O Love ! Ye amities,
And friendships that appear above the skies !

Ye feasts and living pleasures !
Ye senses, honours, and imperial treasures !
Ye bridal joys ! ye high delights
That satisfy all appetites !
Ye sweet affections, and
Ye high respects ! Whatever joys there be

In triumphs, whatsoever stand
In amicable sweet society,

Whatever pleasures are at His right hand,
Ye must before I am divine,
In full propriety be mine.

This soaring, sacred thirst,
Ambassador of bliss, approached first,

Making a place in me
That made me apt to prize, and taste, and see.
For not the objects but the sense
Of things doth bliss to souls dispense,
And make it, Lord, like thee.

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