Muse, bid the morn awake,
Sad winter now declines,
Each bird doth choose a mate,
This day's St. Valentine's;
For that good bishop's sake
Get up, and let us see,
What beauty it shall be,
That fortune us assigns.
But lo, in happy hour,
The place wherein she lies,
In yonder climbing tow'r,
Gilt by the glittering rise;
O Jove! that in a show'r,
As once that thund'rer did,
When he in drops lay hid,
That I could her surprise.
Her canopy I'll draw,
With spangled plumes bedight,
No mortal ever saw
So ravishing a sight;
That it the gods might awe,
And pow'rfully transpierce
The globy universe,
Out-shooting ev'ry light.
My lips I'll softly lay
Upon her heav'nly cheek,
Dy'd like the dawning day,
As polish'd ivory sleek;
And in her ear I'll say,
"O thou bright morning-star,
'Tis I that come so far,
My valentine to seek.
"Each little bird, this tide,
Doth choose her loved pheer,
Which constantly abide
In wedlock all the year,
As nature is their guide:
So may we two be true,
This year, nor change for new,
As turtles coupled were. -
"Let's laugh at them that choose
Their valentines by lot.
To wear their names that use,
Whom idly they have got;
Such poor choice we refuse,
Saint Valentine befriend;
We thus this morn may spend,
Else, Muse, awake her not."
