BRIDE.
Sonet XIII.
1
O thou (my deare) whose sweets, all sweets excell
From whom my fruits receive their tast, their smell
How can my thriving
plants refuse to grow
Thus quickned with so sweet a
Sun as thou?
How can my flowers, which thy Ewers nourish
With showers of living waters, choose but flourish?
O thou, the spring, from whence these waters burst,
Did ever any taste thy streames, and thurst?
2
Am I a Garden? May my flowers bee
So highly honour'd to be smelt by thee;
Inspire them with thy sacred breath, and then
Receive from them, thy borrowed breath agen;
Frequent thy Garden, whose rare fruit invites
Thy welcome presence, to his choise Delights;
Taste where thou list, and take thy full repaste,
Here's that wil please thy smel, thine eye, thy taste.
