Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE BRIDES' TRAGEDY: ACT 2, SCENE 1, by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES


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THE BRIDES' TRAGEDY: ACT 2, SCENE 1, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Dear master, didst thou call? I will not be a second time so slothful
Last Line: When he bids roses open and be sweet.


Boy (awaking) Dear master, didst thou call? I will not be
A second time so slothful.
Orlando Sleep, my boy,
Thy task is light and joyous, to be good.
Boy Oh! if I must be good, then give me money,
I pray thee, give me some, and you shall find
I'll buy up every tear, and make them scarcer
Than diamonds.
Orlando Beautiful pity, thou shalt have enough;
But you must give me your last song.
Boy Nay, sir;
You're wont to say my rhymes are fit for girls,
And lovesick ideots; I have none you praise
Full of the heat of battle and the chase.
Orlando Sing what you will, I'll like it.

Song

A ho! A ho!
Love's horn doth blow,
And he will out a-hawking go.
His shafts are light as beauty's sighs,
And bright as midnight's brightest eyes,
And round his starry way
The swan-winged horses of the skies,
With summer's music in their manes,
Curve their fair necks to zephyr's reins,
And urge their graceful play.

A ho! A ho!
Love's horn doth blow,
And he will out a-hawking go.
The sparrows flutter round his wrist,
The feathery thieves that Venus kissed
And taught their morning song,
The linnets seek the airy list,
And swallows too, small pets of Spring,
Beat back the gale with swifter wing,
And dart and wheel along.

A ho! A ho!
Love's horn doth blow,
And he will out a-hawking go,
Now woe to every gnat that skips
To filch the fruit of ladies' lips,
His felon blood is shed;
And woe to flies whose airy ships
On beauty cast their anchoring bite,
And bandit wasp, that naughty wight,
Whose sting is slaughter-red.

Orlando Who is thy poet, boy?
Boy I must not tell.
Orlando Then I will chide thee for him. Who first drew
Love as a blindfold imp, an earthen dwarf,
And armed him with blunt darts? His soul was kin
To the rough wind that dwells in the icy north,
The dead cold pedant, who thus dared confine
The universe's soul, for that is Love.
'Tis he that acts the nightingale, the thrush,
And all the living musics, he it is
That gives the lute, the harp and tabor speech,
That flutters on melodious wings and strikes
The mute and viewless lyres of sunny strings
Borne by the minstrel gales, mimicking vainly
The timid voice, that sent him to my breast,
That voice the wind hath treasured and doth use
When he bids roses open and be sweet.





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