BRIDE.
Sonet XVII.
1
My Love is the perfection of delight,
Roses, and Doves are not so red, so white;
Vnpatern'd beautie summon'd every grace
To the composure of so sweet a face;
His body is a Heaven, for in his brest
The perfect Essence of a God doth rest;
The brighter eye of Heaven did never shine
Vpon another glorie, so divine.
2
His
Head is farre more glorious, to behold,
Than fruitfull Ophyres oft refined gold,
Tis the rich Magazen of secret treasure,
Whence Graces spring in unconfined measure;
His curl'd and dagling
Tresses doe proclame
A Nazarite, on whom ne're Razor came.
Whose Raven-blacke colour gives a curious relish
To that which beauty did so much imbellish.
3
Like to the eyes of Doves are his faire
eyes,
Wherein sterne Iustice, mixt with mercy, lies;
His eyes are simple, yet Majesticall,
In motion nimble, and yet chaste withall,
Flaming like fier, and yet burne they not,
Vnblemisht, undistained with a spot,
Blazing with precious beames, and to behold,
Like two rich Diamonds in a frame of gold.
4
His cheeks are like two fruitfull beds ore-grown
With Aromaticke flowers newly blowne,
Whose odours, beauty, please the smell, the sight,
And doubling pleasures, double the delight:
His
lips are like a chrystall spring, from whence
Flow sweetned streames of sacred Eloquence,
Whose drops into the eare distill'd, doe give
Life to
the dead, true joyes to
them that live.
5
His hāds are deckt with rings of
gold; the rings
With costly Iewels, fitting none but Kings.
Which (of themselves though glorious, yet) receive
More glorie from those fingers, than they give;
His
brests like Ivorie, circled round about
With
veines, like Saphyres, winding in and out,
Whose beautie is (though darkened from the eye)
Full of divine, and secret Majestie.
6
His
legs like purest Marble, strong and white,
Of curious shape, (though quicke) unapt for flight:
His Feet (as gold that's oft refined) are
Like his upright proceedings, pure and faire;
His
Port is Princely, and his Stature tall,
And, like the Cedar, stout, yet sweet withall:
O, who would not repose his life, his blisse,
Vpon a Base so faire, so firme as this?
7
His mouth! but stay, what need my lips be lavish
In choice of words, when one alone wil ravish?
But shall, in briefe, my ruder tongue discover
The speaking Image of my absent Lover?
Then let the curious hand of Art refine
The race of Vertues morall, and divine,
From whence, by heaven let there extracted be
A perfect Quintessence; even such is He.
