Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Giles Fletcher. 158?1623233. Wooing Song
LOVE is the blossom where there blows | |
Every thing that lives or grows: | |
Love doth make the Heav’ns to move, | |
And the Sun doth burn in love: | |
Love the strong and weak doth yoke, | 5 |
And makes the ivy climb the oak, | |
Under whose shadows lions wild, | |
Soften’d by love, grow tame and mild: | |
Love no med’cine can appease, | |
He burns the fishes in the seas: | 10 |
Not all the skill his wounds can stench, | |
Not all the sea his fire can quench. | |
Love did make the bloody spear | |
Once a leavy coat to wear, | |
While in his leaves there shrouded lay | 15 |
Sweet birds, for love that sing and play | |
And of all love’s joyful flame | |
I the bud and blossom am. | |
Only bend thy knee to me, | |
Thy wooing shall thy winning be! | 20 |
See, see the flowers that below | |
Now as fresh as morning blow; | |
And of all the virgin rose | |
That as bright Aurora shows; | |
How they all unleavèd die, | 25 |
Losing their virginity! | |
Like unto a summer shade, | |
But now born, and now they fade. | |
Every thing doth pass away; | |
There is danger in delay: | 30 |
Come, come, gather then the rose, | |
Gather it, or it you lose! | |
All the sand of Tagus’ shore | |
Into my bosom casts his ore: | |
All the valleys’ swimming corn | 35 |
To my house is yearly borne: | |
Every grape of every vine | |
Is gladly bruised to make me wine: | |
While ten thousand kings, as proud, | |
To carry up my train have bow’d, | 40 |
And a world of ladies send me | |
In my chambers to attend me: | |
All the stars in Heav’n that shine, | |
And ten thousand more, are mine: | |
Only bend thy knee to me, | 45 |
Thy wooing shall thy winning be! |