Wake now, my Love, awake! for it is time: 
The rosy Morne long since left Tithons bed, 75
All ready to her silver coche to clyme,
And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed. 
Hark! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies,
And carroll of Loves praise: 
The merry larke hir mattins sings aloft; 80
The thrush replyes; the mavis* descant** playes;
The ouzell@ shrills; the ruddock$ warbles soft;
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this dayes meriment. 
Ah! my deere Love, why doe ye sleepe thus long, 85
When meeter were that ye should now awake,
T’awayt the comming of your ioyous make,%
And hearken to the birds love-learned song,
The deawy leaves among! 
For they of ioy and pleasance to you sing, 90
That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.
  [* Mavis, song-thrush.]
  [** Descant, variation.]
  [@ Ouzell, blackbird.]
  [$ Ruddock, redbreast.]
  [% Make, mate.]

My love is now awake out of her dreame,
And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed were
With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams
More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere. 95
Come now, ye damzels, daughters of delight,
Helpe quickly her to dight. 
But first come, ye fayre Houres, which were begot,
In Ioves sweet paradice, of Day and Night,
Which doe the seasons of the year allot, 100
And all that ever in this world is fayre
Do make and still repayre: 
And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene,
The which doe still adorn her beauties pride,
Helpe to adorne my beautifullest bride:  105
And, as ye her array, still throw betweene
Some graces to be scene;
And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,
The whiles the woods shal answer, and your eccho ring.

Now is my Love all ready forth to come:  110
Let all the virgins therefore well awayt,
And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome,
Prepare your selves, for he is comming strayt. 
Set all your things in seemely good aray,
Fit for so ioyfull day, 115
The ioyfulst day that ever sunne did see. 
Fair Sun! shew forth thy favourable ray,
And let thy lifull* heat not fervent be,
For feare of burning her sunshyny face,
Her beauty to disgrace. 120
O fayrest Phoebus!  Father of the Muse! 
If ever I did honour thee aright,
Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight,
Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse,
But let this day, let this one day, be mine; 125
Let all the rest be thine. 
Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing,
That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring.
  [* Lifull, life-full.]