Volume 1 — ON MR. GEORGE HERBERT'S BOOKE INTITULED THE TEMPLE OF SACRED POEMS.

Know you, faire, on what you looke?1 Divinest love lyes in this booke: Expecting fier from your faire eyes, To kindle this his sacrifice. When your hands untie these strings,5 Think, yo' have an angell by the wings; One that gladly would be nigh, To waite upon each morning sigh; To flutter in the balmy aire Of your well-perfumèd praier;10 These white plumes of his hee'l lend you, Which every day to Heaven will send you: To take acquaintance of each spheare, And all your smooth-fac'd kindred there. And though Herbert's name doe owe15 These devotions; fairest, know While I thus lay them on the shrine Of your white hand, they are mine.