To the most fair and lovely Mistris, Anne Soame, now Lady Abdie.

SO smell those odours that do rise
From out the wealthy spiceries:
So smels the flowre of blooming Clove;
Or Roses smother'd in the stove:
So smells the Aire of spiced wine;
Or Essences of Jessimine:
So smells the Breath about the hives,
When well the work of hony thrives;
And all the busie Factours come
Laden with wax and hony home:
So smell those neat and woven Bowers,
All over-archt with Oringe flowers,
And Almond blossoms, that do mix
To make rich these Aromatikes:
So smell those bracelets, and those bands
Of Amber chaf't between the hands,
When thus enkindled they transpire
A noble perfume from the fire.
The wine of cherries, and to these,
The cooling breath of Respasses;
The smell of mornings milk, and cream;
Butter of Cowslips mixt with them;
Of rosted warden, or bak'd peare,
These are not to be reckon'd here;
When as the meanest part of her,
Smells like the maiden-Pomander.
Thus sweet she smells, or what can be
More lik'd by her, or lov'd by mee.