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Come my beloved, let us goe forth into the fields, and let us remaine in the villages.

Christ. Soule.
Christ:
Come, come, my deare, and let us both retire
And whiffe the dainties of the fragrant fields:
Where warbling Phil'mel and the shrill-mouth'd Quire
Chaunt forth their raptures; where the Turtle builds
Her lonely nest; and where the new-borne Bryer
Breaths forth the sweetnesse that her Aprill yeelds:
Come, come, my lovely faire, and let us try
These rurall delicates; where thou and I
May melt in private flames, and feare no stander by.

Soule:
My hearts eternall Joy, in lieu of whom
The earth's a blast, and all the world, a Buble;
Our Citie-mansion is the fairer Home,
But Country-sweets are tang'd with lesser Trouble;
Let's try them both, and choose the better; Come;
A change in pleasure makes the pleasure double:
On thy Commands depends my Goe, or Tarie;
Ile stirre with Martha; or Ile stay with Marie:
Our hearts are firmly fixt, although our pleasures varie.

Christ:
Our Country-Mansion (situate on high)
With various Objects, still renewes delight;
Her arched Roofe's of unstain'd Ivory;
Her wals of fiery-sparkling Chrysolite;
Her pavement is of hardest Porphery;
Her spacious windowes are all glaz'd with bright
And flaming Carbuncles; no need require
Titans faint rayes, or Vulcans feeble fire;
And ev'ry Gate's a Pearle; and ev'ry Pearle, entire.

Soule:
Foole, that I was! how were my thought deceiv'd!
How falsly was my fond conceit possest!
I tooke it for an Hermitage, but pav'd
And daub'd with neighbring dirt, and thatch'd at best;
Alas, I nev'r expected more, nor crav'd;
A Turtle hop'd but for a Turtles nest:
Come, come, my deare, and let no idle stay
Neglect th'advantage of the head-strong day;
How pleasure grates, that feeles the Curb of dull delay!

Christ:

Soule:
And in thine Armes Ile tell my passion story:

Christ:
O there Ile crowne thy head with all my Graces;

Soule:
And all those Graces shall reflect thy Glory;

Christ:
O there, Ile feed thee with celestiall Manna;
Ile be thy Elkanah.

Soule:
And I thy Hanna.

Christ:
Ile sound my Trump of Joy.

Soule:
And Ile resound Hosanna.

S. BERN.

O blessed Contemplation! The death of vices, and the life of virtues! Thee the Law and Prophets admire: Who ever attain'd perfection, if not by Thee! O blessed solitude, the Magazine of celestiall Treasure: by thee things earthly, and transitory, are chang'd into heavenly, and eternall.

S. BERN. in Ep.

Happy is that house, and blessed is that Congregation, where Martha still complaines of Mary.