Daughters of London, you which bee Our Golden Mines, and furnish'd Treasurie, You which are Angels, yet still bring with you 15 Thousands of Angels on your mariage daies, Help with your presence and devise to praise These rites, which also unto you grow due; Conceitedly dresse her, and be assign'd, By you, fit place for every flower and jewell, 20 Make her for love fit fewell As gay as Flora, and as rich as Inde; So may shee faire, rich, glad, and in nothing lame, _To day put on perfection, and a womans name_. And you frolique Patricians, 25 Sonns of these Senators wealths deep oceans, Ye painted courtiers, barrels of others wits, Yee country men, who but your beasts love none, Yee of those fellowships whereof hee's one, Of study and play made strange Hermaphrodits, 30 Here shine; This Bridegroom to the Temple bring. Loe, in yon path which store of straw'd flowers graceth, The sober virgin paceth; Except my sight faile, 'tis no other thing; Weep not nor blush, here is no griefe nor shame, 35 _To day put on perfection, and a womans name_. Thy two-leav'd gates faire Temple unfold, And these two in thy sacred bosome hold, Till, mystically joyn'd, but one they bee; Then may thy leane and hunger-starved wombe 40 Long time expect their bodies and their tombe, Long after their owne parents fatten thee. All elder claimes, and all cold barrennesse, All yeelding to new loves bee far for ever, Which might these two dissever, 45 All wayes all th'other may each one possesse; For, the best Bride, best worthy of praise and fame, _To day puts on perfection, and a womans name_. Oh winter dayes bring much delight, Not for themselves, but for they soon bring night; 50 Other sweets wait thee then these diverse meats, Other disports then dancing jollities, Other love tricks then glancing with the eyes, But that the Sun still in our halfe Spheare sweates; Hee flies in winter, but he now stands still. 55 Yet shadowes turne; Noone point he hath attain'd, His steeds nill bee restrain'd, But gallop lively downe the Westerne hill; Thou shalt, when he hath runne the worlds half frame, _To night put on perfection, and a womans name_. 60