HAIL, most high, most humble one! Whose blush the moon beauteously marres, He that made all things had not done, Till he had made himself thy Son. The whole world's host would be thy guest, And board himself at thy rich brest; The feast of all things feeds on thee. The first Eve, mother of our fall, Had not a better fruit forbidden it; The world's new eastern window bin, 'Tis gratitude to forgett that other, Let hearts and lippes speak lowd, and say, In bosom of thy Father's blisse: The same to thee, sweet Spirit be done; Amen. AN ODE WHICH WAS PREFIXED TO A PRAYER BOOKE GIVEN TO A YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN. LOE, here a little volume, but great booke, A nest of new-borne sweetes, Whose native fires disdaining To lye thus folded and complaining Affect more comely bands (Faire one) from thy kind hands, And confidently looke To find the rest Of a rich binding in your brest. It is in one choice handfull, heaven, and all It is Love's great artyllery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to ly Close couch't in your white bosome, and from thence, As from a snowy fortresse of defence, Against the ghostly foe to take your part; And fortifie the hold of your chast heart. It is an armory of light; Let constant use but keep it bright, To holy hands and humble hearts, Than sinne hath snares, or hell hath darts, Onely be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Wakefull, and wise; Here is a friend shall fight for you; Hold but this book before your heart, Let prayer alone to play its part. But O the heart Must be a sure house-keeper, And yet no sleeper. Deare soule be strong, Mercy will come ere long, And bring its bosome full of blessings; To make immortall dressings For worthy soules, whose wise embraces Leaving its chast abode, Amongst the gay mates of the god of flyes; To dance i' th' sunne-shine of some smiling Spheare of sweet, and sugred lies, Of false perhaps, as fair, Flattering, but forswearing eyes; Doubtlesse some other heart Will take possession of the sacred store Amorous languishments, luminous trances, Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire. Yet doth not stay To aske the windowes leave to passe that way. Delicious deaths, soft exhalations O joyes and rarify'd delights! A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces, And many a mistic thing, Which the divine a aces Of the deare Spouse of Sirits, with them will bring. For which it is no shame, That dull mortality must not know a name Of all this store Of blessings and ten thousand more (If, when he come, He find the heart from home), His precious sweets, On the faire soule whom first he meets. O faire! O fortunate! O rich! O deare! Whoe're she bee, With winged vowes, Makes hast to meet her morning spouse Seize her sweet prey; All fresh and fragrant as he rises, O let the blisseful heart hold fast She shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and roseall spring of those rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosome there she meets. Boundlesse and infinite bottomlesse treasures, Of pure inebriating pleasures. How many heav'ns at once it is, To have her God become her lover. |