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GEORGE CHAPMAN

1560-1634

117                                               Bridal Song

O COME, soft rest of cares! come, Night!
   Come, naked Virtue’s only tire,
The reapàed harvest of the light
   Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire.
     Love calls to war:
        Sighs his alarms,
     Lips his swords are,
        The field his arms.

Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
   On glorious Day’s outfacing face;
And all thy crownàed flames command
   For torches to our nuptial grace.
     Love calls to war:
        Sighs his alarms,
     Lips his swords are,
        The field his arms.

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