Seccombe and Arber, comps. Elizabethan Sonnets. 1904.
Parthenophil and ParthenopheOde 6. O fair sweet glove!
Barnabe Barnes (1569?1609)O
Divine token
Of her sweet love,
Sweetly broken!
By words, sweet loves She durst not move!
These gifts, her love to me do prove!
Though never spoken.
This glove once was!
None in this land
Did ever ’pass
Her hands’ fair white! Come Loves! here stand!
Let Graces’ with yours, match her hand!
Hide! hide, alas!
If you should match!
Hers, yours beguile!
Hers, garlands catch
From all the Nymphs! which blush the while
To see their white outmatched a mile!
Which praise did watch.
And, for thy sake,
I will not miss,
But ballads make!
And every shepherd shall know this;
P
Muses, awake!
Thy matchless praises!
And my pipes bring,
Which floods amazes!
Wild Satyrs, friskins shall outfling!
The rocks shall this day’s glory ring!
Whiles Nymphs bring daisies.
Some, damask roses!
The Muses were
A-binding posies.
My goddess’ glove to herrye here
Great P
And crowns composes!
Once every year!
An holiday
For Her kept dear!
A hundred Swains, on pipes shall play!
And for the Glove, masque in array
With jolly cheer!
I will bring in!
For which Swains bold,
Shall strife begin!
And he, which loves can best unfold;
And hath in Songs, his mind best told;
The Glove shall win!
And they, with flowers,
Shall deck a Fort
For paramours,
Which for this Glove, shall there contend!
Impartial Nymphs shall judgement end!
And in those bowers,
Deserved, of all!
Then by the rest
A Coronal
Of Roses, freshly shall be dresst!
And he, with that rich Glove possesst,
As Principal!