Bring, bring, ye Graces, all your silver flaskets, Painted with every choicest flower that grows, That I may soon unflower your fragrant baskets, To strow the fields with odours where he goes, Let whatsoe'er he treads on be a rose. So down she let her eyelids fall, to shine Upon the rivers of bright Palestine, Whose woods drop honey, and her rivers skip with wine.
SONG OF SORCERESS SEEKING TO TEMPT CHRIST.
Love is the blossom where there blows Everything that lives or grows: Love doth make the heavens to move, And the sun doth burn in love: Love the strong and weak doth yoke, And makes the ivy climb the oak; Under whose shadows lions wild, Softened by love, grow tame and mild: Love no medicine can appease, He burns the fishes in the seas; Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quench: Love did make the bloody spear Once a leafy coat to wear, While in his leaves there shrouded lay 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, The wooing shall thy winning be.
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 unleaved die, Losing their virginity; Like unto a summer-shade, But now born, and now they fade. Everything doth pass away, There is danger in delay: Come, come gather then the rose, Gather it, ere it you lose. All the sand of Tagus' shore Into my bosom casts his ore; All the valley's swimming corn 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 bowed, And a world of ladies send me In my chambers to attend me. All the stars in heaven that shine, And ten thousand more, are mine: Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be.
Here let my Lord hang up his conquering lance, And bloody armour with late slaughter warm, And looking down on his weak militants, Behold his saints, midst of their hot alarm, Hang all their golden hopes upon his arm. And in this lower field dispacing wide, Through windy thoughts, that would their sails misguide, Anchor their fleshly ships fast in his wounded side.