html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Roses 'till ripe, and ready to be blowne,
Their beauty hide, whilst it is yet their owne;
'Tis ours but in expectance, whilst th'are greene;
And bashfully they blush when first 'tis seene:
As if to spread their beauty were a crime;
A fault in them, not in all-ripening-Time.
So stands (hidden with Vayles) in all her pride
Of early flourishing, the bashfull Bride!
And 'till the Priest, with words devoutly said,
Shall ripen her a Wife, that's yet a Maid,
Her Vaile will never off: so modest still,
And so express'd by Nature, not by skill,
That sure she dress'd her lookes when she did rise,
Not in her Glasse, but in her Mother's Eyes.
The jolly Bridegrome stands, as he had t'ane
And led, Love strongly fetter'd in a Chaine:
Forgetting when her Vailes are lay'd aside,
Himselfe, is but a Captive to the Bride.
The Priest now joynes their hands, and hee doth finde
(By mysterie divine,) in both one minde,
Mix'd, and dispers'd; his spirits strait begin
(As they were rap't) to vex, and talke within:
His Temples swett, whilst he stood silent by,
Not as prepar'd to blesse, but prophesie:
What neeeded more? since they must needs possesse,
All he fore-told, though he should never blesse:
And blessing unto such, at most restores,
Or but repeats, what was their Ancestors.