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SONG. XVI. The eight Canticle. Beautifull art thou, my Deare

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Sing this as the 13 Song.

[1]

Beautifull art thou, my Deare:
Thou as louely art, as are
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Tirzah, or Ierusalem,
(As the beautifull'st of them)
And as much thou mak'st afraid,
As arm'd Troups with Flagges display'd.

2

Turne away those eyes of thine;
Doe not fix them so on mine:
For, there beame forth from thy sight,
Sweetes, that ouercome mee quite:
And thy Lockes like Kidlings bee,
Which from Gilead hill wee see.

3

Like those Ewes thy Teeth doe show,
Which in rowes from washing goe,
VVhen among them there is none,
Twinlesse, nor a Barren one.
And (within thy locks) thy Browes
Like the cut Pomegranat showes.

4

There are with her sixtie Queenes:
There are eightie Concubines;
And the Damsels they possesse,
Are in number numberlesse.
But my Doue is all alone,
And an vndefiled one.

5

Shee's her Mothers onely Deare,
And her Ioy that her did beare:
When the Daughters her suruei'd,
That she blessed was, they said;
She was praised of the Queenes,
And among the Concubines.
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6

Who is she (when forth she goes)
That so like the Morning showes?
Beautifull, as is the Moone,
Purely bright, as is the Sunne:
And appearing full of dread:
Like an Hoast with Ensignes spread?

7

To the Nut-yard downe went I,
(And the Vales encrease to spie)
To behold the Vine-Buds come,
And to see Pomegranats bloome:
But the Princes Charrets did
Vex me so, I nought could heed.

8

Turne, oh turne, thou Shulamite,
Turne, oh turne thee to our sight.
What, I pray, is that, which you
In the Shulamite would view,
But that (to apparance) she
Shewes like Troups, that armed bee?
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