William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Elizabethan Verse. 1907.
Epithalamion TeratosGeorge Chapman (1559?1634)
C
Sweet close of his ambitious line,
The fruitful summer of his blisses,
Love’s glory doth in darkness shine.
Come, naked Virtue’s only tire,
The reapèd 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.
On glorious Day’s outfacing face;
And all thy crownèd flames command
For torches to our nuptial grace.
Love calls to war;
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The field his arms.
To cast, in envy of thy peace,
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, Myra, 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.