Page:Hesperides Vol 1.djvu/220

182 The smell of morning's milk and cream, Butter of cowslips mix'd with them; Of roasted warden or bak'd pear, These are not to be reckon'd here, Whenas the meanest part of her, Smells like the maiden pomander. Thus sweet she smells, or what can be More lik'd by her or lov'd by me. Factors, workers. Respasses, raspberries. Pomander, ball of scent.

Sweet virgin, that I do not set The pillars up of weeping jet Or mournful marble, let thy shade Not wrathful seem, or fright the maid Who hither at her wonted hours Shall come to strew thy earth with flowers. No; know, bless'd maid, when there's not one Remainder left of brass or stone, Thy living epitaph shall be, Though lost in them, yet found in me; Dear, in thy bed of roses then, Till this world shall dissolve as men, Sleep while we hide thee from the light, Drawing thy curtains round: Good-night.