Corinna's going a MayingViewed 307 times
Get up, get up for shame, the Blooming Morne
Upon her wings presents the god unshorne.
See how Aurora throwes her faire
Fresh-quilted colours through the aire:
Get up, sweet-Slug-a-bed, and see
The Dew-bespangling Herbe and Tree.
Each Flower has wept, and bow'd toward the East,
Above an houre since; yet you not drest,
Nay! not so much as out of bed?
When all the Birds have Mattens seyd,
And sung their thankful Hymnes: 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation to keep in,
When as a thousand Virgins on this day,
Spring, sooner than the Lark, to fetch in May.
Rise; and put on your Foliage, and be seene
To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and greene;
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For Jewels for your Gowne, or Haire:
Feare not; the leaves will strew
Gemms in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the Day has kept,
Against you come, some Orient Pearls unwept:
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the Dew-locks of the night:
And Titan on the Eastern hill
Retires himselfe, or else stands still
Till you come forth. Wash, dresse, be briefe in praying:
Few Beads are best, when once we goe a Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and comming, marke
How each field turns a street; each street a Parke
Made green, and trimm'd with trees: see how
Devotion gives each House a Bough,
Or Branch: Each Porch, each doore, ere this,
An Arke a Tabernacle is
Made up of white-thorn neatly enterwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street,
And open fields, and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad; and let's obay
The Proclamation made for May:
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying.
There's not a budding Boy, or Girle, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deale of Youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with White-thorn laden home.
Some have dispatcht their Cakes and Creame,
Before that we have left to dreame:
And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted Troth,
And chose their Priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
Many a green-gown has been given;
Many a kisse, both odde and even:
Many a glance too has been sent
From out the eye, Loves Firmament:
Many a jest told of the Keyes betraying
This night, and Locks pickt, yet w'are not a Maying.
Come, let us goe, while we are in our prime;
And take the harmlesse follie of the time.
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short; and our dayes run
As fast away as do's the Sunne:
And as a vapour, or a drop of raine
Once lost, can ne'r be found againe:
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
All love, all liking, all delight
Lies drown'd with us in endlesse night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying;
Come, my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying.
I dreamed this mortal part of mine
Was metamorphosed to a vine,
Which crawling one and every way
In this world, the isle of dreams,
While we sit by sorrow’s streams,
Tears and terrors are our themes
Let’s call for Hymen if agreed thou art –
Delays in love but crucify the heart.
Love’s thorny tapers yet neglected lie;
Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Weigh me the fire; or canst thou find
A way to measure out the wind?
Distinguish all those floods that are
Can I not sin, but thou wilt be
My private protonotary?
Can I not woo thee to pass by
Now is the time for mirth,
Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;
For with the flow'ry earth
If thou dislik’st the piece thou light’st on first, …
Think that of all that I have writ the worst;
But if thou read’st my book unto the end,
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood,
Who as soon fell fast asleep
Here lies Jonson with the rest
Of the poets; but the best.
Reader, would’st thou more have known?
Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.
Display thy breasts, my Julia, there let me
Behold that circummortal purity;
Between whose glories, there my lips I’ll lay,
Old Parson Beanes hunts six days of the week,
And on the seventh, he has his notes to seek.
Six days he hollows so much breath away
In this little urn is laid
Prudence Baldwin, once my maid,
From whose happy spark here let
I have lost, and lately, these
Many dainty mistresses:
Stately Julia, prime of all;
HAVE ye beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry, double grac'd,
Be the mistress of my choice,
Clean in manners, clear in voice;
Be she witty, more than wise,