BRIDE.
Sonet VII.
1
Looke how the fruitfull tree (whose ladē bought
With swelling pride, crowne Autumnes smiling browes)
Surpasses idle shrubs, even so in worth,
My love transcends the worthies of the earth:
He was my shore, in shipwracke; and my shelter,
In stormes; my shade, when I began to swelter;
If hungry, he was Food; and if opprest
With wrongs, my Advocate; with toile, my rest.
2
I thirsted; and full charged to the brinke,
He gave me
bowles of Nectar, for my drinke
And in his sides, he broacht me (for a signe
Of dearest love) a Sacramentall wine;
He freely gave; I freely dranke my fill;
The more I dranke, the more remained still:
Did never Souldier, to his Colours prove
More chaste, than I, to so entire a Love.
3
O how his beautie sets my soule on fire!
My spirits languish, with extreame desire;
Desires exceeding limits, are too lavish,
And wanting meanes to be effected, ravish;
Then let thy
breath, like flaggons of strong wine
Releeve and comfort this poore heart of mine;
For I am sicke, till time (that doth delay
Our Marriage) bring our joyfull Marriage day.
4
Till then, O let my dearest Lord, by whom,
These pleasing paines of my sweet sorrowes come
Performe his vowes, and with his due resort,
Blesse me, to make the sullen time seeme short:
In his sweet presence, may I still be blest,
Debarr'd from whom, my soule can finde no rest;
O let all times be prosp'rous, and all places
Be witnesse to our undefil'd Embraces.
5
All you, whose seeming favours have profest
The true affection of a loyall brest,
I charge you all by the true love you beare
To friendship, or what else yee count most deare,
Disturbe ye not my Love, O doe not reive
Him of his joyes, that is so apt to grieve;
Dare not to breake his quiet slumbers, lest
You rouze a raging Lyon from his rest.
6
Harke, harke, I heare that thrice-celestial voice
Wherein my spirits, rapt with joyes, rejoyce;
A voyce, that tels me, my beloved's nie;
I know the Musicke, by the Majestie:
Behold he comes; 'Tis not my
blemisht face
Can slacke the swiftnesse of his winged pace;
Behold he comes; His Trumpet doth proclaime,
He comes with speed; A truer love ne're came.
7
Behold the fleetnesse of his nimble feet:
The Roe-Bucke, & the Hart were ne're so fleet.
The word I spake, flew not so speedy from me,
As He, the treasure of my soule comes to me,
He stands behinde my wall, as if in doubt
Of welcome: Ah, this
Wall debarres him out:
O, how injurious is this Wall of sin,
That barres my Lover out, and bolts me in!
