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The Anti-Jew Takes a Holiday (5)

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Salamandren
79
Published on 19 Jul 2021 / In Jewish Question

⁣Song "Epithalamion" by Salamandren

Carried away on your love / Never to be alone / Ah, turtle dove, now it's bound to get rough, so you'd better prepare for the worst. / Betrothed to me, my dove, / Never will we give up. / Ever enchained from your heart to my brain till I think as you feel, turtle dove. / Lover, my word is your sign. / Follow me where'ere I hie. / Here at my side, you'll be safe in the night, until quite unexpectedly, I bite. / Give yourself up to what's right. / Gripped in the teeth of my vice. / Always obey, or there'll be hell to pay. / When it comes to your lovers, I'm highest. / That's quite enough for today. / Lay your head down on my leg. / Rest while you might, it'll be a long night. / I've got so much prepared for you, wife.

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mics972
mics972 2 months ago

@Salamandren: EPITHALAMION
from The Angry Muse by Ewan MacColl & Peggy Seeger, released December 14, 1968
https://ewanmaccoll.bandcamp.c....om/track/epithalamiu

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mics972
mics972 2 months ago

EPITHALAMION
http://pinkmonkey.com/dl/library1/book1669.pdf
Spenser, Edmund (1552-1599) - English poet who was the first great writerof the Elizabethan age.
Often called “the Poet’s Poet,” he developed the nine-lineSpenserian stanza
(an ababbcbcc rhyme scheme) which was widely imitated bypoets in later times.
Epithalamion (1595) -
This lyric poem was written in celebra-tion of Spenser’s marriage to Elizabeth Boyle.
It is considered one of his greatestpoetic achievements.

EPITHALAMIONYe learned sisters, which have oftentimesBeene to me ayding, others to adorne,
Whom ye thought worthy for your gracefull rymes,That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes, But joyed in theyr praise; And when ye list your
owne mishaps to mourne,Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse, Your string could
soone to sadder tenor turne,And teach the woods and waters to lamentYour doleful dreriment:
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside,And having all your heads with girland crownd,
Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound;Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride:So I unto my selfe alone will sing; '
The woods shall to me answer, and my eccho ring.

Early, before the worlds light giving lampeHis golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,Doe ye awake, and, with fresh
lustyhed,
Go to the bowre of my beloved love, My truest turtle dove:Bid her awake; for Hymen
is awake,And long since ready forth his maske to move,With his bright tead that
flames with many a flake, And many a bachelor to waite on him, In theyr fresh
garments trim.Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight, For lo! the wished
day is come at last,That shall, for al the paynes and sorrowes past, Pay to her
usury of long delight:And whylest she doth her dight,Doe ye to her of joy and
solace sing,That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Bring with you all the nymphes that you can heare,
Both of the rivers and the forrests greene,
And of the sea that neighbours to her neare,

Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene.And let them also with them bring in hand
Another gay girland, For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses,Bound truelove wize with
a blew silke riband.And let them make great store of bridale poses, And let them eeke
bring store of other flowers, To deck the bridale bowers.And let the ground whereas her
foot shall tread, For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong,Be strewed with
fragrant flowers all along, And diapred lyke the discolored mead.Which done, doe at
her chamber dore awayt,F or she will waken strayt;
The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing The woods shall to you answer, and your eccho ring.
Ye nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heedThe silver scaly trouts doe tend full well,
And greedy pikes which use therein to feed,
(Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell)
And ye likewise which keepe the rushy lake,

Where none doo fishes take,Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd light,And in his waters,
which your mirror make,Behold your faces as the christall bright,That when you come whereas
my love doth lie, No blemish she may spie.And eke ye lightfoot mayds which keepe the dere
That on the hoary mountayne use to towre, And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure,
With your steele darts doo chace from comming neer,Be also present heere,To helpe to decke
her, and to help to sing,That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.Wake now, my love,
awake!
for it is time: The rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed, 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,The thrush replyes, the mavis
descant playes!

The ouzell shrills, the ruddock warbles soft,So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this dayes merriment.Ah! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long, When meeter
were that ye should now awake, T’awayt the comming of your joyous make,
A nd hearken to the birds love-learned song,The deawy leaves among?
For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, That all the woods them answer,
and theyr eccho ring. 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
beamsMore bright then Hesperus his head doth rere. Come now, ye damzels,
daughters of delight, Helpe quickly her to dight. But first come ye, fayre Houres,
which were begot, In Joves sweet paradice, of Day and Night,Which doe the
seasons of the year allot, And al that ever in this world is fayreDo make and
still repayre

And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene, The which doe still adorne her beauties pride,
Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride: And as ye her array, still throw betweeneSome graces
to be seene: 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: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 joyfull day,That joyfulst day that ever sunne
did see.Faire 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.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 myne,
Let all the rest be thine. Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing, That all the woods
shal answer, and theyr eccho ring.Harke how the minstrels gin to shrill aloud -
Their merry musick that resounds from far, The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud,
That well agree withouten breach or jar, But most of all the damzels doe delite,
When they their tymbrels smyte, And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet,
That all the sences they doe ravish quite, The whyles the boyes run up and downe
the street,Crying aloud with strong confused noyce, As if it were one voyce.‘
Hymen, Io Hymen, Hymen,’ they do shout,That even to the heavens theyr
shouting shrillDoth reach, and all the firmament doth fill;To which the people,
standing all about,As in approvance doe thereto applaud,

And loud advaunce her laud, And evermore they ‘Hymen, Hymen’ sing,
That al the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.Loe! where she
comes along with portly pace, Lyke Phoebe, from her chamber of the
east, Arysing forth to run her mighty race,Clad all in white, that seemes
a virgin best. So well it her beseemes, that ye would weeneSome angell
she had beene,Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre,Sprinckled
with perle, and perling flowres atweene, Doe lyke a golden mantle her
attyre, And being crowned with a girland greene, Seeme lyke some
mayden queene.Her modest eyes, abashed to beholdSo many gazers
as on her do stare,Upon the lowly ground affixed are; Ne dare lift up her
countenance too bold,But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud,
So farre from being proud.Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing

That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.Tell me, ye merchants daughters,
did ye seeSo fayre a creature in your towne before, So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as
she, Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store?Her goodly eyes lyke saphyres
shining bright,Her forehead yvory white, Her cheekes lyke apples with the sun hath
rudded, Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte, Her brest like to a bowle of
creame uncrudded, Her paps lyke lyllies budded, Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre,
And all her body like a pallace fayre, Ascending uppe, with many a stately stayre,
To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre. Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze,
Upon her so to gaze,Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, To which the woods did answer,
and your eccho ring.But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,

The inward beauty of her lively spright, Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high
degree, Much more then would ye wonder at that sight, And stand astonisht lyke
to those which redMedusaes mazeful hed.There dwels sweet Love and constant
Chastity, Unspotted Fayth, and comely Womanhood,Regard of Honour, and mild
Modesty; There Vertue raynes as queene in royal throne,And giveth lawes alone,
The which the base affections doe obay, And yeeld theyr services unto her will;
Ne thought of thing uncomely ever mayThereto approch to tempt her mind to ill.
Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures, And unrevealed pleasures,
Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing, That al the woods should answer,
and your eccho ring. Open the temple gates unto my love,Open them wide that
she may enter in,And all the postes adorne as doth behove,

And all the pillours deck with girlands trim,For to receyve this saynt with honour dew,
That commeth in to you.With trembling steps and humble reverence,
She commeth in before th’ Almighties vew:Of her, ye virgins, learne obedience,
When so ye come into those holy places,To humble your proud faces. Bring her
up to th’ high altar, that she may The sacred ceremonies there partake, That which
do endlesse matrimony make; And let the roring organs loudly playThe praises of
the Lord in lively notes, The whiles with hollow throates The choristers the joyous
antheme sing, That al the woods may answere, and their eccho ring.Behold,
whiles she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes,A
nd blesseth her with his two happy hands, How the red roses flush up in her cheekes,
And the pure snow with goodly vermill stayne

Like crimsin dyde in grayne: That even th’ angels, which continually About the sacred
altare doe remaine, Forget their service and about her fly, Ofte peeping in her face, that
seemes more fayre, The more they on it stare.But her sad eyes, still fastened on the
ground, Are governed with goodly modesty,That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry,
Which may let in a little though unsownd. Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand,
The pledge of all our band?Sing, ye sweet angels, Alleluya sing, That all the woods
may answere, and your eccho ring.Now al is done; bring home the bride againe,
Bring home the triumph of our victory,Bring home with you the glory of her gaine,
With joyance bring her and with jollity. Never had man more joyfull day then 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 postes and wals with wine, That they may sweat,
and drunken be withall.Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall.
And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine; And let the Graces
daunce unto the rest, For they can doo it best: The whiles the maydens
doe theyr carroll sing, The which the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring.
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 chose 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 bonefires make all day,
And daunce about them, and about them sing:That all the woods may answer,
and your eccho ring.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!
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!Hast thee, O fayrest planet,
to thy homeWithin the westerne fome: Thy tyred steedes long since have
need of rest, Long though it be, at last I see it gloome, And the bright
evening star with golden creastAppeare out of the east.Fayre childe of
beauty, glorious lampe of love, That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead,
And guydest lovers through the nightes dread,

How chearefully thou lookest from above,And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light,
As joying in the sight Of these glad many, which for joy doe sing, That all the woods them
answer, and their eccho ring! Now ceasse, ye damsels, your delights forepast; Enough is it
that all the day was youres: Now day is doen, and night is nighing fast:Now bring the bryde'
into the brydall boures. The night is come, now soone her disaray, And in her bed her lay;
Lay her in lillies and in violets, And silken courteins over her display, And odourd sheetes,
and Arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my faire love does ly,In proud humility! Like unto Maia, when as Jove her
tookeIn Tempe, lying on the flowry gras,Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary wasWith
bathing in the Acidalian brooke. Now it is night, ye damsels may be gon,

And leave my love alone.And leave likewise your former lay to sing:
The woods no more shal answere, nor your eccho ring.Now welcome,
night! thou night so long expected, That long daies labour doest at last
defray,
And all my cares, which cruell Love collected,Hast sumd in one, and cancelled for aye:
Spread thy broad wing over my love and me,That no man may us see, And in thy sable
mantle us enwrap, From feare of perrill and foule horror free. Let no false treason seeke
us to entrap,Nor any dread disquiet once annoyThe safety of our joy: But let the night
be calme and quietsome, Without tempestuous storms or sad afray: Lyke as when Jove
with fayre Alcmena lay, When he begot the great Tirynthian groome: Or lyke as when he
with thy selfe did lie, And begot Majesty.And let the mayds and yongmen cease to sing:

Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring. Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares,
Be heard all night within, nor yet without: Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares, Breake
gentle sleepe with misconceived dout. Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadul sights,
Make sudden sad affrights; Ne let house-fyres, nor lightnings helplesse harmes,
Ne let the Pouke, nor other evill sprights, Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes,
Ne let hob goblins, names whose sense we see not, Fray us with things that be not.
Let not the shriech oule, nor the storke be heard, Nor the night raven that still deadly yels,
Nor damned ghosts cald up with mighty spels, Nor griesly vultures make us once affeard:
Ne let th’ unpleasant quyre of frogs still croking Make us to wish theyr choking
Let none of these theyr drery accents sing;Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring

But let stil Silence trew night watches keepe, That sacred Peace may in assurance rayne,
And tymely Sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne,
The whiles an hundred little winged loves, Like divers fethered doves,Shall fly and flutter round
bout our bed, And in the secret darke, that none reproves, Their prety stealthes shall worke, and
snares shal spreadTo filch away sweet snatches of delight, Conceald through covert night.
Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will: For greedy Pleasure, careless of your toyes,
Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes, Then what ye do, albe it good or ill. All night
therefore attend your merry play, For it will soone be day:Now none doth hinder you,
that say or sing,Ne will the woods now answer, nor your eccho ring.Who is the same
which at my window peepes? Or whose is that faire face that shines so bright?

Is it no Cinthia, she that never sleepes, But walkes about high heaven al the night?'
O fayrest goddesse, do thou not envyMy love with me to spy: For thou likewise didst love,
though now unthought, And for a fleece of woll, which privily The Latmian shephard
once unto thee brought, His pleasures with thee wrought.Therefore to us be favorable now;
And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge, And generation goodly dost enlarge, Encline
thy will t’ effect our wishfull vow, And the chast wombe informe with timely seed, That may
our comfort breed:Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing,Ne let the woods us answere,
nor our eccho ring.And thou, great Juno, which with awful mightThe lawes of wedlock still
dost patronizeAnd the religion of the faith first plight With sacred rites hast taught to
solemnize,And eeke for comfort often called art.

Of women in their smart, Eternally bind thou this lovely bank, And all thy blessings unto us impart.
And thou, glad Genius, in whose gentle hand The bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine,
Without blemish or staine, And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delight With secret ayde
doest succour and supply, Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny, Send us the timely fruit
of this same night. And thou, fayre Hebe, and thou, Hymen free,Grant that it may so be.
'Til which we cease your further prayse to sing, Ne any words shal answer, nor your
eccho ring. And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods, In which a thousand torches
flaming bright Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clodsIn dreadful darknesse lend'
desired light,And all ye powers which in the same remayne, More then we men can fayne,'
Poure out your blessing on us plentiously,

And happy influence upon us raine, That we may raise a large posterity,
Which from the earth, which they may long possesse With lasting happinesse,
Up to your haughty pallaces may mount, And for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit,
May heavenly tabernacles there inherit, Of blessed saints for to increase the count.
So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this, And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing:
The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring. Song, made in lieu of many
ornaments With which my love should duly have bene dect, Which cutting off
through hasty accidents, Ye would not stay your dew time to expect, But promist
both to recompens, Be unto her a goodly ornament, And for a short time an
endless moniment.

THE 'HAPPY' END . . .

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Salamandren
Salamandren 2 months ago

ha. cool.

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Goyimbirkenstein
Goyimbirkenstein 2 months ago

Where is this?

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mics972
mics972 2 months ago

@Goyimbirkenstein: See added comments. ; - ) Salamandren likes to speak in eloquent ways, but makes a point he tries. Such is the struggle of a deep thinking man.

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Salamandren
Salamandren 2 months ago

china coast...cool place.

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Goyimbirkenstein
Goyimbirkenstein 2 months ago

@Salamandren: It looks like Xiamen. Do you know if it's possible to travel there now? AirBnB has a message that you need a Chinese passport.

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