Song VII

O memorable day, that chanc'd to see
A world of louing wonders strangely wrought,
Deepe in my brest engrau'd by many a thought,
Thou shalt be celebrated still by me:
And if that Phœbus so benigne will be,
That happie happie place,
Whereas that diuine face
Did distribute such grace,
By pilgrims once as sacred shall be sought.
When she whom I a long time haue affected,
Amongst the flowres went forth to take the aire;
They being proud of such a guests repaire,
Though by her garments diuers times deiected,
To gaze on her againe themselues erected;
Then softly seem'd to say:
O happie we this day;
Our worthlesse dew it may,
Washing her feete with Nectar now compare.
The Roses did the rosie hue enuy,
Of those sweet lips that did the Bees deceaue,
That colour oft the Lillies wish'd to haue,
Which did the Alablaster piller die,
On which all beauties glorie did rely;
Her breath so sweetly smell'd,
The Violets as excell'd,
To looke downe were compell'd;
And so confest what foile they did receaue.
I heard at lest, loue made it so appeare,
The fethered flockes her praises did proclaime:
She whom the tyrant Tereus put to shame,
Did leaue sad plaints, and learn'd to praise my deare:
To ioyne with her sweet breath the winds drew neare;
They were in loue no doubt,
For circling her about,
Their fancies bursted out,
Whil'st all their sounds seem'd but to sound her name.
There I mine eyes with pleasant sights did cloy,
Whose seuerall parts in vaine I striue t'vnfold;
My faire was fairer many a thousand fold
Then Venus, when she woo'd the bashfull boy:
This I remember both with griefe and ioy,
Each of her lookes a dart,
Might well haue kill'd a hart:
Mine from my brest did part,
And thence retir'd it to a sweeter hold.
Whil'st in her bosome whiles she plac'd a flowre,
Straight of the same I enuy would the case,
And wish'd my hand a flowre t'haue found like grace;
Then when on her it rain'd some hapning howre,
I wish'd like Ioue t'haue falne down in a showre:
But when the flowres she spred,
To make her selfe a bed,
And with her gowne them cled,
A thousand times I wish'd t'haue had their place.
Thus whil'st that senslesse things that blisse attain'd,
Which vnto me good iustice would adiudge,
Behind a little bush (O poore refuge)
Fed with her face, I Lizard-like remain'd:
Then from her eyes so sweet a poison rain'd,
That gladly drinking death,
I was not mou'd to wrath,
Though like t'haue lost my breath,
Drown'd with the streames of that most sweet deluge.
And might that happinesse continue still,
Which did content me with so pleasant sights,
My soule then rauish'd with most rare delights,
With Ambrosie and Nectar I might fill:
Which ah I feare, I surfeiting would kill
Who would leaue off to thinke,
To moue, to breathe, or winke,
But neuer irke to drinke
The sugred liquor that transports my sprites?