Now all is done: bring home the bride again
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 than this,
Whom heaven would heape with bliss.
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 walls with wine,
That they may sweat and drunken be withall.
Crowne ye god Bacchus with a coronall,
And Hymen also crowne with wreaths of vine;
And let the Graces daunce unto the rest,
For they can do it best;

The whiles the maydens do theyr carrol sing,
To which the woods shall answer, and theyr echo
ring.

Ring ye the bells, ye yong men of the towne,
And leave your wonted labours for this day:
This day is holy-do ye write it downe,
That ye for ever it remember may,—
This day the sun 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 choose the longest day in all the yeare,
And shortest night, when longest fitter weare;
Yet never day so long but late would passe.

Long though it be, at last I see it gloome,
And the bright evening-star with golden crest
Appeare out of the east.

Fayre child of beauty! glorious lamp of love!
That all the host of heaven in rankes dost lead,
And guidest lovers through the night's sad dread,
How cherefully thou lookest from above,

And seem'st to laugh atweene thy twinkling light, As joying in the sight

Of these glad many, which for joy do sing, That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.

Now cease, ye damsels, your delights forepast;
Enough it is that all the day was youres.
Now day is done, and night is nighing fast;
Now bring the bryde into the brydall bowres.
The night is come, now soon her disarray,
And in her bed her lay;

Lay her in lyllies and in violets;
And silken curtains over her display,
And odourd sheets, and arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my faire love does lye,
In proud humility!

Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took
In Tempe, lying on the flowry grass,
"Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was,
With bathing in the Acidalian brooke.
Now it is night-ye damsels may be gone,
And leave my love alone;

And leave likewise your former lay to sing:
The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo
ring.

Now welcome, night! thou night so long expected, That long daie's labour doest at last defray,

And all my cares which cruell love collected,
Hast summd 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 perill 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 lye,
And begot Majesty.

And let the mayds and yongmen cease to sing;
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr echo ring.

Let no lamenting cryes, nor doleful 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 house-fyres, nor lightning's helples harmes,
Ne let the pouke, nor other evill sprights,
Ne let mischievous witches with their charmes,
Ne let hob-goblins, names whose sense we see not,
Fray us with things that be not:

Let not the shriech-owle, nor the storke, be heard;
Nor the night raven, that still deadly yells;
Nor damned ghosts, cald up with mighty spells;
Nor griesly vultures make us once affeard.
Ne let th' unpleasant quire of frogs still croking
Make us to wish theyr choking.

Let none of these theyr dreary accents sing;
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr echo
ring.

But let stil silence true 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 the bed,
And in the secret darke, that none reproves,
Their prety stealthes shall worke, and snares shall
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
Than what ye do, albeit 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 echo
ring.

Who is the same, which at my window peepes?
Or whose is that fayre face that shines so bright ?
Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes?
But walks about high Heaven all 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 wool which privily
The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought,
His pleasures with thee wrought.
Therefore to us be favourable now;

And sith of women's labours thou hast charge,
And generation goodly dost enlarge,

Encline thy will t' effect our wishfull vow,
And the chast womb informe with timely seed,
That may our comfort breed:

Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing;
Ne let the woods us answer, nor our echo 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 eke 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 brydale bowre and geniall bed remaine,
Without blemish or staine;

And the sweet pleasures of theyr love's delight
With secret ayde dost succour and supply,
Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny;
Send us the timely fruit of this same night;
And thou, fayre Hebe! and thou, Hymen free!
Grant that it may so be;