Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN EPITHALAMINUM, by THOMAS RANDOLPH


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AN EPITHALAMINUM, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Muse, be a bridesmaid; dost not hear
Last Line: And drowsy nurses' lullaby.
Subject(s): Wedding Song; Epithalamium


MUSE, be a bridesmaid; dost not hear
How honoured Hunt and his fair Dear
This day prepare their wedding cheer?

The swiftest of thy pinions take,
And hence a sudden journey make,
To help 'm break their bridal cake.

Haste 'em to church: tell 'em love says,
Religion breeds but fond delays,
To lengthen out the tedious days.

Chide the slow priest, that so goes on,
As if he fear'd he should have done
His sermon, ere the glass be run.

Bid him post o'er his words as fast
As if himself were now to taste
The pleasure of so fair a waist.

Now lead the blessed couple home,
And serve a dinner up for some;
Their banquet is as yet to come.

Maids, dance as nimbly as your blood,
Which I see swell a purple flood,
In emulation of that good

The bride possesseth; for I deem
What she enjoys will be the theme
This night of every virgin's dream.

But envy not their blest content;
The hasty night is almost spent,
And they of Cupid will be shent.

The sun is now ready to ride.
Sure, 'twas the morning I espied,
Or 'twas the blushing of the bride!

See how the lusty bridegroom's veins
Swell, till the active torrent strains
To break those o'erstretched azure chains.

And the fair bride, ready to cry
To see her pleasant loss so nigh,
Pants like the sealed pigeon's eye.

Put out the torch; love loves no lights.
Those that perform his mystic rites
Must pay their orisons by nights.

Nor can that sacrifice be done
By any priest or nun alone,
But when they both are met in one.

Now you that taste of Hymen's cheer,
See that your lips do meet so near,
That cockles might be tutor'd there.

And let the whisperings of your love
Such short and gentle murmurs prove,
As they were lectures to the dove.

And in such strict embraces twine,
As if you read unto the vine,
The ivy, and the columbine.

Then let your mutual bosoms beat,
Till they create by virtual heat
Myrrh, balm, and spikenard in a sweat.

Thence may there spring many a pair
Of sons and daughters, strong and fair:
How soon the gods have heard my prayer!

Methinks already I espy
The cradles rock, the babies cry,
And drowsy nurses' lullaby.





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