 | Poems |  |
48
Upon a Ribband.
This silken wreath, which circles in mine armeIs but an Emblem of that mystique charme,
Where with the magique of your beauties binds
My captive soule, and round about it winds
Fetters of lasting love; This hath entwind
My flesh alone, That hath empalde my mind:
Time may weare out These soft weak bands; but Those
Strong chaines of brasse, Fate shall not discompose.
This holy relique may preserve my wrist,
But my whole frame doth by That power subsist:
To That my prayers and sacrifice, to This
I onely pay a superstitious kisse:
This but the Idoll, That's the Deitie,
Religion there is due; Here ceremonie.
That I receive by faith, This but in trust;
Here I may tender dutie, There I must.
This order as a Layman I may beare,
But I become Loves Priest when That I weare.
This moves like ayre; That as the Center stands:
That knot your vertue tide; This but your hands:
That Nature fram'd, but This was made by Art;
This makes my arme your prisoner, That my heart.
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