 | The Poems and Sonnets of Henry Constable |  |
xxvi
[Not that thy hand is soft, is sweete, is white]
Not that thy hand is soft, is sweete, is white,
Thy lippes sweet roses, breast sweet lylye is,
That love esteemes these three the chiefest blisse
Which nature ever made for lipps' delight;
Thy lippes sweet roses, breast sweet lylye is,
That love esteemes these three the chiefest blisse
Which nature ever made for lipps' delight;
But when these three, to shew theyre heavenlye might,
Such wonders doe, devotion then for this
Commandeth us with humble zeale to kisse
Such thinges as worke miracles in oure sight.
Such wonders doe, devotion then for this
Commandeth us with humble zeale to kisse
Such thinges as worke miracles in oure sight.
A lute of senselesse woode, by nature dumbe,
Toucht by her hand doth speak devinelye well;
And from thy lips and breast sweet tunes doe come
To my dead hearte, the which new life doe give.
Of greater wonders heard we never tell
Then for the dumbe to speak, the dead to live.
Toucht by her hand doth speak devinelye well;
And from thy lips and breast sweet tunes doe come
To my dead hearte, the which new life doe give.
Of greater wonders heard we never tell
Then for the dumbe to speak, the dead to live.
| The Poems and Sonnets of Henry Constable | |