My Deare Deare Lord, I know not what to say:
Speech is too Course a web for me to cloath
My Love to thee in or it to array,
Or make a mantle. Wouldst thou not such loath?
Thy Love to mee's too great, for mee to shape
A Vesture for the Same at any rate.

When as thy Love doth Touch my Heart down tost
It tremblingly runs, seeking thee its all,
And as a Child when it his nurse hath lost
Runs seeking her, and after her doth Call.
So when thou hidst from me, I seek and sigh.
Thou saist return return Oh Shulamite.

What placed in the Sun: and yet my ware,
A Cloud upon my head? an Hoodwinke blinde?
In middst of Love thou layst on mee, despare?
And not a blinke of Sunshine in my minde?
Shall Christ bestow his lovely Love on his,
And mask his face? allowing not a kiss?

Shall ardent love to Christ enfire the Heart?
Shall hearty love in Christ embrace the Soule?
And shall the Spirituall Eye be wholy dark,
In th'heart of Love, as not belov'd, Condole?
In th'midst of Loves bright Sun, and yet not see
A Beame of Love allow'd to lighten thee?

O! what a thing is Love? who can define
Or liniament it out? Its strange to tell.
A Sparke of Spirit empearld pill like and fine
In't shugard pargings, crusted, and doth dwell
Within the heart, where thron'd, without Controle
It ruleth all the Inmates of the Soule.

It makes a poother in its Secret Sell
Mongst the affections: oh! it swells, its paind,
Like kirnells soked untill it breaks its Shell
Unless its object be obtained and gain'd.
Like Caskd wines jumbled breake the Caske, this Sparke

Suppose this Earthy globe a Cocoe Nut
Whose Shell most bright, and hard out challenge should
The richest Carbunckle in gold ring put
How rich would proove the kirnell it should hold?
But be it so, who then could breake this Shell,
To pick the kirnell, walld within this Cell?

Should I, my Lord, call thee this nut, I should
Debase thy Worth, and of thee basely stut.
Thou dost its worth as far excell as would
Make it to thine worse than a worm eat nut.
Were all the World a sparkling pearle, 't would bee

Walking, my Lord, within thy Paradise
I finde a Fruite whose Beauty smites mine Eye
And Taste my Tooth that had no Core nor Vice.
An Hony Sweet, that's never rotting, ly
Under a Tree, which view'd, I knew to bee
The Tree of Life whose Bulk's Theanthropie.

And looking up, I saw its boughs all bow
With Clusters of this Fruit that it doth bring,
Nam'de Greatest LOVE. And well, For bulk, and brow,
Thereof, of th'sap of Godhood-Manhood spring.
What Love is here for kinde? What sort? How much?

Dull, Dull indeed! What shall it e're be thus?
And why? Are not thy Promises, my Lord,
Rich, Quick'ning things? How should my full Cheeks blush
To finde mee thus? And those a lifeless Word?
My Heart is heedless: unconcernd hereat:
I finde my Spirits Spiritless, and flat.

Thou Courtst mine Eyes in Sparkling Colours bright,
Most bright indeed, and soul enamoring,
With the most Shining Sun, whose beames did smite
Me with delightfull Smiles to make mee spring.
Embellisht knots of Love assault my minde

Thou pry'st thou screw'st my sincking Soul up to,
Lord th'Highest Vane amazements Summit Wears
Seeing thy Love ten thousand wonders do
Breaking Sins Back that blockt it up: us snares.
The Very Stars, and Sun themselves did scoule,
Yea Angells too, till it shone out, did howle.

Poore sinfull man lay grovling on the ground.
Thy wrath, and Curse to dust lay grinding him.
And Sin, that banisht Love out of these bounds
Hath stufft the world with curses to the brim.
Gods Love thus Caskt in Heaven, none can tap

My Country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of Liberty,
Of thee I sing:
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the Pilgrims' pride,
From every mountain side
Let Freedom ring!

My native Country, thee,
Land of the noble free,
Thy name I love:
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills,
Like that above.

Our fathers' God, to thee,
Author of Liberty,
To thee we sing:
Long may our land be bright
With Freedom's holy light;
Protect us by thy might,
Great God, our King!

Our finest hope is finest memory;
And those who love in age think youth is happy,
Because it has a life to fill with love.

The maiden said, I wis the londe
Is very fair to see,
But my true-love that is in bonde
Is fairer still to me.