BRIDEGROOME.
Sonet XII.
1
How orient is thy
beauty! How divine!
How darke's the glory of the earth, to thine!
Thy vailed
eyes out-shine heavens greater light,
Vnconquer'd by the shadie Cloud of night;
Thy curious
Tresses dangle, all unbound
With unaffected order, to the ground:
How orient is thy beautie! how divine!
How darke's the glory of the earth to thine!
2
Thy Ivory
Teeth in whitenesse doe out-goe
The downe of Swans, or winters driven snow
Whose even proportions lively represent
Th'harmonious Musicke of unite consent,
Whose perfect whitenesse, Time could never blot,
Nor age (the Canker of destruction) rot:
How orient is thy beauty! How divine!
How darke's the glory of the earth, to thine!
3
The rubie Portalls of thy ballanc'd
words,
Send forth a welcome relish, which affords
A heaven of blisse, and makes the earth rejoyce,
To heare the Accent of thy heavenly voice;
The mayden blushes of thy Cheekes, proclaime
A shame of guilt, but not a guilt of shame:
How orient is thy beauty! How divine!
How darke's the glory of the earth, to thine!
4
Thy
necke (unbeautifyde with borrowed grace)
Is whiter than the Lillies of thy face,
If whiter may; for beauty, and for powre,
'Tis like the glory of Davids princely Towre:
What vassall spirit could despaire, or faint,
Finding protection from so sure a Saint?
How orient is thy beauty! How divine!
How darke's the glory of the earth, to Thine!
5
The deare-bought fruit of that forbidden Tree,
Was not so dainty, as thy Apples be,
These curious Apples of thy snowy
brests,
Wherein a Paradise of pleasure rests;
They breathe such life into the ravisht
Eye,
That the inflam'd beholder cannot
dye:
How orient is thy beautie! How divine!
How darke's the glory of the earth, to Thine!
6
My dearest Spouse, I'le
hie me to my home,
And till that long-expected
day shall come,
The light wherof, shall chase the night that shrouds
Thy vailed beauty, in these envious
clouds;
Till then, I goe, and in my Throne, provide
A glorious welcome, for my fairest Bride;
Chapplets of conqu'ring Palme, & Lawrel boughs
Shall crowne thy Temples, and adorne thy browes.
7
Would beauty faine be flatter'd with a grace
She never had? May she behold thy face:
Envie would burst, had she no other taske,
Than to behold this face without a maske;
No spot, no veniall blemish could she finde,
To feed the famine of her ranc'rous minde;
Thou art the flowre of beauties Crowne, & they're
Much worse than foule, that thinke thee lesse than faire.
8
Feare not (my Love) for when those sacred bands
Of wedlock shall conjoyne our promis'd hands,
I'le come, and quit thee from this tedious
place,
Where thou art forc'd to sojourne for a space;
No forrein Angle of the utmost Lands,
Nor seas Abysse shall hide thee from my hands;
No night shall shade thee from my curious eye,
I'le rouze the graves, although grim death stand by.
9
Illustrious beames shot from thy flaming
eye,
Made fierce with zeale, and soveraigne Majestie
Have scorcht my soule, and like a fiery dart
Transfixt the Center of my wounded heart;
The Virgin swetnesse of thy heavenly grace
Hath made mine eyes glad pris'ners to thy face;
The beautie of thine eye-balls hath bereft
Me of my heart: O sweet, O sacred theft!
10
O thou, the deare Inflamer of mine eyes,
Life of my soule, and hearts eternall prize,
How delectable is thy love! How pure!
How apt to ravish, able to allure
A frozen soule, and with thy secret fire,
T'affect dull spirits with extreame desire.
How doe thy joyes (though in their greatest dearth)
Transcend the proudest pleasures of the earth!
11
Thy lips (my dearest spouse) are the ful treasures
Of sacred
Poesie, whose heavenly measures
Ravish with joy the willing heart, that heares,
But strike a deafenesse in rebellious eares:
Thy words, like milke and Honie, doe requite
The season'd soule, with profit and delight:
Heavens higher Palace, and these lower places
Of dungeon-earth are sweetned with thy graces.
12
My Love is like a Garden, full of flowers,
Whose sunny banks, & choice of shady bowres
Give change of pleasures, pleasures wall'd about
With Armed Angels, to keepe Ruine out;
And from her
brests (
enclosed from the ill
Of looser eyes) pure
Chrystall drops distill,
The fruitfull sweetnesse of whose gentle showres
Inrich her flowrs with beautie', & banks with flowrs
13
My Love is like a Paradise beset
With rarest gifts, whose fruits (but tender yet)
The world ne're tasted, dainties farre more rare
Than Edens tempting Apple, and more faire:
Myrrhe, Alloes, Incense, and the Cypresse tree
Can boast no swetnesse, but is breath'd from thee;
Dainties, for taste, and flowers, for the smell
Spring all from thee, whose sweets, all sweets excell.
