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,

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:

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

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!

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 unleavéd die,

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:

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

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,

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: