Know you, faire, on what you looke?
Divinest love lyes in this booke:
Expecting fier from your faire eyes,
To kindle this his sacrifice.
When your hands untie these strings,
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-perfumed praier;
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 owe
These devotions; fairest, know
While I thus lay them on the shrine
Of your white hand, they are mine.