A paraphrase upon the canticles and some select hymns of the New and Old Testament, with other occasional compositions in English verse. By Samuel Woodford |
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 | A paraphrase upon the canticles |  |
44
VII. AMORES MUTUI.
SPONSUS SPONSA.SPONSUS.
Quam pulchri sunt gressus tui in calceamentis?
Sponsus.
Fair One, who dost from Loins of Kings descend,
The King, whose Empire does o're all extend,
Beyond those Worlds, which undiscovered lie,
Ith' boundless circuit of th' All-embracing Skie,
Let others, as they please, recount Thy praise,
I from the ground its Monument will raise.
Those parts of Thee which have the lowest place,
But beauteous in their kind—
Thy Feet, which on their well fix'd bases, bear
The fairest Pile, that Nature e're did rear.
How glorious are they, when Thou leadst Thy Flock,
Or on Thy buskins rais'd, or in thy humble Sock?
The juncture of Thy Thighs like Jewels are,
The Work of the most fam'd Artificer.
Thy Navil (nor let Scoffers here blaspheme
The Mysteries of the New Jerusalem,
Or to vile Lust debase the noble Theme.)
But like a Goblet round Thy Navil is,
Brim full, and flowing with the richest Juice.
Thy Belly pregnant with a numerous Train,
Which Heav'ns void space, shall People once again.
Like heaps of Wheat, with Lillies set around,
Thy Children shew, and how their Mother's Crown'd.
Thy Brest's like two Twin-Roes, and Twins they are,
In all the Herd there's not a lovelier pair.
Thy Neck is like a Tower of Ivory,
Hung with the Trophies of Loves Victory.
Thy Eyes surpass the Silver Streams, that run
By Bathrabbim, to th' Pools of Essebon.
Thy Nose, of perfect shape, like a Fort Royal stands,
Off from Thy Cheeks, and th' under Plains commands.
Or like Loves Labyrinth, by the Forrest side,
Pointing, and to Damascus op'ning wide.
Thy Head's like Carmel, and Thy purple Hair,
The brightest Dye th' Assyrian Fleece can bear.
Fetter'd in its soft Chains the King doth lie,
Enamour'd of the Bands of his Captivity.
The King, whose Empire does o're all extend,
Beyond those Worlds, which undiscovered lie,
Ith' boundless circuit of th' All-embracing Skie,
Let others, as they please, recount Thy praise,
I from the ground its Monument will raise.
Those parts of Thee which have the lowest place,
But beauteous in their kind—
Thy Feet, which on their well fix'd bases, bear
The fairest Pile, that Nature e're did rear.
How glorious are they, when Thou leadst Thy Flock,
Or on Thy buskins rais'd, or in thy humble Sock?
The juncture of Thy Thighs like Jewels are,
The Work of the most fam'd Artificer.
Thy Navil (nor let Scoffers here blaspheme
The Mysteries of the New Jerusalem,
Or to vile Lust debase the noble Theme.)
But like a Goblet round Thy Navil is,
Brim full, and flowing with the richest Juice.
45
Which Heav'ns void space, shall People once again.
Like heaps of Wheat, with Lillies set around,
Thy Children shew, and how their Mother's Crown'd.
Thy Brest's like two Twin-Roes, and Twins they are,
In all the Herd there's not a lovelier pair.
Thy Neck is like a Tower of Ivory,
Hung with the Trophies of Loves Victory.
Thy Eyes surpass the Silver Streams, that run
By Bathrabbim, to th' Pools of Essebon.
Thy Nose, of perfect shape, like a Fort Royal stands,
Off from Thy Cheeks, and th' under Plains commands.
Or like Loves Labyrinth, by the Forrest side,
Pointing, and to Damascus op'ning wide.
Thy Head's like Carmel, and Thy purple Hair,
The brightest Dye th' Assyrian Fleece can bear.
Fetter'd in its soft Chains the King doth lie,
Enamour'd of the Bands of his Captivity.
How fair art Thou! how made for all delight!
Slender, clean Limb'd, and, as a Palm, upright?
Grow, happy Tree, the Queen of all the Wood,
Grow, as Thou dost, less great than Thou art good!
In whose warm Bosom, the Vines clusters rest,
And shew, and seem themselves, the swellings of Thy Brest.
Slender, clean Limb'd, and, as a Palm, upright?
Grow, happy Tree, the Queen of all the Wood,
Grow, as Thou dost, less great than Thou art good!
In whose warm Bosom, the Vines clusters rest,
And shew, and seem themselves, the swellings of Thy Brest.
Up to the Palm-Tree I'll ascend, I said,
Palm in my Hand; with Palm Ill crown my Head;
The blushing clusters with my Lips I'll seise,
And all their winy juyce, rich Wines express:
With which enflam'd, I'll cooling Apples take,
Apples, the best repast that Lovers make;
Apples, whose Cordial they the best can tell,
Apples, which like Thy perfum'd Breath do smell.
Apples, Thy Breath: Thy Speech is generous Wine,
That sparkles in the Cup, and gives its shine;
Moves it self right, to my Beloved goes,
Goes as it can, and all its Wonders shows:
Making the Lips of those, who sleep to speak,
And at one touch their Chains and silence break.
Palm in my Hand; with Palm Ill crown my Head;
The blushing clusters with my Lips I'll seise,
And all their winy juyce, rich Wines express:
With which enflam'd, I'll cooling Apples take,
Apples, the best repast that Lovers make;
Apples, whose Cordial they the best can tell,
Apples, which like Thy perfum'd Breath do smell.
Apples, Thy Breath: Thy Speech is generous Wine,
That sparkles in the Cup, and gives its shine;
Moves it self right, to my Beloved goes,
Goes as it can, and all its Wonders shows:
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And at one touch their Chains and silence break.
SPONSA.
Ego Dilecto meo, & ad me conversio ejus.
Sponsa.
I my BELOVED's am alone,
And beside me has he none;
None beside me does he love,
Equal none, and none above.
Mine he is and mine alone,
And beside him have I none;
None beside him do I love,
Equal none, and none above.
Come then my LIFE, ah! come away!
Ith' City let's not ever stay;
But look how our Fields do smile,
And in the Villas lodg a while.
There, with the Sun, We'll early rise,
And visiting our Nurseries,
See how the Vines their Branches spread,
And the young Grape shoots forth his head:
And how the Pomgranates do blow.
But then my LOVE less ruddy show.
My Loves there will I to Thee give.
Loves in the Country happie'st live.
The Mandrag's there, that Love excites,
The Mandrag, chief in Loves delights;
Which forward now, begins to 'appear,
And fumes our Gates with it's Rosie Hair.
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Which I will in Thy Bosom pour.
Store of Pleasures, new, and old,
More than can of Tongue be told.
More, if possible, than enough,
And all reserv'd for Thee, my LOVE.
| A paraphrase upon the canticles | |