On Mr. G. Herberts booke intituled the Temple of Sacred Poem, sent to a Gentlewoman.

KNow you faire, on what you looke;
Divinest love lyes in this booke:
Expecting fire from your eyes,
To kindle this his sacrifice.
When your hands unty these strings,
Thinke you have an Angell by th' wings.
One that gladly will bee nigh,
To wait upon each morning figh.
To flutter in the balmy aire,
Of your well prefumed prayer.
These white plumes of his heele lend you,
Which every day to heaven will send you:
To take acquaintance of the spheare,
And all the smooth faced kindred there.
And though Herberts name doe owe
These devotions, fairest; know
That while I lay them on the shrine
Of your white hand, they are mine.