On Mr. G. Herbert's Book

Know you fair, on what you look;

Divinest love lies in this book,

Expecting fire from your eyes,

To kindle this his sacrifice.

When your hands untie these strings,

Think you’have an angel by th’ wings.

One that gladly will be nigh,

To wait upon each morning sigh.

To flutter in the balmy air

Of your well-perfumed prayer.

These white plumes of his he’ll lend you,

Which every day to heaven will send you,

To take acquaintance of the sphere,

And all the smooth-fac’d kindred there.

         And though Herbert’s name do owe

         These devotions, fairest, know

         That while I lay them on the shrine

         Of your white hand, they are mine.