Now al is done; bring home the bride againe;
Bring home the triumph of our victory;
Bring home with you the glory of her game,
With ioyance bring her and with iollity. 245
Never had man more ioyfull day than 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 posts and wals with wine,
That they may sweat, and drunken be withall. 
Crowne ye god Bacchus with a coronall,
And Hymen also crowne with wreaths 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.
  [* Wull, will.]

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 ordained was,
To choose 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; 275
And daunce about them, and about them sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.
  [* Ver. 266.—­Barnaby the bright.  The difference between the old
  and new style at the time this poem was written was ten days.  The
  summer solstice therefore fell on St. Barnabas’s day, the 11th of
  June.  C.]

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? 280
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move? 
Hast thee, O fayrest planet, to thy home,
Within the Westerne fome: 
Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest. 
Long though it be, at last I see it gloome, 285
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 guidest lovers through the nights sad dread, 290
How chearefully thou lookest from above,
And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light,
As ioying in the sight
Of these glad many, which for ioy do sing, 294
That all the woods them answer, and their eccho ring!