Wooing Song

Giles Fletcher

 
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 unleavèd 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:   
    Only bend thy knee to me,
    Thy wooing shall thy winning be!
 

Further Reading

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