion prates EPITHALAMION TERATOS. Come, come, dear Night! Love's mart of kisses! * Sweet close of his ambitious line, The fruitful summer of his blisses, Love's glory doth in darkness shine. The reaped+ harvest of the light, Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire. Love calls to war, Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms. Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand * this, edit, 1637. + That reapest, edit. 1637. Love calls to war, Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms. No need have we of factious Day, Her balls of discord in thy way: Here Beauty's day doth never cease, Day is abstracted here, And varied in a triple sphere. Hero, Alcmane, Mya, so outshine thee, Ere thou come here let Thetis thrice refine thee. Love calls to war,— Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms. The evening star I see; Rise, youths! the evening star Both now embracing be. Rise, youths! Love's right claims more than banquets; rise! Now the bright marygolds, that deck the skies, To his flowers here, ope when he shuts his eye, Rise, virgins! let fair nuptial loves infold Your fruitless breasts: the maidenheads ye hold And that a third part is: so must you save Your loves a third, and you your thirds must have. Herewith the amorous spirit, that was so kind To Teras' hair, and comb'd it down with wind, Still as it, comet-like, brake from her brain, Out of their sights: the turning of her back But much wrung* Hero stood Hell's blackest dart: * much-rong, edit. 1606, much-wrong'd, edit. 1637 THE END OF THE FIFTH SESTY AD. |