Oh book! Infinite sweetnesse! Let my heart
Suck ev'ry letter, and a holy gain,
Precious for any grief in any part;
To clear the breast , to molify 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 thankfu; glasse,

That mends the looker's eyes ; this is the well
That washes what it shows. Who can indeare
Thy praise too much? Thou art Heav'n's lidger here,
Working against the states of death and hell.

Thou art joyes handsell;  heaven lies flat in thee,
Subjeect to ev'ry mounters bended knee.

Oh that I knew how all thy lights combine,
And the configurations of their glorie!
Seeing not only how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the storie.

This verse marks that, and both do make a notion
Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:
Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up some Christian's destine.

Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee; for in ev'ry thing
Thy words do finde me out, and parrallels bring,
And in another make me understood.

Starres are poore books, and oftentimes do misse;
This book of starres lights to eternal blisse.