A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces, And many a mystic thing, Which the divine embraces Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring For which it is no shame That dull mortality must not know a name. Of all this store Of blessings, and ten thousand more, If when He come He find the heart from home, Doubtless He will unload Himself some otherwhere, And pour abroad His precious sweets, On the fair soul whom first He meets. O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear! O happy, and thrice happy she, Dear silver-breasted dove, Whoe’er she be, Whose early love With winged vows Makes haste to meet her morning Spouse, And close with His immortal kisses! Happy, indeed, who never misses To improve that precious hour, And every day Seize her sweet prey, All fresh and fragrant as He rises, Dropping, with a balmy shower, A delicious dew of spices. O, let the blessful heart hold fast Her heavenly armful, she shall taste At once ten thousand paradises! She shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosom there she meets; Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures; Happy proof she shall discover, What joy, what bliss, How many heavens at once it is, To have a God become her lover! TO THE MORNING _Satisfaction for Sleep_