Fly through every garden, wood, Stealing the choice of flow'rs and wind, To dress her body or her mind; Nay the Saints and Angels are Nor safe in Heaven, till she be fair, And rich as they; nor will this do, Until she be my idol too. With this sacrilege I dispense, No fright is in my conscience, My hand starts not, nor do I then Find any quakings in my pen; Whose every drop of ink within Dwells, as in me my parent's sin, And praises on the paper wrot Have but conspired to make a blot: Why should such fears invade me now That writes on her? to whom do bow The souls of all the just, whose place Is next to God's, and in his face All creatures and delights doth see As darling of the Trinity; To whom the Hierarchy doth throng, And for whom Heaven is all one song. Joys should possess my spirit here, But pious joys are mixed with fear: Put off thy shoe, 'tis holy ground, For here the flaming Bush is found, The mystic rose, the Ivory Tower, The morning Star and David's bower, The rod of Moses and of Jesse, The fountain sealed, Gideon's fleece, A woman clothed with the Sun, The beauteous throne of Salomon, The garden shut, the living spring, The Tabernacle of the King, The Altar breathing sacred fume, The Heaven distilling honeycomb, The untouched lily, full of dew, A Mother, yet a Virgin too, Before and after she brought forth (Our ransom of eternal worth) Both God and man. What voice can sing This mystery, or Cherub's wing Lend from his golden stock a pen To write, how Heaven came down to men? Here fear and wonder so advance My soul, it must obey a trance. PART TWO