University of Virginia Library

A Meditation upon the Song of Songs,

or, A request to Solomon.

Say blessed Poet, with what sacred fire
Blazes thy soul? this flight of thine is higher
Then ever fancie yet upon vain wings
Could fanne to. Say, what Chore of muses sings
Notes to thy soul? sure of more blessed sort
Then e're yet humane fancie flew to court.
Say, where is thy Parnassus? we suppose
Sion is thine: now tell me too, where flows
Thy Aganippe, whose diviner streams
Have made thee drunk with holinesse, till theams
Drop down yet most sublime? or in what carres
Rid thy triumphing fancie gilt with starres?
Thou ne're writst these unlesse thy head were even
During these raptures all the time in heaven.
Or did some Angels croud into thy brain,
And sublimate thy fancie to a strain?
O no: if these bright Hierarchies had been
Poets, and every flaming Cherubin
Had took a pen to write this amorous song,
Oh they had done the Deitie a wrong.
When to these flames my fainter flames I trust,
I see thee ravisht with a holy lust:
There is a Cupid more divine I finde
Then that same wanton wandring boy that's blinde;
I see there's arrows too, but yet I spie
That they are pointed with more sanctitie:
There is a Venus too, but not like this;
One whom the Trinitie will court and kisse:
There's Hymens tapers too, though not the same;
These lighten with a farre more holy flame.
Blest Poet to the Deitie, I'le ask
One question, and I pray thou would'st unmask;
How is my Saviour such a lover turn'd?
Is he grown wanton, amorous, that mourn'd?
Is he recover'd of his wounds, and fit
To court and woo a beauty? can he sit
And use such blessed dalliance? he all wet
In sorrow, through whose cranies sprung a sweat
The quintessence of grief? O can he still
Myrrhe from his limbeck hand, or dip his quill
In such a sonnet, which was steept (O glory!)
In his own bloud to write a crimson storie?
He hath no gay apparel, he's not brave;
You know he left his garments in the grave.
No gallant troup waits him; 'las none you finde
But creeples, poore apostles, and the blinde.
He hath no feasts to frolick, no repast:
Forc't fourtie dayes, long Lent, he was to fast.
Can his complexion suit a Ladies room
Who hath but lately peept out of his tombe?
Whose hair & breath's still powderd with the dust,
Perfumed with a grave, can he breathe lust,
Lust holy like himself? O can his lip
Drop wine, which he in vineger did dip?
Say, can he love this beautie, call her dear,
Who for an arrow's wounded with a spear?
Can he glide like a Roe, so brisk, so light,
Upon whose feet hung such an iron weight?
Will he to th'garden usher her, (O blisse!)
And there was first betrayed with a kisse?
Can he trip through the lilies as he goes,
And thus with wounds crimson'd into a rose?
O yes, he's now, now in a glorious plight;
Now his hypostasis sheds stronger light,
To be ador'd, admir'd: see Lady, see;
You never saw lover so bright as he.
Myriads of sp'rits, of naked souls a rout
Whose old bare liverie bodies are worn out,
Now clad in richer excellence, do wait
About this sacred lover. O rare state!
Who would not be thy spouse? O let me be
But a poore page O Lord to wait on thee.