I sing the name which none can say 1 But touch't with an interiour ray: The name of our new peace; our good: Our blisse: and supernaturall blood: The name of all our liues and loues. 5 Hearken, and help, ye holy doues! The high-born brood of Day; you bright Candidates of blissefull light, The heirs elect of Loue, whose names belong Vnto the euerlasting life of song; 10 All ye wise sovles, who in the wealthy brest Of this vnbounded name, build your warm nest. Awake, my glory, Sovl (if such thou be, And that fair word at all referr to thee), Awake and sing, 15 And be all wing; Bring hither thy whole self; and let me see What of thy parent Heavn yet speakes in thee. O thou art poore Of noble powres, I see, 20 And full of nothing else but empty me: Narrow, and low, and infinitely lesse Then this great morning's mighty busynes. One little world or two (Alas) will neuer doe; 25 We must haue store. Goe, Sovl, out of thy self, and seek for more. Goe and request Great Natvre for the key of her huge chest Of Heauns, the self-inuoluing sett of sphears 30 (Which dull mortality more feeles then heares). Then rouse the nest Of nimble Art, and trauerse round The aiery shop of soul-appeasing sound: And beat a summons in the same 35 All-soueraign name, To warn each seuerall kind And shape of sweetnes, be they such As sigh with supple wind Or answer artfull touch; 40 That they conuene and come away To wait at the loue-crowned doores of this illustrious day. _love_ Shall we dare this, my Soul? we'l doe't and bring No other note for't, but the name we sing. Wake lvte and harp, and euery sweet-lipp't thing 45 That talkes with tunefull string; Start into life, and leap with me Into a hasty fitt-tun'd harmony. Nor must you think it much T' obey my bolder touch; 50 I haue authority in Love's name to take you, And to the worke of Loue this morning wake you. Wake, in the name Of Him Who neuer sleeps, all things that are, Or, what's the same, 55 Are musicall; Answer my call And come along; Help me to meditate mine immortal song. Come, ye soft ministers of sweet sad mirth, 60 Bring all your houshold stuffe of Heaun on earth; O you, my Soul's most certain wings, Complaining pipes, and prattling strings, Bring all the store Of sweets you haue; and murmur that you haue no more.