Ye learnèd sisters, which have oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne,
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,
But joyèd in theyr praise;
And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your dolefull dreriment:
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside;
And, having all your heads with girlands crownd,
Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound;
Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride!
So I unto my selfe alone will sing;
The woods shall to me answer, and my Eccho ring.

Early, before the worlds light-giving lampe
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,
Doe ye awake; and, with fresh *****-hed,
Go to the bowre of my belovèd love,
My truest turtle dove;
Bid her awake; for ***** is awake,
And long since ready forth his maske to move,
With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake,
And many a bachelor to waite on him,
In theyr fresh garments trim.
Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight,
For lo! the wishèd day is come at last,
That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes past,
Pay to her usury of long delight:
And, whylest she doth her dight,
Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare
Both of the rivers and the forrests greene,
And of the sea that neighbours to her neare:
Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene.
And let them also with them bring in hand
Another gay girland
For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses,
Bound truelove wize, with a blew silke riband.
And let them make great store of bridale poses,
And let them eeke bring store of other flowers,
To deck the bridale bowers.
And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread,
For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong,
Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along,
And diapred lyke the discolored mead.
Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt,
For she will waken strayt;
The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing,
The woods shall to you answer, and your Eccho ring.

Ye Nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heed
The silver scaly trouts doe tend full well,
And greedy pikes which use therein to feed;
(Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell;)
And ye likewise, which keepe the rushy lake,
Where none doo fishes take;
Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd light,
And in his waters, which your mirror make,
Behold your faces as the christall bright,
That when you come whereas my love doth lie,
No blemish she may spie.
And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe the deere,
That on the hoary mountayne used to towre;
And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure,
With your steele darts doo chace from comming neer;
Be also present heere,
To helpe to decke her, and to help to sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time;
The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed,
All ready to her silver coche to clyme;
And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed.
Hark! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies
And carroll of Loves praise.
The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft;
The Thrush replyes; the Mavis descant playes;
The Ouzell shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft;
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this dayes merriment.
Ah! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long?
When meeter were that ye should now awake,
T’ awayt the comming of your joyous make,
And hearken to the birds love-learnèd song,
The deawy leaves among!
Nor they of joy and pleasance to you sing,
That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.

My love is now awake out of her dreames,
And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmèd were
With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams
More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere.
Come now, ye damzels, daughters of delight,
Helpe quickly her to dight:
But first come ye fayre houres, which were begot
In Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night;
Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot,
And al, that ever in this world is fayre,
Doe make and still repayre:
And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene,
The which doe still adorne her beauties pride,
Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride:
And, as ye her array, still throw betweene
Some graces to be seene;
And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,
The whiles the woods shal answer, and your eccho ring.

Now is my love all ready forth to come:
Let all the virgins therefore well awayt:
And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome,
Prepare your selves; for he is comming strayt.
Set all your things in seemely good aray,
Fit for so joyfull day:
The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see.
Faire Sun! shew forth thy favourable ray,
And let thy lifull heat not fervent be,
For feare of burning her sunshyny face,
Her beauty to disgrace.
O fayrest Phoebus! father of the Muse!
If ever I did honour thee aright,
Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight,
Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse;
But let this day, let this one day, be myne;
Let all the rest be thine.
Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing,
That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Harke! how the Minstrils gin to shrill aloud
Their merry Musick that resounds from far,
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling Croud,
That well agree withouten breach or jar.
But, most of all, the Damzels doe delite
When they their tymbrels smyte,
And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet,
That all the sences they doe ravish quite;
The whyles the boyes run up and downe the street,
Crying aloud with strong confusèd noyce,
As if it were one voyce,
*****, iö *****, *****, they do shout;
That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill;
To which the people standing all about,
As in approvance, doe thereto applaud,
And loud advaunce her laud;
And evermore they *****, ***** sing,
That al the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Loe! where she comes along with portly pace,
Lyke Phoebe, from her chamber of the East,
Arysing forth to run her mighty race,
Clad all in white, that seemes a ****** best.
So well it her beseemes, that ye would weene
Some angell she had beene.
Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre,
Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene,
Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre;
And, being crownèd with a girland greene,
Seeme lyke some mayden Queene.
Her modest eyes, abashèd to behold
So many gazers as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixèd are;
Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold,
But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud,
So farre from being proud.
Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Tell me, ye merchants daughters, did ye see
So fayre a creature in your towne before;
So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,
Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store?
Her goodly eyes lyke Saphyres shining bright,
Her forehead yvory white,
Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded,
Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte,
Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrudded,
Her paps lyke lyllies budded,
Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre;
And all her body like a pallace fayre,
Ascending up, with many a stately stayre,
To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre.
Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze,
Upon her so to gaze,
Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,
To which the woods did answer, and your eccho ring?

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
The inward beauty of her lively spright,
Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high degree,
Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,
And stand astonisht lyke to those which red
Medusaes mazeful hed.
There dwels sweet love, and constant chastity,
Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood,
Regard of honour, and mild modesty;
There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne,
And giveth lawes alone,
The which the base affections doe obay,
And yeeld theyr services unto her will;
Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may
Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill.
Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures,
And unrevealèd pleasures,
Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing,
That al the woods should answer, and your echo ring.

Open the temple gates unto my love,
Open them wide that she may enter in,
And all the postes adorne as doth behove,
And all the pillours deck with girlands trim,
For to receyve this Saynt with honour dew,
That commeth in to you.
With trembling steps, and humble reverence,
She commeth in, before th’ Almighties view;
Of her ye virgins learne obedience,
When so ye come into those holy places,
To humble your proud faces:
Bring her up to th’ high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endlesse matrimony make;
And let the roring Organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord in lively notes;
The whiles, with hollow throates,
The Choristers the joyous Antheme sing,
That al the woods may answere, and their eccho ring.

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes,
And blesseth her with his two happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheekes,
And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayne
Like crimsin dyde in grayne:
That even th’ Angels, which continually
About the sacred Altare doe remaine,
Forget their service and about her fly,
Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre,
The more they on it stare.
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,
Are governèd with goodly modesty,
That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry,
Which may let in a little thought unsownd.
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand,
The pledge of all our band!
Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing,
That all the woods may answere, and your eccho ring.

Now al is done: bring home the bride againe;
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 then this,
Whom heaven would heape with blis,
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 wals with wine,
That they may sweat, and drunken be withall.
Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall,
And ***** also crowne with wreathes of vine;
And let the Graces daunce unto the rest,
For they can doo it best:
The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing,
To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne,
And leave your wonted labors for this day:
This day is holy; doe ye write it downe,
That ye for ever it remember may.
This day the sunne 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 ordainèd was,
To chose the longest day in all the yeare,
And shortest night, when longest fitter weare:
Yet never day so long, but late would passe.
Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away,
And bonefiers make all day;
And daunce about them, and about them sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end,
And lende me leave to come unto my love?
How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend?
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move?
Hast thee, O fayrest Planet, to thy home,
Within the Westerne fome:
Thy tyrèd steedes long since have need of rest.
Long though it be, at last I see it gloome,
And the bright evening-star with golden creast
Appeare out of the East.
Fayre childe of beauty! glorious lampe of love!
That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead,
And guydest lovers through the nights sad dread,
How chearefully thou lookest from above,
And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light,
As joying in the sight
Of these glad many, which for joy doe sing,
That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring!

Now ceasse, ye damsels, your delights fore-past;
Enough it is that all the day was youres:
Now day is doen, and night is nighing fast,
Now bring the Bryde into the brydall boures.
The night is come, now soon her disaray,
And in her bed her lay;
Lay her in lillies and in violets,
And silken courteins over her display,
And odourd sheetes, and Arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my faire love does ly,
In proud humility!
Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took
In Tempe, lying on the flowry gras,
Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was,
With bathing in the Acidalian brooke.
Now it is night, ye damsels may be gon,
And leave my love alone,
And leave likewise your former lay to sing:
The woods no more shall answere, nor your echo ring.

Now welcome, night! thou night so long expected,
That long daies labour doest at last defray,
And all my cares, which cruell Love collected,
Hast sumd in one, and cancellèd 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 perrill 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 lie
And begot Majesty.
And let the mayds and yong men cease to sing;
Ne let the woods them answer nor theyr eccho ring.

Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares,
Be heard all night within, nor yet without:
Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares,
Breake gentle sleepe with misconceivèd dout.
Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadfull sights,
Make sudden sad affrights;
Ne let house-fyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes,
Ne let the Pouke, nor other evill sprights,
Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes,
Ne let hob Goblins, names whose sence we see not,
Fray us with things that be not:
Let not the shriech Oule nor the Storke be heard,
Nor the night Raven, that still deadly yels;
Nor damnèd ghosts, cald up with mighty spels,
Nor griesly vultures, make us once affeard:
Ne let th’ unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still croking
Make us to wish theyr choking.
Let none of these theyr drery accents sing;
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring.

But let stil Silence trew 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 wingèd loves,
Like divers-fethered doves,
Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,
And in the secret darke, that none reproves,
Their prety stealthes shal worke, and snares shal 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,
Then what ye do, albe it 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 Eccho ring.

Who is the same, which at my window peepes?
Or whose is that faire face that shines so bright?
Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes,
But walkes about high heaven al 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 wooll, which privily
The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought,
His pleasures with thee wrought.
Therefore to us be favorable now;
And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge,
And generation goodly dost enlarge,
Encline thy will t’effect our wishfull vow,
And the chast wombe informe with timely seed
That may our comfort breed:
Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing;
Ne let the woods us answere, nor our Eccho 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 eeke for comfort often callèd art
Of women in their smart;
Eternally bind thou this lovely band,
And all thy blessings unto us impart.
And thou, glad

.
I would love to see you
pretty at the Summer Fayre,
a twinkle in your dark eyes,
and flowers in your hair.

Arm in arm we would wander
to see the delights and share
moments of wonder together,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.

We'd visit the Gypsy fortune teller
to learn what secrets lay there,
take our fill of games and stalls,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.

And dance we shall tonight,
unrestrained, with never a care.
Its there I'll fall in love with you,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.

I'll take you off to my home,
to the forest if you dare.
My carefree, captivating, Lady Leaf,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.

We will dance on into the night,
lovers loving, so that I can swear,
I've never seen you so beautiful,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.


© Pagan Paul (12/11/16)

Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre
Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre;
When I, (whom sullein care,
Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay
In Princes Court, and expectation vayne
Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away,
Like empty shaddowes, did afflict my brayne,)
Walkt forth to ease my payne
Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes;
Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes,
Was paynted all with variable flowers,
And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmes
Fit to decke maydens bowres,
And crowne their Paramours
Against the Brydale day, which is not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

There, in a Meadow, by the Rivers side,
A Flocke of Nymphes I chauncèd to espy,
All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde,
As each had bene a Bryde;
And each one had a little wicker basket,
Made of fine twigs, entrayl`d curiously,
In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine Fingers cropt full feateously
The tender stalkes on hye.
Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew,
They gathered some; the Violet, pallid blew,
The little Dazie, that at evening closes,
The ****** Lillie, and the Primrose trew,
With store of vermeil Roses,
To decke their Bridegromes posies
Against the Brydale day, which was not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe
Come softly swimming downe along the Lee;
Two fairer Birds I yet did never see;
The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew,
Did never whiter shew;
Nor Jove himselfe, when he a Swan would be,
For love of Leda, whiter did appeare;
Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare;
So purely white they were,
That even the gentle streame, the which them bare,
Seem’d foule to them, and bad his billowes spare
To wet their silken feathers, least they might
Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,
And marre their beauties bright,
That shone as heavens light,
Against their Brydale day, which was not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill,
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood,
As they came floating on the Christal Flood;
Whom when they sawe, they stood amazèd still,
Their wondring eyes to fill;
Them seem’d they never saw a sight so fayre,
Of Fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme
Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre
Which through the Skie draw Venus silver Teeme;
For sure they did not seeme
To be begot of any earthly Seede,
But rather Angels, or of Angels breede;
Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say,
In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weede
The earth did fresh aray;
So fresh they seem’d as day,
Even as their Brydale day, which was not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
Great store of Flowers, the honour of the field,
That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,
All which upon those goodly Birds they threw
And all the Waves did strew,
That like old Peneus Waters they did seeme,
When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore,
Scattred with Flowres, through Thessaly they streeme,
That they appeare, through Lillies plenteous store,
Like a Brydes Chamber flore.
Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two Garlands bound
Of freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found,
The which presenting all in trim Array,
Their snowie Foreheads therewithall they crownd,
Whil’st one did sing this Lay,
Prepar’d against that Day,
Against their Brydale day, which was not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

‘Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament,
And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower
Doth leade unto your lovers blisfull bower,
Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content
Of your loves couplement;
And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love,
With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile,
Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove
All Loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile
For ever to assoile.
Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord,
And blessèd Plentie wait upon your bord;
And let your bed with pleasures chast abound,
That fruitfull issue may to you afford,
Which may your foes confound,
And make your joyes redound
Upon your Brydale day, which is not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my Song.’

So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,
Which said their brydale daye should not be long:
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground
Their accents did resound.
So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along,
Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low,
As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,
Yet did by signes his glad affection show,
Making his streame run slow.
And all the foule which in his flood did dwell
Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
The lesser starres. So they, enrangèd well,
Did on those two attend,
And their best service lend
Against their wedding day, which was not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

At length they all to mery London came,
To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse,
That to me gave this Lifes first native sourse,
Though from another place I take my name,
An house of auncient fame:
There when they came, whereas those bricky towres
The which on Themmes brode agèd backe doe ryde,
Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers,
There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde,
Till they decayd through pride:
Next whereunto there standes a stately place,
Where oft I gaynèd giftes and goodly grace
Of that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell,
Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case;
But ah! here fits not well
Olde woes, but joyes, to tell
Against the Brydale daye, which is not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble Peer,
Great Englands glory, and the Worlds wide wonder,
Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did thunder,
And Hercules two pillors standing neere
Did make to quake and feare:
Faire branch of Honor, flower of Chevalrie!
That fillest England with thy triumphes fame,
Joy have thou of thy noble victorie,
And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name
That promiseth the same;
That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes,
Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes;
And great Elisaes glorious name may ring
Through al the world, fil’d with thy wide Alarmes,
Which some brave muse may sing
To ages following,
Upon the Brydale day, which is not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly till I end my Song.

From those high Towers this noble Lord issuing,
Like Radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre
In th’ Ocean billowes he hath bathèd fayre,
Descended to the Rivers open vewing,
With a great traine ensuing.
Above the rest were goodly to bee seene
Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature,
Beseeming well the bower of anie Queene,
With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature,
Fit for so goodly stature,
That like the twins of Jove they seem’d in sight,
Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright;
They two, forth pacing to the Rivers side,
Received those two faire Brides, their Loves delight;
Which, at th’ appointed tyde,
Each one did make his Bryde
Against their Brydale day, which is not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

In praise of Eliza, Queen of the Shepherds


See where she sits upon the grassie greene,
        (O seemely sight!)
Yclad in Scarlot, like a mayden Queene,
        And ermines white:
Upon her head a Cremosin coronet
With Damaske roses and Daffadillies set:
        Bay leaves betweene,
        And primroses greene,
Embellish the sweete Violet.

Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face
        Like Phoebe fayre?
Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,
        Can you well compare?
The Redde rose medled with the White yfere,
In either cheeke depeincten lively chere:
        Her modest eye,
        Her Majestie,
Where have you seene the like but there?

I see Calliope speede her to the place,
        Where my Goddesse shines;
And after her the other Muses trace
        With their Violines.
Bene they not Bay braunches which they do beare,
All for Elisa in her hand to weare?
        So sweetely they play,
        And sing all the way,
That it a heaven is to heare.

Lo, how finely the Graces can it foote
        To the Instrument:
They dauncen deffly, and singen soote,
        In their meriment.
Wants not a fourth Grace to make the daunce even?
Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven.
        She shal be a Grace,
        To fyll the fourth place,
And reigne with the rest in heaven.

Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine,
        With Gelliflowres;
Bring Coronations, and Sops-in-wine
        Worne of Paramoures:
Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies,
And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and lovèd Lillies:
        The pretie Pawnce,
        And the Chevisaunce,
Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.

Now ryse up, Elisa, deckèd as thou art
        In royall aray;
And now ye daintie Damsells may depart
        Eche one her way.
I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe:
Let dame Elisa thanke you for her song:
        And if you come hether
        When Damsines I gether,
I will part them all you among.

When Michael Collins came, first from the courts of England,
which in low and lofty Londoun lately were helde,
while Thames there with treachery and treasoun did truly ring,
was Ireland ill split and beset with ignoble stryfe.  
Yet there a land lately formed was, where still folk lyve on mydllerde.

Though it is not in this warlike time of Dev that we our tale do set,
after these tymes of troubling stryfe, contentioun salted still the land.

Fine Fail and Fine Gael, then foes many yeres remained
till noblest amongst them, in qualities none lacking,
did do battle in old Dublin and vanquish the dred enemy.  
That mon who dreded nought, nightly then held his court in fair Dail Eirinn.  
Enda was called that man, and everysince has his noble courte endured.  

There, as Chrystmasse came, was assembled his cabinet fayre:
there Sir Wilmore the red, who waited on the grete lorde in readiness.  
There with grete courtesey, the kings coins to keep, sat Sir Noonan the balde.  
There Sir Reilly, learned in lore of leach and herb, who on erde had little left to lerne.  
Eek Sir Varadkar the gaye who granted was, the grete kinges horses to groome.  
Laste, the lovely layde Burton, who, the rede rose of Wilmore would long after carry.  

Other knyghtes numerous were there, but of these now, nought will I
tell,
for fallen to feasting were this fayre companye al and fayne would I not,
in tedious trials of descriptioun, your patience for to trye.

I have a horse - a ryghte good horse -
Ne doe Y envye those
Who scoure ye playne yn headye course
Tyll soddayne on theyre nose
They lyghte wyth unexpected force
Yt ys - a horse of clothes.

I have a saddel - "Say'st thou soe?
Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?"
I sayde not that - I answere "Noe" -
Yt lacketh such, I woote:
Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe!
Parte of ye fleecye brute.

I have a bytte - a ryghte good bytte -
As shall bee seene yn tyme.
Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte;
Yts use ys more sublyme.
Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt?
Yt ys - thys bytte of rhyme.

Death waits beyond the gates and stuck on pikes or up on spikes,the heads of malefactors.
Eyes ****** out by greedy beaks and tongues torn by the laughing winds,ears that hear no rivers flow or travellers as they go to and fro across the bridge.
Skulduggery and thuggery hand in hand the outlaw land across the Thames,tarts and carts and herring bones and fish wives heading off to homes beyond the liberty,where lawlessness is more or less the way things are,
and a penny a *** of gin is a lot but for twopence you get one free,
the ribald are eyeballed and marked as fair game and as the fayre starts up on the ice,
everyone gets a slice of the quince as the fey boys mince down on mincing lane and head to the borough to join in the game.
London by nature and London by name and someone to scrub the bloodstains from the hands of those who hang loose in the
outlaw lands.

Before you go trust  in me
follow the warm Autumn fade
watch the geese to their journeys end.
Warry words I will not speak.
I shall return and talk of love
Our story is yet to be told.

the cult of the ideal woman.
silent era mignon.
pass the baton.

a little diplomacy.
a little electricity.
and a waterfall of curls.

she moves with the fayre.
I see her idling on Fifth Avenue
and at work behind the counters
of the stores.

besotted men plant young, leafless trees upside-down,
roots in the air, simply because
she wants it that way.

a groundbreaking end
to The Broken Oath,
and her name on the credits
for the very first time.

screens, fans, and umbrella stands.
or maybe lilies in a field of seclusion.
she is stardom.
she is the eternal question.

A Poeme from ye Penne of
ye right learned Professor Peter Buttocke
collected by hysse Pupille Edna*


There is an ancient Shittah in my Garden, eldritch and right dun in alle Aspect
Wherein dwelleth a loude and noisome Ouzel, ye like of which I have ne'er yet seen
Under thysse our goode Goddes fayre Welkin up in ye Skye above us alle.
This foule and unwholesome Beeste, with trespassynge shote-like ****** Effusiones
Hath performed ye veritable Antithesis of kindly horticultural Edulcoration
For whiche Sinne I shall emasculate ye Brute, so God may grant me Pow'r.
Sudating at ye Nostrilles I advance, my trustie Stang at ye ever-ready,
And I prepare to eject it from yon Pollard, having previous shattered
Alle its horryd Frangibles with one brave bolde frampold Blowe.
Thwacke! A last Piffero-reminiscent Warble escapeth loude from its fowle coronoid Appendage;
Right severe Damage and harsh fatal Ruine of Nature irreversible have I caused
To ye shaggie shamelesse little avian Runte, whereon Goddes smile hath ne'er dawned.
Thus descendeth it to the Faeces-bedecked Herdwick, and I titubate triumph'lly o'er its conticent Corpse.
And were there yet a duodenary Set of ye Frass-Depositors, I would not give a Demi-Testrel for their Survyvall
Should they e'er again infringe the sacred Privacie whych ye ancient Shittah enjoyeth in my Garden.

Before you go trust in me,
follow the warm Autumn fade.
Watch the geese to their journeys end.
Warry words I will not speak.
I shall return and talk of love.
Our story is yet to be told.

She kept a promise to herself
by sweeping her lair
to  remind herself  work had to be done,
rayon waistcoats and crossing rubicons  
to iron out those industrious imperfections
that had made for her rugged fayre ,
no longer undecided  she'd vanish the dust
from the present
that had slyly thwarted the fullness
of her bond.

You'd better run boys,the fires will come boys and burn you out,girls who would flaunt regulations to haunt you will burn along with you,the night's turning blue and the fire's burning black.
Jack who was Tom's mate unaware of his own fate booked a passage to Paris with Maryss, his wife.
It was Hogarth who painted the ****** and the tainted in the liberty of gardens,men hiding their hard ons,paragons of chastity and chasing the mollies to ****** their follies,how jolly it seemed to the Queen of the boardwalks who listened to wild talks and ate turkey and ham,
Shakespeare was saddened,Marlowe quite maddened by the fayre and the stew houses where blouses were shed and doxies were led like little lambs to the slaughter,and the daughters of Satan who were dressed in fine satin,sat in the background watching this fairground.
Then the curse of the cutpurse was cast all about them,men scurried away quickly to the ferries for Putney and Pepys wrote in his diary,

'hahaha the fire didn't get me'

Locked up in the stocks
and they're all laughing their socks off at me.
Soon I will be free
unlike
those other poor souls who are swinging in the morning breeze
up on the freshly painted gallows
made especially so more could see
the face of death,
what they could be.
Come and watch the matinee
where three more souls will swing today.

A party atmosphere
a dead man here or there
it's like a summer fayre with jugglers and a clown
and 'Hey presto' magic
one more soul drops down to meet his fate.

Lately I have noticed that the police are getting tougher
and the rough and ready treatment
meted out to those who fall foul
of the local law enforcement
has become a talking point in boardrooms
by the Admiralty Lords
who were often heard to cry when in their younger day
'hang them high,hang them high
make those malefactors pay.
It's a sin
you try to live and all these people want to give you is some grief
you can't get by on the sly
and if you try to you will die as so many have found out
to their cost
I do not doubt that ii could happen here to me
I could be up there swinging free.

So today I'm in the stocks
you can laugh your socks off
laugh your heads off if you please
but I'm not swinging in the breeze
just yet.

She left in the morning with just a burlap sack
She sat upon the bus with the sack upon her lap
She marvelled at the travellers who all looked very sad
And in the service-stop the salesmen, they all seemed very sad
And the teller and the feller selling coffee, they seemed sad
And she prayed that the city was exempt from all this sad

But when she arrived in the city not far after five
All the faces seemed blurred
And only half-way alive
So she sat by a statue, tried to pin down the picture
But her eyes weren’t adjusted, and her brain wouldn’t let her
And a man shouted at her
And another tried to tempt her
And she slept in a doorway till a cop came and kicked her

So she walked by the river where a man tried to trick her…
And as the drunks staggered homeward and the jackals closed their eyes
She began to see the city as the sun began to rise
And in the shadows of the shards and the black brick buildings
The steeples and the courtyards had their moment of revealing:

Amidst the sky-scape of Hawksmoor and the mind-scape of Blake
A landscape of Albion was summoned in its wake
And the God within the River raised his head to shake his hair
And the ancient stone of London sent a signal to her there
And the head of Bryn ascended from a mound near Tower Hill
Whilst the Southwark geese all danced to a mighty jig and reel
She heard the echoes of the anarchy of ancient London fayre’s
Where the rich never lingered, and the power never dared
She glimpsed the ghost of Jack Sheppard upon the rooftops of the Squares
And Leno’s crazy clog-dance whipped a whirlwind in the air

All the heroes of the city filled her aching soul with light
As she pulled her knees to her chest and curled her aching body tight
Cocooned now in sleep, the revelries all ended
And she dreamt the city back to life, as the worker-ants descended
And each and every day thereon she would dream as they descended

Now she sees beyond the blurs and the slate-grey etched-in faces
She sleeps amidst the majesty of all the hidden holy places
She lies outside the fear and lies; the ruckus; riot; and squall
Some say she’s an incarnation of the Holy Hermit in the wall.
But maybe she’s a frequency – outside of space and time
And the spirit of the City, within her now resides

And though the Peace of the city is killed by screaming cars
And the Light of the city extinguishes the stars
And the Heart of the city is banished to the edges
And the Beat of the city is traded by the hedgers  
The Soul of the city is safe within her hold
So pray tonight she’s wrapped up tight against the biting cold.

-And bless her when you see her and thank her for her dreams
For the dreams she weaves are miracles and we are products of those dreams

So bless her
If you see her
And maybe, you could feed her
For though the city is her lifeblood
It often fails to feed her
And if the city shall not feed her, and if she fails to dream
Well – can you truly visualise a world devoid of dreams?

-Can any of us visualise - a world devoid of dreams?

I won a goldfish
at the Fayre,
is that fair?

chattering like youths in undulating flight
that looping the loop was an awesome sight
your peers eat mostly worms and insect fayre
yet you catch Damsels as they fly through the air!
Then returning to patient stones in the loch
to plan your next sortie and feed your young stock
cataracts of grey in yellow cascade
I appoint you Queen of the fashion parade.

The cross that's carved deep
because
we have to keep a memento.

but I know without seeing
that someone is keying
the code in
forever
sticking the nails in.

Have you been to the place beyond
the place where you think
you can't face it?

it's somewhere behind me,
waiting to catch up and grind
me down doing a
left, right
left, right
marching off into the,
is that daylight?

Words fail me as the scales fall away
and the Dragon breathes fire across,
what was the name of that bay?

watching Morecambe on the
web cam
an old man on a trolleybus
going to the fayre.

For an Empath times were frosty! Cider draped in Sugar black,
Whilst through Enki's summit, I surely plummet yet I always had your back,
That day we graced the garden, Edgar said we weren't alone,
And with Timeline Fayre, my Alice hare,
His Lordship did atone!
Excuse my prose, but like your nose, it didn't bode too well.
And now suggestion, upon reflection my flooded spirit I can tell...
All your works, your loving shirks, I have now set you all free!
I must disparrage engine and carriage so you can no longer bother me.
When has anyone scurried magnetron and taken time to teach,
Earth's biggest Heart & Mind, my Angel kind, now makes waves and just in reach

Been difficult to Let Her Go, as Aspy serves in colours,
Images and Symmetries of a Spirit like no other.
Losing marbles it's a Ray that garbles, incoming trajectory,
Jumping timelines, Butterfly Effect it also serves the Entropy!
Whilst memories dance I take a glance at what Delilah did for me.
Beginning dynamic, falsehoods trajick, Earl Greys my cup of tea.
Yet it was a breeze, with surprising ease to fly them all round Orbit!
You may have seen, big TV screen, if not my Angels scored it.
I'm on the fence, without pretence, as the Chief is very taxing,
And that's the Chief of Angels, for anybody not worth catching.
You see my Lovers, Earths like no other, you could see why they stole Royalty,
And I promise thee, on bended knee, they fly in and out with Loyalty.
I've been tripping ****!...for days and weeks, and finally this psychosis,
Was for God's plan, and your best-man, a Sensei I now know this.
I'm late! I'm late for an important date! But I may as well stick around,
Cos time & space does sure placate when Alice makes a sound.
Times a healer, memory peeler, and c**ting mash potato,
For me I lost so we could all gain a Heartfelt all in Escrow.
Take it easy, mrs ****** you've eaten all your  nestlé
I'm sure you'll find my Angel kind, makes you 1st Officer Flyin' Airway
I'm through the pain to remain insane, and loved you with one glance,
Now Ray conveys, tetrahedral array and his finer Quadratic dance