An epithalamion, or marriage song, is just such an obvious choice for today. By John Donne, of course.
This is obviously a young man’s poem. Nobody knows when it was written, but there’s a clue in the title. I like to think of him writing it when he was appointed Master of the Revels in 1593 when he was a 21 year old student at Lincoln’s Inn.
from Epithalamion Made at Lincoln’s Inn
Daughters of London, you which be
Our golden mines, & furnished treasury,
You which are angels, yet still bring with you
Thousands of angels on your marriage days,
Help with your presence, & device, to praise
These rites, which also unto you grow due;
Conceitedly dress her, & be assigned,
By you, fit place for every flower & jewel,
Make her love fit fuel
As gay as Flora, & as rich as Ind;
So may she fair & rich, in nothing lame,
Today put on perfection, & a woman’s name.
And you frolic patricians,
Sons of these senators’ wealth’s deep oceans,
Ye painted courtiers, barrels of others’ wits,
Ye country men, who but your beasts love none,
Ye of those fellowships whereof he’s one,
Of study & play made strange hermaphrodites,
Here shine, this bridegroom to the Temple bring.
Lo, in yon path which store of strewed flowers graceth,
The sober virgin paceth;
Except my sight fail, ‘tis no other thing;
Weep not, nor blush, here is no grief or shame,
Today put on perfection, & a woman’s name.
