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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Giles Fletcher (1586?–1623)

Panglory’s Wooing Song

LOVE is the blossom where there blows

Everything that lives or grows;

Love doth make the heavens 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,

Softened 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 stanch;

Not all the sea his fire can quench.

Love did make the bloody spear

Once a leafy 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 freshly as the 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:

Everything 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’s shore

In my bosom casts its 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 bowed;

And a world of ladies send me,

In my chambers to attend me;

All the stars in heaven that shine,

And ten thousand more, are mine.

Only bend thy knee to me—

Thy wooing shall thy winning be.