BRIDE.
Sonet. III.
1
Oh, how my soule is ravisht with the joyes
That spring like fountains frō my tru-loves voice
How cordiall are his lips! How sweet his tongue!
Each word, he breathes, is a melodious song;
He absent (ah) how is my glory dim!
I have no beauty, not deriv'd from Him;
What e're I have, from Him alone, I have,
And he takes pleasure in those gifts he gave:
2
As fragrant Myrrh, within the bosome hid,
Sents more delicious, than (before) it did,
And yet receives no sweetnesse from that brest,
That proves the sweeter for so sweet a guest;
Even so the favour of my dearest Spouse,
Thus priz'd and placed in my heart, endowes
My ardent soule with sweetnesse, and inspires
With heavenly ravishment, my rapt desires.
3
Who ever smelt the breath of morning flowres,
New sweet'nd with the dash of twilight shoures,
Of pounded Amber, or the flowring Thyme,
Or purple violets, in their proudest prime,
Or swelling Clusters, from the Cypresse tree?
So sweet's my Love; I farre more sweet is He:
So faire, so sweet, that Heavens bright eye is dim,
And flowers have no sent, compar'd with Him.
