55 Marriage poems

The pleasure of contrast: not chained up in an oilcoth sack underwater, holding his breath, but composing himself for the camera, in his only suit. You have to understand photography— unforgiving mirror, unlike oils that soften the hard edges of a man’s face if you want them to, or velvet curtain shielding the pine box during an escape. The audience imagines his bones contracting to a splinter. That’s not at all how it’s done— the camera’s lens blanketed by cloth to keep it in the dark; any halo of light ruptures the film with shadow. His eyes already turn inward to that place we’re going. She thinks about escape too: at the horse butcher, in line like the others, or arguing over the price of bread at the Market of Innocents. Adam’s rib is forever hidden inside her chest as the force of blows hibernates in a boxer’s fist, but she, at least, is smiling when he says, We have such a small family, meaning your body won’t open to me—it’s shackled inside its cage: love and rage, whose bars are meant to be broken.

As thro' the land at eve we went, And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, We fell out, my wife and I, O we fell out I know not why, And kiss'd again with tears. And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears! For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years, There above the little grave, O there above the little grave, We kiss'd again with tears.

CALM was the day, and through the trembling air Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play, A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair; When I whose sullen care, Through discontent of my long fruitless stay In prince's court, and expectation vain Of idle hopes, which still do fly away Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain, Walked forth to ease my pain Along the shore of silver streaming Thames, Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems, Was painted all with variable flowers, And all the meads adorned with dainty gems, Fit to deck maidens' bowers, And crown their paramours, Against the bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. There, in a meadow, by the river's side, A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy, All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, With goodly greenish locks, all loose untied, As each had been a bride; And each one had a little wicker basket, Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously, In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket, And with fine fingers cropt full featously The tender stalks on high. Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, They gathered some; the violet pallid blue, The little daisy, that at evening closes, The virgin lily, and the primrose true, With store of vermeil roses, To deck their bridegrooms' posies Against the bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. With that, I saw two swans of goodly hue Come softly swimming down along the Lee; Two fairer birds I yet did never see. The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew, Did never whiter shew, Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be For love of Leda, whiter did appear: Yet Leda was they say as white as he, Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near. So purely white they were, That even the gentle stream, the which them bare, Seemed foul to them, and bade his billows spare To wet their silken feathers, lest they might Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, And mar their beauties bright, That shone as heaven's light, Against their bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill, Ran all in haste, to see that silver brood, As they came floating on the crystal flood. Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still, Their wondering eyes to fill. Them seemed they never saw a sight so fair, Of fowls so lovely, that they sure did deem Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team; For sure they did not seem To be begot of any earthly seed, But rather angels, or of angels' breed: Yet were they bred of Somers-heat they say, In sweetest season, when each flower and weed The earth did fresh array, So fresh they seemed as day, Even as their bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. Then forth they all out of their baskets drew Great store of flowers, the honour of the field, That to the sense did fragrant odours yield, All which upon those goodly birds they threw, And all the waves did strew, That like old Peneus' waters they did seem, When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore, Scattered with flowers, through Thessaly they stream, That they appear through lilies' plenteous store, Like a bride's chamber floor. Two of those nymphs meanwhile, two garlands bound, Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found, The which presenting all in trim array, Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crowned, Whilst one did sing this lay, Prepared against that day, Against their bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. 'Ye gentle birds, the world's fair ornament, And heaven's glory, whom this happy hour Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower, Joy may you have and gentle heart's content Of your love's complement: And let fair Venus, that is queen of love, With her heart-quelling son upon you smile, Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile For ever to assoil. Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord, And blessed plenty wait upon your board, And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound, That fruitful issue may to you afford, Which may your foes confound, And make your joys redound Upon your bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.' So ended she; and all the rest around To her redoubled that her undersong, Which said their bridal day should not be long. And gentle echo from the neighbour ground Their accents did resound. So forth those joyous birds did pass along, Adown the Lee, that to them murmured low, As he would speak, but that he lacked a tongue, Yet did by signs his glad affection show, Making his stream run slow. And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell Gan flock about these twain, that did excel The rest so far as Cynthia doth shend The lesser stars. So they, enranged well, Did on those two attend, And their best service lend, Against their wedding day, which was not long: Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. At length they all to merry London came, To merry London, my most kindly nurse, That to me gave this life's first native source; Though from another place I take my name, An house of ancient fame. There when they came, whereas those bricky towers, The which on Thames' broad aged back do ride, Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers There whilom wont the Templar Knights to bide, Till they decayed through pride: Next whereunto there stands a stately place, Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell, Whose want too well now feels my friendless case. But ah, here fits not well Old woes but joys to tell Against the bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, Great England's glory, and the world's wide wonder, Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder, And Hercules' two pillars standing near Did make to quake and fear: Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry, That fillest England with thy triumph's fame, Joy have thou of thy noble victory, And endless happiness of thine own name That promiseth the same: That through thy prowess and victorious arms, Thy country may be freed from foreign harms; And great Elisa's glorious name may ring Through all the world, filled with thy wide alarms, Which some brave Muse may sing To ages following, Upon the bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. From those high towers this noble lord issuing, Like radiant Hesper when his golden hair In th'Ocean billows he hath bathed fair, Descended to the river's open viewing, With a great train ensuing. Above the rest were goodly to be seen Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature Beseeming well the bower of any queen, With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature, Fit for so goodly stature; That like the twins of Jove they seemed in sight, Which deck the baldric of the heavens bright. They two forth pacing to the river's side, Received those two fair birds, their love's delight; Which, at th' appointed tide, Each one did make his bride Against their bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

The sensual sap ascends to summer us, and all fronds, greenwoods, lily bands attend our festival. A festival I had more chaste and regular when with the greening globe I seasonally bore my clocked and colored joys. Now, love, I stand exile in the shadow of your praise, errant, unpunctual.

Wedlock, as old Men note, hath likened been, Unto a publick Crowd or common Rout; Where those that are without would fain get in, And those that are within would fain get out. Grief often treads upon the Heels of Pleasure, Marry’d in Haste, we oft repent at Leisure; Some by Experience find these Words misplac’ed, Marry’d at Leisure, they repent in Haste.

It was the year we decided not to get divorced. The poem said something like clouds moving quickly across the sun while the rest of us talked about faith and how my personal level of intensity in faking it is one way to measure the depth of the drop I’d have to make before I could turn over in bed toward a window open to the night and spotty rain dotting leaves with light caught from porch lamps and know that what I’d imagined to be time drained of sound was the purest sound, one person turning away from another into a cone formed by his turning. We sat on the porch while the kids napped and watched light rise and fall through clouds moving quickly across the sun like distractions from a vital and complex truth that requires too many pages of exegesis for people with days like ours, time’s version of an optical illusion, both too long and too short for anything like actual thinking. I remember one of the many unsolicited pieces of advice we got when Elmer was coming along—don’t make any major decisions until he’s one, you’ll be too tired to get it right. So naturally we changed jobs and moved across the country. I can’t even remember who gave us that advice. They’re probably out of our lives now. And what’s in them, these six and something years out of your forty and my almost that we’ve been spinning through together, watching our obligations mount around sensations that folded out of us from zones of our beings we hadn’t seen before, like a third arm you’d somehow failed to notice, an us both alien and uncannily us, children, a marriage, an unexpected love— these things have taken over, brushed aside whatever was there before like an anxious developer. This force is of our own making but comically has no regard for us, like that arm is a whole body, two bodies, tugging us along wherever they feel like going, the most dangerous places they can find. I was writing that line on my phone while following fifteen-month-old Harlan doing his duck walk down a wheelchair ramp. He leaned way over the side of it to look at some smooth rocks on the ground and, as I got to the word “dangerous,” toppled down into them. So much for art, some might say, but not me, I just learned how many people have put videos online with the words “spectacular sunset” in their titles, there’s one after another. I’d made one myself, a video I mean, because the sun had ducked behind an unmoving cloud at the horizon, and I knew from the internet how long it would take the sun to reappear in the gap between the bottom edge of the cloud and the top edge of the earth, a sun-sized gap dotted with its own minor cloud variants there to complicate the image, a sun moving slowly behind clouds, and I felt a low note being struck within, something I’ve learned is not sadness but gratitude in unknowing, a feeling that is hard but porous, that dissipates like short rain steaming off its first idea of the ground. Dark pink reformatting the blue, dark pink lights of our forever car, dark pink of hippies, dark pink life tassels, dark pink “to fly,” as you put it, “by the night of our pants.” I don’t know where the night goes, but I know we’ll be awake, and why, this long year of nights when people standing right next to us broke in half and spilled everywhere just because they paid attention. We don’t have an exact date for when we got engaged, there was no moment, no single question but instead weeks of them while an idea changed from something we could do into something we would, it was gestational, like this year has been, a year I hope is over. I’m glad you’re turning forty. I wish I were, too. I need a number for what we’ve come through, our second engagement, longer than the first, permanent, in fact, the questions of questions and the answer we give— give, deny, and give again.

Think not this paper comes with vain pretense To move your pity, or to mourn th’ offense. Too well I know that hard obdurate heart; No softening mercy there will take my part, Nor can a woman’s arguments prevail, When even your patron’s wise example fails. But this last privilege I still retain; Th’ oppressed and injured always may complain. Too, too severely laws of honor bind The weak submissive sex of womankind. If sighs have gained or force compelled our hand, Deceived by art, or urged by stern command, Whatever motive binds the fatal tie, The judging world expects our constancy. Just heaven! (for sure in heaven does justice reign, Though tricks below that sacred name profane) To you appealing I submit my cause. Nor fear a judgment from impartial laws. All bargains but conditional are made; The purchase void, the creditor unpaid; Defrauded servants are from service free; A wounded slave regains his liberty. For wives ill used no remedy remains, To daily racks condemned, and to eternal chains. From whence is this unjust distinction grown? Are we not formed with passions like your own? Nature with equal fire our souls endued, Our minds as haughty, and as warm our blood; O’er the wide world your pleasures you pursue, The change is justified by something new; But we must sigh in silence—and be true. Our sex’s weakness you expose and blame (Of every prattling fop the common theme), Yet from this weakness you suppose is due Sublimer virtue than your Cato knew. Had heaven designed us trials so severe, It would have formed our tempers then to bear. And I have borne (oh what have I not borne!) The pang of jealousy, the insults of scorn. Wearied at length, I from your sight remove, And place my future hopes in secret love. In the gay bloom of glowing youth retired, I quit the woman’s joy to be admired, With that small pension your hard heart allows, Renounce your fortune, and release your vows. To custom (though unjust) so much is due; I hide my frailty from the public view. My conscience clear, yet sensible of shame, My life I hazard, to preserve my fame. And I prefer this low inglorious state To vile dependence on the thing I hate— But you pursue me to this last retreat. Dragged into light, my tender crime is shown And every circumstance of fondness known. Beneath the shelter of the law you stand, And urge my ruin with a cruel hand, While to my fault thus rigidly severe, Tamely submissive to the man you fear. This wretched outcast, this abandoned wife, Has yet this joy to sweeten shameful life: By your mean conduct, infamously loose, You are at once my accuser and excuse. Let me be damned by the censorious prude (Stupidly dull, or spiritually lewd), My hapless case will surely pity find From every just and reasonable mind. When to the final sentence I submit, The lips condemn me, but their souls aquit. No more my husband, to your pleasures go, The sweets of your recovered freedom know. Go: court the brittle friendship of the great, Smile at his board, or at his levee wait; And when dismissed, to madam’s toilet fly, More than her chambermaids, or glasses, lie, Tell her how young she looks, how heavenly fair, Admire the lilies and the roses there. Your high ambition may be gratified, Some cousin of her own be made your bride, And you the father of a glorious race Endowed with Ch——l’s strength and Low——r’s face.

Butane, propane and lungful of diesel. I did not stand a chance. Always with poison breath, bill, responsibility: a man with rote hands. Everything in exchange, rain in a frozen season. Our roof, roofs strung with hot wire. Our love, what was, an impression of light, gaunt: there is nothing to get.

Ye learned sisters which have oftentimes Beene to me ayding, others to adorne: Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes, That even the greatest did not greatly scorne To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes, But joyed in theyr prayse. And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne, Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse, Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne, And teach the woods and waters to lament Your dolefull dreriment. Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside, And having all your heads with girland crownd, Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound, Ne let the same of any be envide: So Orpheus did for his owne bride, So I unto my selfe alone will sing, The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring. Early before the worlds light giving lampe, His golden beame upon the hils doth spred, Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe, Doe ye awake, and with fresh lusty hed, Go to the bowre of my beloved love, My truest turtle dove, Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake, And long since ready forth his maske to move, With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake, And many a bachelor to waite on him, In theyr fresh garments trim. Bid her awake therefore and soone her dight, For lo the wished day is come at last, That shall for al the paynes and sorrowes past, Pay to her usury of long delight: And whylest she doth her dight, Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing, That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring. Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare Both of the rivers and the forrests greene: And of the sea that neighbours to her neare, Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene. And let them also with them bring in hand Another gay girland For my fayre love of lillyes and of roses, Bound truelove wize with a blew silke riband. And let them make great store of bridale poses, And let them eeke bring store of other flowers To deck the bridale bowers. And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, And diapred lyke the discolored mead. Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt, For she will waken strayt, The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing, The woods shall to you answer and your Eccho ring. Ye Nymphes of Mulla which with carefull heed, The silver scaly trouts doe tend full well, And greedy pikes which use therein to feed, (Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell) And ye likewise which keepe the rushy lake, Where none doo fishes take, Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd light, And in his waters which your mirror make, Behold your faces as the christall bright, That when you come whereas my love doth lie, No blemish she may spie. And eke ye lightfoot mayds which keepe the deere, That on the hoary mountayne use to towre, And the wylde wolves which seeke them to devoure, With your steele darts doo chace from comming neer, Be also present heere, To helpe to decke her and to help to sing, That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring. Wake, now my love, awake; for it is time, The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed, All ready to her silver coche to clyme, And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed. Hark how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies And carroll of loves praise. The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft, The thrush replyes, the Mavis descant playes, The Ouzell shrills, the Ruddock warbles soft, So goodly all agree with sweet consent, To this dayes merriment. Ah my deere love why doe ye sleepe thus long, When meeter were that ye should now awake, T'awayt the comming of your joyous make, And hearken to the birds lovelearned song, The deawy leaves among. For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, That all the woods them answer and theyr eccho ring. My love is now awake out of her dreames, And her fayre eyes like stars that dimmed were With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beames More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere. Come now ye damzels, daughters of delight, Helpe quickly her to dight, But first come ye fayre houres which were begot In Joves sweet paradice, of Day and Night, Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot, And al that ever in this world is fayre Doe make and still repayre. And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene, The which doe still adorne her beauties pride, Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride: And as ye her array, still throw betweene Some graces to be seene, And as ye use to Venus, to her sing, The whiles the woods shal answer and your eccho ring. Now is my love all ready forth to come, Let all the virgins therefore well awayt, And ye fresh boyes that tend upon her groome Prepare your selves; for he is comming strayt. Set all your things in seemely good aray Fit for so joyfull day, The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see. Faire Sun, shew forth thy favourable ray, And let thy lifull heat not fervent be For feare of burning her sunshyny face, Her beauty to disgrace. O fayrest Phoebus, father of the Muse, If ever I did honour thee aright, Or sing the thing, that mote thy mind delight, Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse, But let this day let this one day be myne, Let all the rest be thine. Then I thy soverayne prayses loud will sing, That all the woods shal answer and theyr eccho ring. Harke how the Minstrels gin to shrill aloud Their merry Musick that resounds from far, The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling Croud, That well agree withouten breach or jar. But most of all the Damzels doe delite, When they their tymbrels smyte, And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet, That all the sences they doe ravish quite, The whyles the boyes run up and downe the street, Crying aloud with strong confused noyce, As if it were one voyce. Hymen io Hymen, Hymen they do shout, That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill, To which the people standing all about, As in approvance doe thereto applaud And loud advaunce her laud, And evermore they Hymen Hymen sing, That al the woods them answer and theyr eccho ring. Loe where she comes along with portly pace Lyke Phoebe from her chamber of the East, Arysing forth to run her mighty race, Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best. So well it her beseemes that ye would weene Some angell she had beene. Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre, Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres a tweene, Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre, And being crowned with a girland greene, Seeme lyke some mayden Queene. Her modest eyes abashed to behold So many gazers, as on her do stare, Upon the lowly ground affixed are. Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold, But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud, So farre from being proud. Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing, That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring. Tell me ye merchants daughters did ye see So fayre a creature in your towne before? So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store, Her goodly eyes lyke Saphyres shining bright, Her forehead yvory white, Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded, Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte, Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrudded, Her paps lyke lyllies budded, Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre, And all her body like a pallace fayre, Ascending uppe with many a stately stayre, To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre. Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze, Upon her so to gaze, Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, To which the woods did answer and your eccho ring. But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, The inward beauty of her lively spright, Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high degree, Much more then would ye wonder at that sight, And stand astonisht lyke to those which red Medusaes mazeful hed. There dwels sweet love and constant chastity, Unspotted fayth and comely womenhed, Regard of honour and mild modesty, There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne, And giveth lawes alone. The which the base affections doe obay, And yeeld theyr services unto her will, Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill. Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures, And unrevealed pleasures, Then would ye wonder and her prayses sing, That al the woods should answer and your eccho ring. Open the temple gates unto my love, Open them wide that she may enter in, And all the postes adorne as doth behove, And all the pillours deck with girlands trim, For to recyve this Saynt with honour dew, That commeth in to you. With trembling steps and humble reverence, She commeth in, before th'almighties vew: Of her ye virgins learne obedience, When so ye come into those holy places, To humble your proud faces; Bring her up to th'high altar that she may, The sacred ceremonies there partake, The which do endlesse matrimony make, And let the roring Organs loudly play The praises of the Lord in lively notes, The whiles with hollow throates The Choristers the joyous Antheme sing, That al the woods may answere and their eccho ring. Behold whiles she before the altar stands Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes And blesseth her with his two happy hands, How the red roses flush up in her cheekes, And the pure snow with goodly vermill stayne, Like crimsin dyde in grayne, That even th'Angels which continually, About the sacred Altare doe remaine, Forget their service and about her fly, Ofte peeping in her face that seemes more fayre, The more they on it stare. But her sad eyes still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry, Which may let in a little thought unsownd. Why blush ye love to give to me your hand, The pledge of all our band? Sing ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing, That all the woods may answere and your eccho ring. Now al is done; bring home the bride againe, Bring home the triumph of our victory, Bring home with you the glory of her gaine, With joyance bring her and with jollity. Never had man more joyfull day then this, Whom heaven would heape with blis. Make feast therefore now all this live long day, This day for ever to me holy is, Poure out the wine without restraint or stay, Poure not by cups, but by the belly full, Poure out to all that wull, And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine, That they may sweat, and drunken be withall. Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall, And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine, And let the Graces daunce unto the rest; For they can doo it best: The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing, To which the woods shal answer and theyr eccho ring. Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne, And leave your wonted labors for this day: This day is holy; doe ye write it downe, That ye for ever it remember may. This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight, With Barnaby the bright, From whence declining daily by degrees, He somewhat loseth of his heat and light, When once the Crab behind his back he sees. But for this time it ill ordained was, To chose the longest day in all the yeare, And shortest night, when longest fitter weare: Yet never day so long, but late would passe. Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away, And bonefiers make all day, And daunce about them, and about them sing: That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. Ah when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend? How slowly does sad Time his feathers move? Hast thee O fayrest Planet to thy home Within the Westerne fome: Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest. Long though it be, at last I see it gloome, And the bright evening star with golden creast Appeare out of the East. Fayre childe of beauty, glorious lampe of love That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead, And guydest lovers through the nightes dread, How chearefully thou lookest from above, And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light As joying in the sight Of these glad many which for joy doe sing, That all the woods them answer and their echo ring. Now ceasse ye damsels your delights forepast; Enough is it, that all the day was youres: Now day is doen, and night is nighing fast: Now bring the Bryde into the brydall boures. Now night is come, now soone her disaray, And in her bed her lay; Lay her in lillies and in violets, And silken courteins over her display, And odourd sheetes, and Arras coverlets. Behold how goodly my faire love does ly In proud humility; Like unto Maia, when as Jove her tooke, In Tempe, lying on the flowry gras, Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was, With bathing in the Acidalian brooke. Now it is night, ye damsels may be gon, And leave my love alone, And leave likewise your former lay to sing: The woods no more shal answere, nor your echo ring. Now welcome night, thou night so long expected, That long daies labour doest at last defray, And all my cares, which cruell love collected, Hast sumd in one, and cancelled for aye: Spread thy broad wing over my love and me, That no man may us see, And in thy sable mantle us enwrap, From feare of perrill and foule horror free. Let no false treason seeke us to entrap, Nor any dread disquiet once annoy The safety of our joy: But let the night be calme and quietsome, Without tempestuous storms or sad afray: Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay, When he begot the great Tirynthian groome: Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lie, And begot Majesty. And let the mayds and yongmen cease to sing: Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring. Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares, Be heard all night within nor yet without: Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares, Breake gentle sleepe with misconceived dout. Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadful sights Make sudden sad affrights; Ne let housefyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes, Ne let the Pouke, nor other evill sprights, Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes, Ne let hob Goblins, names whose sence we see not, Fray us with things that be not. Let not the shriech Oule, nor the Storke be heard: Nor the night Raven that still deadly yels, Nor damned ghosts cald up with mighty spels, Nor griesly vultures make us once affeard: Ne let th'unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still croking Make us to wish theyr choking. Let none of these theyr drery accents sing; Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring. But let stil Silence trew night watches keepe, That sacred peace may in assurance rayne, And tymely sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe, May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne, The whiles an hundred little winged loves, Like divers fethered doves, Shall fly and flutter round about your bed, And in the secret darke, that none reproves, Their prety stelthes shal worke, and snares shal spread To filch away sweet snatches of delight, Conceald through covert night. Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will, For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes, Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes, Then what ye do, albe it good or ill. All night therefore attend your merry play, For it will soone be day: Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing, Ne will the woods now answer, nor your Eccho ring. Who is the same, which at my window peepes? Or whose is that faire face, that shines so bright, Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes, But walkes about high heaven al the night? O fayrest goddesse, do thou not envy My love with me to spy: For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought, And for a fleece of woll, which privily, The Latmian shephard once unto thee brought, His pleasures with thee wrought. Therefore to us be favorable now; And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge, And generation goodly dost enlarge, Encline thy will t'effect our wishfull vow, And the chast wombe informe with timely seed, That may our comfort breed: Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing, Ne let the woods us answere, nor our Eccho ring. And thou great Juno, which with awful might The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize, And the religion of the faith first plight With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize: And eeke 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 bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine, Without blemish or staine, And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delight With secret ayde doest succour and supply, Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny, Send us the timely fruit of this same night. And thou fayre Hebe, and thou Hymen free, Grant that it may so be. Til which we cease your further prayse to sing, Ne any woods shal answer, nor your Eccho ring. And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods, In which a thousand torches flaming bright Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods, In dreadful darknesse lend desired light; And all ye powers which in the same remayne, More then we men can fayne, Poure out your blessing on us plentiously, And happy influence upon us raine, That we may raise a large posterity, Which from the earth, which they may long possesse, With lasting happinesse, Up to your haughty pallaces may mount, And for the guerdon of theyr 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 tymely joyes to sing, The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring. Song made in lieu of many ornaments, With which my love should duly have bene dect, Which cutting off through hasty accidents, Ye would not stay your dew time to expect, But promist both to recompens, Be unto her a goodly ornament, And for short time an endlesse moniment.

At once this dragnet of cousins Whips its way into your presence saying None of them among us. They are Oracles on the court of midnight, The tight filigree of a mind or your Splashing around in, your pandemonium Of copper graffiti inexpertly put up. They make weapons of furled hands. “We will walk, but our bones will carry Ribbons of lead, or we will, like Acrobats mill-headed in 3s (3 blades, 3 hips, 3 tongues), answer to what comes Before, what comes before?” Eleousa, Master of Dark Eyelids, eye opening Like a fennel seed, you are generous Or are you not, do you shore up and Wink at the soul? What does the soul say Other than “my divorce from . . .,” “tan Holiday . . .,” “smoking crystal in teak rooms . . .” But should have asked, “What do you See?” The sun a sequence of fans, a bridge, Only so exquisitely cabled as to make us Still—shall we fall Or travel between bridges Among the robust, sane clouds, A face cut from smoke, heat, and light? The sun, dancing in a vial, the initial Memory of what it was to be born— Doberman of a sheer-white universe— To school out—the audacity of rising Without name or color to new rooms, New youth, fruitful, born singularly To precise moments not in epiphany But duration—as under new weather We become—in action, receive—our Bodies uncasked like umbrellas under The flamingo-red light of the racing day.