(From “Wit Restored,” 8vo. 1658.)
Come all yee Muses and rejoice
At your Apolloe’s happy choice;
Phœbus has conquer’d Cupid’s charme;
Fair Daphne flys into his arm.
If Daphne be a tree, then mark,
Apollo is become the barke.
If Daphne be a branch of bay,
He weares her for a crowne to-day:
O happy bridegroom! which dost wed
Thyself unto a virgin’s bed.
Let thy love burne with hot desire,
She lacks no oil to feed the fire.
You know not poore Pigmalion’s lot,
Nor have you a mere idol got.
You no Ixion, you no proud
Juno makes embrace a cloud.
Looke how pure Diana’s skin
Appeares as it is shadow’d in
A chrystal streame; or look what grace
Shines in fair Venus’ lovely face,
Whilst she Adonis courts and woos;
Such beauties, yea and more than those,
Sparkle in her; see but her soul,
And you will judge those beauties foul.
Her rarest beauty is within,
She’s fairest where she is not seen;
Now her perfection’s character
You have approv’d, and chosen her.
O precious! she at this wedding
The jewel weares—the marriage ring.
Her understanding’s deep: like the
Venetian duke, you wed the sea;
A sea deep, bottomless, profound,
And which none but yourself may sound.
Blind Cupid shot not this love-dart;
Your reason chose, and not your heart;
You knew her little, and when her
Apron was but a muckender,
When that same coral which doth deck
Her lips she wore about her neck:
You courted her, you woo’d her, not
Out of a window, she was got
And born your wife; it may be said
Her cradle was her marriage-bed.
The ring, too, was layd up for it
Untill her finger was growne fit:
You once gave her to play withal
A babie, and I hope you shall
This day your ancient gift renew,
So she will do the same for you:
In virgin wax imprint, upon
Her breast, your own impression;
You may (there is no treason in ’t)
Coine sterling, now you have a mint.
You are now stronger than before,
Your side hath in it one ribb more.
Before she was akin to me
Only in soul and amity;
But now we are, since shee’s your bride,
In soul and body both allyde:
’Tis this has made me less to do,
And I in one can honour two.
This match a riddle may be styled,
Two mothers now have but one child;
Yet need we not a Solomon,
Each mother here enjoyes her own.
Many there are I know have tried
To make her their own lovely bride;
But it is Alexander’s lot
To cut in twaine the Gordian knot:
Claudia, to prove that she was chast,
Tyed but a girdle to her wast,
And drew a ship to Rome by land:
But now the world may understand
Here is a Claudia too; fair bride,
Thy spotlesse innocence is tried;
None but thy girdle could have led
Our Corbet to a marriage bed.
Come, all ye Muses, and rejoice
At this your nurslings happy choice:
Come, Flora, strew the bridemaid’s bed,
And with a garland crowne her head;
Or if thy flowers be to seek,
Come gather roses at her cheek.
Come, Hymen, light thy torches, let
Thy bed with tapers be beset,
And if there be no fire by,
Come light thy taper at her eye;
In that bright eye there dwells a starre,
And wise men by it guided are.
In those delicious eyes there be
Two little balls of ivory:
How happy is he then that may
With these two dainty balls goe play.
Let not a teare drop from that eye,
Unlesse for very joy to cry.
O let your joy continue! may
A whole age be your wedding-day!
O happy virgin! is it true
That your deare spouse embraceth you?
Then you from heaven are not farre,
But sure in Abraham’s bosom are.
Come, all ye Muses, and rejoyce
At your Apollo’s happy choice.