Sions Sonets: Sonet 20

THy timely griefe, (my teares-baptized Love)
Cōpels mine eares to heare; thy tears, to move;
Thy blubber'd beauty, to mine eye appeares
More bright than 'twas: Such is the strength of teares:
eautie, & Terror, meeting in thine eye,
Have made thy face the Throne of Majestie,
Those awfull beames, the proudest heart will move
To love for feare, untill it feare for love.

REpresse those flames, that furnace from thine eye,
They ravish with too bright a Tyrannie;
Thy fires are too-too fierce: O turne them from me,
They pierce my soule, & with their rayes o'recome me,
Thy curious * Tresses dangle, all unbound,
ith unaffected order, to the ground:
How orient is thy beauty! How divine!
How darke's the glory of the earth to thine!

THy Ivory Teeth in whitenesse doe out-goe
The downe of Swans, or Winters driven snowe,
Whose even proportions lively represent
Th' harmonious Musicke of unite consent;
Whose perfect whitenesse, Time could never blot,
Nor age (the envious Worme of Ruine) rot:
How orient is thy beauty! How divine!
How darke's the glory of the earth to thine!

THy Temples, are the Temples of chaste love,
Where beauty sacrific'd her milke-white Dove,
Vpon whose Azure pathes, are alwaies found
The heaven-borne Graces dauncing in a round:
Thy maiden Blushes gently doe proclame
A shame of guilt, but not a guilt of shame:
How orient is thy bety! How divine!
How darke's the glory of the earth to thine!

YOu, you brave spirits, whose imperiall hand
Enforces, what your lookes cannot command,
Bring forth your pamper'd Queenes, the lustfull prize
And curious wrecks of your imperious eyes;
Surround the Circle of the earth, and levie
The fairest Virgins in Loves fairest bevie;
Then take from each, to make one perfit grace,
Yet would my Love out-shine that borrow'd face.

I Thou art she, corrivalld with no other,
Thou glorious Daughter of thy glorious Mother
The new lerusalem, whose virgin birth
Shall deifie the Virgins of the earth:
The Virgins of the earth have seene thy beautie,
And stood amaz'd, and in a prostrate duty
Have sued to kisse thy hand, making thine eyes
Their Lamps to light them, til the Bridegroom rise.

HArke, how the virgins hallow'd with thy fire,
And wonder-smitten with thy beames, admire,
Who, who is this (say they) whose cheekes resemble
ora's blush, whose eye heavens lights dissemble?
Whose face is brighter than the silent Lampe
That lights the earth, to breathe her nightly damp;
Vpon whose brow sits dreadfull Majestie,
The frowne whereof commands a victorie.

FAire Bride, why was thy troubled soule dejected
When I was absent? was my faith suspected,
Which I so firmely plighted? Couldst thou thinke
My love could shake, or such a vow could shrinke?
I did but walke among my tender Plants,
To smell their odours, and supply their wants,
To see my Stockes, so lately grifted, sprout,
Or if my vines began to burgen out.

THough gone was I, my heart was in thy brest,
Although to thee (perchāce) an unknowne guest
'Twas that, that gaue such wings to thy desire,
T' enjoy thy love, and set thy soule on fire;
But my returne was quicke, and with a minde
More nimble (yet more constant) than the winde,
I came, and as the winged shaft doth flie
With undiscerned speed; even so did I.

REturne, (O then returne) thou child of Peace
To thy first joyes, O let thy teares surcease;
Returne thee to thy Love; let not the night
With flatt'ring slumbers, tempt thy true delight:
Returne thee to my bosome, let my brest
Be still thy Tent; Take there eternall rest;
Returne, O thou, in whose enchanted eye
Are darts enough, to make an army flye.

FAire Daughter of the highest King, how sweet
Are th' unaffected graces of thy Feet!
From every step, true Majestie doth spring,
Fitting the Daughter of so high a King:
Thy Wast is circled with a Virgin Zone,
Imbellisht round with many a precious Stone.
erein thy curious Workeman did fulfill
utmost glory of his diviner skill.

THy Navell, where thy holy Embrion doth
Receive sweet nourishment, and heavenly growth
ke a Chrystal spring, whose fresh supply
living waters, Sunne, nor Drought can dry:
fruitfull Wombe is like a winnow'd heape
purest graine, which heavēs blest hand did reap,
th Lillies fenc'd: True Embleme of rare treasure
Those graine denotes increase; whose Lillies plea-sure.

THy dainty Brests, are like faire twins, both swelling
In equall Majestie; in hue excelling
new-falne snow upon th' untroden mountains,
From whence there flowes, as from exub'rous foun-taines
ers of heavenly Nectar, to allay
The holy thirst of soules: Thrice happy they,
d more than thrice, whose blest affections bring
Their thirstie palats to so sweet a Spring.

THy Necke doth represent an Ivory Tower,
In perfect purenesse, and united power,
Thine Eyes (like pooles at a frequented gate
For every commer, to draw water at)
Are common treasures, and like chrystall glasses,
Shwes each his lively visage, as he passes.
Thy Nose, the curious Organ of thy Sent,
Wants nothing more, for use, for ornament.

THy Tyres of gold (inricht with glorious gems,
Rare Diamonds, and princely Diadems)
Adorne thy browes, and with their native worth
Aduance thy glory, and set thy beautie forth:
So perfect are thy Graces, so divine,
And full of heaven, are those faire lookes of thine,
That I'm inflamed with the double fire
Of thy full beauty, and my fierce desire.

O Sacred Symmetrie! O rare connection
Of many perfects, to make one perfection!
O heauenly Musicke, where all parts doe meet
In one sweet straine, to make one perfect sweet!
O glorious members, whose each severall feature
Divine, compose so, so divine a Creature!
Faire soule, as all thy parts united be
Entire, so summ'd are all my joyes in thee.

THy curious Fabricke, and erected stature
Is like the generous Palme, whose lofty nature,
In spight of envious violence, will aspire,
Then most supprest, the more it moūts the higher:
Thy lovely brests, (whose beautie reinvites
My oft remembrance to her oft delights)
Are like the swelling Clusters of the vine;
So full of sweetnesse are those brests of thine.

AR thou my Palme? My busie hand shal nourish
Thy fruitfull roots, & make thy brāches flourish:
thou my vine? My skilfull arme shall dresse
Thy dying plants; my living springs shall blesse
Thy infant Buds; my blasting breath shall quell
Presumptuous weeds, & make thy clusters swell:
And all that love thee, shall attaine the favour
To taste thy sweetnesse, and to smell thy savour.

THose Oracles that from thy lips proceed,
With sweet Evangels, shall delight and feed
attentive eare, and like the Trumpets voyce
faint hearts, but make brave spirits rejoice:
Thy breath, whose Dialect is most divine,
cends quicke flames, where ember'd sparkes but shine;
strikes the Pleaders Rhet'ricke with derision,
And makes the dullest soule a Rhetorician.