|
Shee, who by making full perfection grow, |
Peeces a Circle, and still keepes it so, |
Long'd for, and longing for it, to heaven is gone, |
Where shee receives, and gives addition. |
Here in a place, where mis-devotion frames |
M Conclusion. |
A thousand Prayers to Saints, whose very names |
The anciēt Church knew not, Heaven knows not yet: |
And where, what lawes of Poetry admit, |
Lawes of Religion have at least the same, |
Immortall Maide, I might invoke thy name. |
Could any Saint provoke that appetite, |
Thou here should'st make me a french convertite. |
But thou would'st not; nor would'st thou be content, |
To take this, for my second yeares true Rent. |
Did this Coine beare any other stampe, then his, |
That gave thee power to doe, me, to say this. |
Since his will is, that to posteritie, |
Thou should'st for life, and death, a patterne bee, |
And that the world should notice have of this, |
The purpose, and th'authoritie is his; |
Thou art the Proclamation; and I am |
The Trumpet, at whose voyce the people came. |
|
The Extasie. |
|
Where, like a pillow on a bed, |
A Pregnant banke swel'd up, to rest |
The violets reclining head, |
Sat we two, one anothers best; |
Our hands were firmely cimented |
With a fast balme, which thence did spring,
|
[CW: Our] |