He is my altar; I his holy place;

I am his guest; and he my living food;
I'm his by penitence; he mine by grace;
I'm his by purchase; he is mine by blood;

He's my supporting helm: and I his vine: Thus I my best beloved's am; thus he is mine.

He gives me wealth, I give him all my vows:

I give him songs; he gives me length of days: With wreaths of grace he crowns my conquering brows:

And I his temples with a crown of praise,

Which he accepts; an everlasting sign, That I my best beloved's am; that he is mine.

S. AUGUST. Manu. Cap. xxiv.

O my soul, stamped with the image of thy God, love him of whom thou art so much beloved: bend to him that boweth to thee, seek him that seeketh thee: love the lover, by whose love thou art prevented, begin the cause of thy love: be careful with those that are careful, want with those that want; be clean with the clean, and holy with the holy: choose this friend above all friends, who, when all are taken away, remaineth only faithful to thee: in the day of thy burial, when all leave thee, he will not deceive thee, but defend thee from the roaring lions prepared for their prey.

EPIG. 3.

Sing, Hymen, to my soul: what, lost and found? Welcom'd, espous'd, enjoy'd so soon and crown'd! He did but climb the cross, and then came down To the gates of hell; triumph'd, and fetch'd a

crown.

I am my beloved's, and his desire is towards me. LIKE to the arctic needle, that doth guide The wand'ring shade by his magnetic pow'r, And leaves his silken gnomon to decide The question of the controverted hour,

First frantics up and down from side to side, And restless beats his crystal'd iv'ry case, With vain impatience jets from place to place, And seeks the bosom of his frozen bride;

At length he slacks his motion, and doth rest His trembling point at his bright pole's beloved breast.

E'en so my soul, being hurried here and there, By ev'ry object that presents delight,

Fain would be settled, but she knows not where; She likes at morning what she loathes at night; She bows to honour; then she lends an ear

To that sweet swanlike voice of dying pleasure,

Then tumbles in the scatter'd heaps of trea

sure;

Now flatter'd with false hope; now foil'd with

fear:

Thus finding all the world's delight to be But empty toys, good GOD, she points alone to thee.

But hath the virtued steel a power to move?
Or can the untouch'd needle point aright?
Or can my wand'ring thoughts forbear to rove,
Unguided by the virtue of thy sprit?
O hath my leaden soul the art t' improve

Her wasted talent, and, unrais'd, aspire
In this sad moulting time of her desire?
Not first belov'd, have I the power to love;

I cannot stir, but as thou please to move me, Nor can my heart return thee love, until thou

love me.

The still commandress of the silent night

Borrows her beams from her bright brother's eye;

His fair aspect fills her sharp horns with light, If he withdraw, her flames are quench'd and die: E'en so the beams of thy enlight'ning sp'rit,

Infus'd and shot into my dark desire,

Inflame my thoughts, and fill my soul with fire, That I am ravish'd with a new delight;

But if thou shroud thy face, my glory fades, And I remain a nothing, all compos'd of shades.

Eternal GOD! O thou that only art

The sacred fountain of eternal light, And blessed loadstone of my better part, O thou, my heart's desire, my soul's delight! Reflect upon my soul, and touch my heart,

And then my heart shall prize no good above thee;

And then my soul shall know thee; knowing, love thee;

And then my trembling thoughts shall never start From thy commands, or swerve the least de

gree,

Or once presume to move, but as they move in thee.