BRIDE.
Sonet. I.
1
O that the bounty of those lips divine,
Wold seale their favors, on these lips of mine,
That by those welcome
kisses, I might see
The mutuall love, betwixt my Love and me,
For truer blisse, no worldly joy allowes,
Than sacred Kisses, from so sweet a Spouse,
With which, no earthly pleasures may compare,
Rich Wines are not so delicate as they'r.
2
Nor Myrrh, nor Cassia, nor the choice perfumes
Of unctious Narde, or Aromaticke fumes
Of hot Arabia, doe enrich the Aire
With more delicious sweetnesse, than the faire
Reports, that crowne the merits of thy Name,
With heavenly Lawrels of eternall fame;
Which makes the
Virgins fix their eyes upon thee
And all that view thee, are enamour'd one thee.
3
O let the beauty of thy Sun-like face
Inflame my soule, and let thy glory chace
Disloyall thoughts: Let not the World allure
My chaste desires, from a Spouse so pure;
But when as time shall place me on thy
Throne,
My feares shall cease, and interrupt by none,
I shall transcend the stile of Transitory,
And full of Glory, still be fill'd with glory.
4
Bvt you, my curious (and too nice) allyes,
That view my fortunes, with too narrow eyes,
You say my face is
black, and foule; 'tis true;
I'm beauteous, to my Love, though black to you;
My censure stands not upon your esteeme,
He sees me as I
am; you, as I seeme;
You see the Clouds, but he discernes the Skie;
Know, 'tis my
mask that lookes so black, not I.
5
What if Afflictions doe dis-imbellish
My naturall glory, and deny the rellish
Of my adjourned beauty, yet disdaine not
Her, by whose necessary losse, you gaine not;
I was inforc'd to swelter in
the Sun,
And
keepe a strangers Vine, left mine alone;
Lest mine owne, and kept a strangers Vine;
The fault was
mine, but was
not onely mine.
6
O thou, whose love I prize above my life,
More worthy farre t'enjoy a fairer wife,
Tell me, to what cool shade dost thou resort?
Where graze thy Sheepe, where doe thy lambs disport
Free from the scorching of this
sowltry weather?
O tell thy Love, and let thy Love come thither:
Say (gentle Shepheard) fits it thee, to cherish
Thy private Flocks, and let thy true Love
perish?
