How sweetly doth My Master sound! My Master!

As Amber-greese leaves a rich sent

Unto the taster:

So do these words a sweet content,

An orientall fragrancie, My Master.

With these all day I do perfume my minde,

My minde ev'n thrust into them both;

That I might finde

What cordials make this curious broth,

This broth of smells, that feeds and fats my minde.

My Master, shall I speak? O that to thee

My servant were a little so,

As flesh may be;

That these two words might creep & grow

To some degree of spicinesse to thee!

Then should the Pomander, which was before

A speaking sweet, mend by reflection,

And tell me more:

For pardon of my imperfection

Would warm and work it sweeter then before.

For when My Master, which alone is sweet,

And ev'n in my unworthinesse pleasing,

Shall call and meet,

My servant, as thee not displeasing,

That call is but the breathing of the sweet.

This breathing would with gains by sweetning me

(As sweet things traffick when they meet)

Return to thee.

And so this new commerce and sweet

Should all my life employ, and busie me.