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V.

[When thou thy pliant Arms dost wreath]

When thou thy pliant Arms dost wreath
About my Neck, and gently breath
Into my Breast that soft sweet Air
With which thy Soul doth mine repair,
When my faint Life thou draw'st away,
My Life which scorching Flames decay,
Orecharg'd my panting Bosom boyles,
Whose Feavour thy kind Art beguiles,
And with the Breath that did inspire
Doth mildly fan my glowing Fire,
Transported then I cry, above
All other Deities is Love!
Or if a Deity there be
Greater then Love, 'tis onely Thee.