Wooing Song By Giles Fletcher

Love is the blossom where there blows
Everything 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 medicine 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 heavy 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 are.

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.
Everything doth passes away;
There is danger in delay:
Come, come, gather then the rose,
Gather it, or if 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!

― By Giles Fletcher