To Clarastella on a Nosegay of flowers which she wore at her bosome

If Bees extract their sweetness from each flow'r,
As these, theirs, from your breast; I thee devour
Alive then (Stella!) when I honey eat;
Rare food! than Attick flow'rmel far more sweet!
Yet as rob'd flow'rs preserve their smel, stil fair,
So these fresh in thy bosomes garden are,
Though blown on, whose sweet dewes and Sun above,
Make them grow there feed us, stil fragrant prove.
There's scarce a sense, but those thy flow'rs delight,
They please the touch, the tast, the smel, the sight;
Yet thou the choisest dost this all, and moe,
Thou sweetly dost our hearing ravish too.

Since like those subtle Chymists then, you take
Sweetness from them too, one more exact to make,
Thy self, which Nectar art, oh hiv'd might I
Feed on thy Honey, and there melting lie!