Classic Poem

When I my serious thoughts had sett
To finde out some darke Quodlibet
Or the abstruser sence to see
Of a too subtle Quidditie
I cannot tell nor how, nor when
Noethinge but Loue drops from my pen
While beatinge of my br[ain]es I ly
The 3 first Principles [to descrye]
Cupid commaunds mee [easy bee]
Heele Matter finde [enough for m]ee
Or if for Forme I [rather seeke]
Heele shew't m[e in a lady]es cheeke
But if Priuation mus[t be reade]
Heele tell't mee of a M[ayden-heade]
Say, say my Muse what[this m]ay [be]e
I haue noe Mistresse y[et bu]t [th]ee
What does my quill soe [str]angely moue?
Am I (and knowe not on't) in Loue?
When I would tell how Mars doth fight
In stead of him I Venus write
And when I study to sett downe
His angry looke and awfull frowne
In Buskin verse my quill the while
I know not how drops out a smile
And while I thinke my labour showes
A true account of wounds and blowes
My Muse their computation misses
And on the sudden numbers kisses
When when did Cupid strike my heart
ffor I remember not his dart
I cannot tell nor guesse nor proue
Whome tis nor when nor where I loue
I finde my thoughts and Soule att rest
Noe griefes nor feare w t hin my brest
I am not melancholy growne
Nor doe I use to walke [a]lone
I drop noe teares I sigh [no more]
Then I was wont to doe [before]
I dreame not of distill[inge names]
Into fantastique Anagr[ames]
Nor dare I mould my [braines to bringe]
Some new found posy f[or a ringe]
Loue's a disease soe [strange to mee]
I ken not what his [s]y[mtomes bee]
Say Louers it have tri[de & know]e
Say can I loue and yet doe soe?
Noe, Noe the fountayne head I kn[owe]
Whence all these thoughts of Loue [do]e flowe
Fame told mee late in ioyfull [new]es
Goringe the Master of my Muse
Goringe a beauteous Nymph sha[ll w]edd
A Nymph that's worthy of his Bed
How faire shee is I cannot say
(O could I, I might clayme the bay)
ffor heere I liue in Cambridge ayre
Where sooth to say there's few bee fayre
All that I see are now and then
The Sun-burnt faces of the fen
How dare I then presume to tell
What beautyes in the Court doe dwell
But when I know my Goringes eye
How elegant itt is to spye
The very Mole in Venus face
Whether itt blemish bee or grace?
With what a iudgement hee can tell
What eye, what cheeke, what lip doth well
Then dare I guesse how fayre shee is
Whome hee hath chosen to bee his
Even such as was the Cypri[an] Q[ueene]
When as shee first was risinge [seene]
From Neptunes froth, when wit[h desire]
Shee sett the very seas on fire
Fayrer then when on Ida pla[in]
Shee did the golden apple gain
As beauteous as the Easterne [bride]
When shee getts up from Ty[thon's side]
To whome if shee must yiel[d at all]
It is because her cheeke's more pale
Which quickly too sheele make as red
By blushinge from her Georges Bed.

To the Bridegroome

To Bed, to Bed, a Summers night
Will seeme too narrow for delight
And should the Sun your Dallyance see
Tethys perchance might iealous bee
Embrace thy Bride, you are too blame
To spare her for her maydelike shame
What though shee cold and modest ly
And for meere bashfullnesse deny
That which in her wee title can
Virtue, were folly in the man
Though they consent as well as wee
Mayds the first night must rauishd bee
And noe embrace soe much doth take
As when her arme for feare doth shake
Whose modest tremblinge play[n d]oth showe
Shee would and yett she woul[d not] t[oo]
As when she kisses Cold and th[en]
For shame turnes backe her [head agen]
Such Innocence more take[s the hearte]
Then any other Cupids dar[t]
Your Ancestours sweet G[eorge doe saye]
You haue a debt to them [to paye]
They haue your worthy hous[e & name].
With Honours and increase [of fame]
Nobly continued hither too
ffar bee itt all should dye in yo[u.]
Urge this unto your Bryde for shee
Is held as lyable as thee
And (if Truth may bee boldly [sa]yd)
Must bee arrested ere't bee paid.
Then ten monthes hence I hope that wee
Another pretty George shall see
And (by the Muses sacred springe
His birth shall bee the next I singe.

To the Bride

Feare not sweete Mayde your Loue to meete
There lurkes noe snake betweene the sheete
It is from poysenous thinges as free
As Lemnos can or Ireland bee.
This Maydenhead doe not beleiue
To bee soe rare as fooles conceyue
It Noethinge is, or att the most
Tis Nothinge till itt hath beene lost
Such beuty was ordaynd for Man
Lett Nunns liue Virgins if they ca[n]
Virginitie (to censure i[t])
Is onely for a Cloyster [fit]
And yett wee see some ho[wso'ere]
Will make a shift to [loose it there]
Nor is itt as fond gir[les complaine]
A thinge once lost ne['re got againe]
For euery Child to h[er that's wed]
Is but a second Mayden[head]
If Eue the first it er[e was wed]
Had beene soe shye of M[ayde]nh[ead]
Adam of Children must [not] boast
Or must another rib haue [loste]
Nor creditt them it in deceite
Tell you it Childbed pangs are great
ffor if twere done w th such adoe.
Would shee it has one Child haue two?
Noe Noe they know the sweetes of Loue
And enuy you it are to proue
And as your Nurses use to doe
(Who doth not now their cunninge know?)
To make their babes att home to stay
Tell um of bugbeares in the way
Soe they doe this to make the mayde
That knowes not yett what tis, afrayde.
When Adam first tooke Eue by'th hand
Was not Increase the next comaund.
Marriage this honour hath obtaynd
It was in Paradice ordaynd
And since Man was of ioyes bereft
Noe other Paradice is left
Why feare you to your bed to [go]
Because a Man lyes the[re] you [kno]w?
Are you afrayd to [lye alo]ne
ffor hee and you [are now but o]ne.

Now f[airest Lady pard]on mee
My M[u]s[e sweet George must tur]ne to thee
Shee now t[o bed hath] brought the Bride
And layd h[er] by her sweetehearts side
And there I leaue [her], for alasse
Where could I in a [bett]er place
Faine would I yet more leasure borrowe
To singe the Ladyes blush to morrowe
But since my skill so slender is
Better not singe then singe amisse
And Worthy Goringe pardon mee
That rudely chant thy Bride and thee
To pay noe seruice Troth I would not
And what I wishd to doe I could not
Conceyue my powre below my will
And thinke my Conscience more then skill
But one day yet when hee or shee
Whether itt Sonne or Daughter bee
That first is borne, to Church shall goe
As you now and your Lady doe
Ile teach my Muse on such a stringe
Their Nuptiall Carrolls loud to singe

That [Phaebus quire] repeat my Art
And He [himse]lfe shall beare a part.