University of Virginia Library

Cant. VIII.

Sponsa.
O had we from one Mother sprung!
Both at her Breasts together hung!
Then should I meet thee in the Street,
With unreproved kisses greet:
And to my Mothers house conduct,
Where thou thy Sister shouldst instruct:
There would I spiced Wines produce,
And my Pomegranets purple Iuice;
Thy left Arme for my Pillow plac'd,
And stricktly with thy right embrac'd.
You Virgins, born in Sions Towers,
I charge you by the chief of Powers,
That you a constant silence keep,
Nor till he call, disturb his sleep.

Chorus.
Who's this, whose feet the Hils ascend
From Deserts, leaning on her Friend!

Sponsa.
I, my Belov'd first raised thee
From under the Pomecitron tree:
Thy carefull Mother, in that Shade,
With anguish, her faire Belly laid.
Be I, ô thou my better Part,
A Seale imprest upon thy Heart:
May I thy Fingers Signet prove,
For Death is not more strong then Love:
The Grave not so insatiate,
As Iealousies enflame debate.
Should falling Clouds with Flouds conspire,
Their waters could not quench Loves fire:
Nor all in Natures Treasury,
The Freedome of Affection buy.
We have a Sister immature,
That hath no Breasts, as yet obscure,
What Ornaments shall we bestow,
When Mortalls her Endowments know?

Sponsus.
On her, if strongly built to beare,
We will a Silver Palace reare;
Or, if a Doore, to deck the same,
Will Leaves of carved Cedar frame.

Sponsa.
I am a firm Foundation
For my Belov'd to build upon;
My Breasts are Towers: I, his Delight,
His object and sole Favorite.

Sponsus.
Late in Baal-Hamon Solomon
Let forth his Vineyard: every one
For Fruits and Wines there yeerely made,
A Thousand silver Sheckles payd.

Sponsa.
This Vineyard, this which I possesse,
With diligence I daily dresse.
Thou Solomon shalt have thy due:
Two hundred more remain for you,
(Out of the surplus of our gains)
Who in our Vineyard took such pains.

Sponsus.
O thou that in the Gardens liv'st,
And life infusing counsel giv'st
To those that in thy Songs rejoyce,
To me addresse thy cheerfull Voice.

Sponsa.
Come my Belov'd, ô come away!
Love is impatient of Delay:
Run, like a youthfull Hart, or Roe,
On Hils where precious Spices grow.