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��GEORGE CHAPMAN 7/7 Bridal Song
I COME, soft rest of cares' come, Night! Come, naked Virtue's only tire, The reaped harvest of the light Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire. Love calls to war. Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms.
Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
On glorious Day's outfacing face; And all thy crowned flames command For torches to our nuptial grace. Love calls to war. Sighs his alarms, Lips hib swords are, The field his arms.
��ROBERT SOUTHWELL
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118 Of the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar
THE angels' eyes, whom veils cannot deceive, Might best disclose that best they do discern; Men must with sound and silent faith receive
More than they can by sense or reason learn; God's power our proofs, His works our wit exceed, The doer's might is reason of His deed.
�� �
