Sions Sonets: Sonet 21

MY faith, not merits, hath assur'd thee, mine;
Thy Love, not my desert hath made me, thine:
Vnworthy I, whose drowsie soule rejected
Thy precious favours, and (secure) neglected
Thy glorious presence, how am I become
A Bride besitting so divine a Groome!
It is no merit, no desert of mine,
Thy love, thy love alone, hath made me thine.

SInce then the bountie of thy deare election
Hath stil'd me thine, O let the sweet reflection
Of thy illustrious beames, my soule inspire,
And with thy spirit, inflame my hot desire;
Vnite our soules; O let thy Spirit rest
And make perpetuall home within my brest;
Instruct me so, that I may gaine the skill,
To suite my service to thy sacred will.

COme, come (my soules preserver) thou that art
Th'united joyes of my united heart,
Come, let us visit with the morning light,
Our prosperous Vines; with mutuall delight
Lt's view those grapes, whose clusters being prest
Shall make rich wines, to serve your Mariage feast,
That by the thriving plants it may appeare,
Our joyes perfecting Mariage draweth neere.

BEhold, my new disclosed flowers present
Before thy gates, their tributary sent;
Reserve themselves for Garlands, that they may
Adorne the Bridegorme, on his Mariage day:
My Garden's full of Trees, and every Tree
Laden with fruit, which I devote to thee;
Eternall joyes betide that happy guest,
That tastes the dainties of the Bridegroomes feast.

O Would to God mine eyes (these fainting eyes,
Whose eager appetite could ne're devise
A dearer object, might but once behold
My Love (as I am, clad in fleshly mold,
That each may corporally converse with other
As friend with friend; as sister with her brother,
O how mine eyes could welcome such a sight!
How would my soule dissolve with o're-delight!

THen should this hand conduct my fairest Spouse,
To taste a banquet at my mothers house;
Our fruitfull Garden should present thine eyes
With sweet delights; her trees should sacrifice
Their early fruits to thee; our tender Vine
Should cheare thy palate with her unprest wine;
Thy hand should teach my living Plants to thrive;
And such, as are a dying, to revive.

THen should my soule enjoy within this breast,
A holy Sabbath of eternall Rest;
Then should my cause that suffers through despight
Of errour, and rude Ignorance, have right;
Then should these streames, whose tydes so often rise,
Be ebb'd away, from my suffused eyes;
Then should my spirits fill'd with heavenly mirth,
Triumph o're Hell, and finde a heaven on earth.

ALL you that wish the bountifull encrease
Of dearest pleasures, and divinest peace,
I charge you all (if ought my charge may move
Your tender hearts) not to disturbe my Love;
Vexe not his gentle Spirit, nor bereave
Him of his joyes, that is so apt to grieve;
Dare not to breake his quiet slumbers, lest
You rouze a raging Lyon from his rest.

WHo ever lov'd, that ever lov'd as I,
That for his sake renounce my selfe, deny
The worlds best joyes, and have the world forgone?
Who ever lov'd so deare, As I have done?
I sought my Love, and found him lowly laid
Beneath the tree of Love in whose sweet shade
He rested; there his eye sent forth the fire,
That first enflam'd my amorous desire.

MY dearest Spouse, O seale me on thy heart
So sure, that envious Earth may never part.
Our joyned soules; let not the world remove
My chast desiers from so choyce a Love;
O, my love's not slight, her flames are serious
as never death so powerfull, so imperious:
jealous zeale is a consuming fire,
burns my soule, through feare & fierce desire.

Ires may be quencht; and flames, though ne'r so great,
With many drops shal faint, and lose their heat:
these quick fires of love, the more supprest,
he more they flame in my inflamed brest;
ow darke is Honour! how obscure and dim
bright glory, but compar'd with him!
oule is Beauty! what a toyle is Pleasure
poore is Wealth! how base a thing is treasure!

Have a Sister, which by thy divine
bounteous Grace, our Marriage shall make thine;
is mine owne, mine onely Sister, whom
Mother bare the youngest of her wombe:
Shee's yet a childe, her beauty may improve,
Her brests are small, and yet too greene for love;
When time and yeares shall adde perfection to her,
Say (dearest Love) what honour wilt thou do her?