The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250-1900

English poetry

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 Hymen 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!

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

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The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250-1900

English poetry

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 Hymen 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!

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250-1900

The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250-1900

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