Oh Book! infinite sweetnesse! let my heart Suck ev’ry letter, and a hony gain, Precious for any grief in any part; To cleare the breast, to mollifie all pain. Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make A full eternitie: thou art a masse Of strange delights, where we may wish and take. Ladies, look here; this is the thankfull glasse, That mends the lookers eyes: this is the well That washes what it shows. Who can indeare Thy praise too much? Thou art heav’ns Lidger here, Working against the states of death and hell. Thou art joyes handsell: heav’n lies flat in thee.4
