The First and Last XLII.

Thou art of all Man's Joys the Spring;

Life's honey'd Sweetness thou dost bring.

My gather'd Pearls, from Bosom full,

Before thy Feet my glad Hands fling.

The Souls love-moved, are circling on,

Like Streams to their great Ocean King.

Thou art the Sun of all Men's Thoughts;

Thy Kisses are the Flowers of Spring.

The Dawn is pale from yearning Love;

The Moon in Tears is sorrowing.

Thou art the Rose; and deep for thee,

In Sighs, the Nightingales still sing.

O can my Love me so despise,

That he my Heart with Pain can wring?

O Wine of Life, all fragrant, pour,

And soothe the Pain of Death's last Sting!