XXIX
Christe To His Perfect Spouse.

Loe, thou art fayer, loe thou art fayer my Loue,
Doues iyes thou hast, in iudgement simplenes:
Besydes thy paste that standes thyne iyes aboue,
Thy goodly attyre of fayth and humblenes.

Thy heares also, thy truthes moste principal
Are lyke a flocke of Goates moste quicke and pure,
Whiche rounded are from of mount Giseal,
The Byble boke, an heape of witnes sure.

Thy teath also, thyne argumentes most strong
With whiche thou doest all heresies deuour,
Are lyke the flocke whiche shorne cum vp along
The washyng place, Gods wurd that doeth them scour.

Of whiche eche one in it two twinnes doeth bear,
Gods wurd, and truth, and not so muche as one
Is voyde therof: with these teeth thou doest tear
Abuses byg, that thynke to rule alone.

Thy lyppes, thy speche is lyke the skarlet red,
Whiche for the elect, thy sauiour Christ doest preache,
Afflicte in fleshe, with bloud his crosse bebled,
To faythfull folke a swete and pleasaunt speache.

Thy Chekes thy wurkes are louely, fayre and good
Lyke to a broken piece of Pomegranade
Whiche spring of faythe by merit of my blood,
Besides thy tyre, my wurkes that wyll not fade.

Thy necke thy faythe, is lyke to Dauids tower,
Whiche buylded is with bulwarkes, whereupon
A thousand shyldes of truthe, whiche men of power
In faythe, haue borne, doe hang to fraye thy foen.

Thy brestes, thy helpe to succour all that nede
Alwayes at wurke, are lyke two litle twinnes,
The whiche among the faythfull Lillies feede
Tyll shadowes passe, and tyll the daye begynnes.

XXX
Christe To His Spouse.

To the mount of myrrhe wyll I goe,
To the hyll of frankincence,
Goe wyll I to my Spouse, slepie who
Wysheth fayne in my presence
To cum.

Thou art fayer al whole o my loue,
And no spot doeth rest in thee:
Fro thy self cum, cum from aboue
Libanus, though it bryght bee,
Cum, Cum.

In thy strength trust not o my Spouse,
But in me put all thy trust:
So thou shalt be made gloriouse,
If thou wylt therfore be iust,
Cum, cum.

XXXI
Christe To His Spouse.

If that thou cum from Libanus to me,
Thou shalt be crouned from Amana mount:
From God, the hye top, crouned shalt thou be
With truth, whose heygth al hye thynges doeth surmount.

From Sanirs top, and eke from Hermon hie,
The curses whiche thou shalt sustayne of men,
Thou shalt be crounde from euery dignitie,
From the Leoperdes mount, and from the Lyons den.

XXXII
Christe To His Spouse.

My mynde thou hast whole rauyshed
My spouse, my sister dere:
Thou hast my hart whole rauyshed
With one of thyne iyes clere.

Thy perfect iudgement of my sprite
Doeth muche my mynde refresh:
Thyne other iye detest I quite,
Thy iudgement of the flesh.

In one lynke of the chayne lykewyse
That hangth about thy necke,
My mynde wholly thou doest surprise,
For in it is no specke.

The fruites whiche thou vnfaynyngly
By fayth styl bryngest furth,
Doe please my mynde excedyngly:
The rest are nothyng wurth.

XXXIII
Christe To His Spouse.

Howe fayre thy Dugges, thy charitie is my Spouse,
My syster swete, more fayre they are than wyne:
Thy sauour eke of my gyftes glorious,
Do passe all odours, be they neuer so fine.

Thy lyppes my Loue the hunney combe are lyke,
From whiche my prayse doeth drop al men among:
My scriptures eke that are not muche vnlyke
Hunney and mylke, doe vnder lye thy toung.

Thy garmentes gay, my merites whiche thou hast,
Do sauour swete, lyke the mount Libanus.
My Spouse, thou art an orchard locked fast
Of pleasaunt trees, my elect most bounteous.

Fast shut thou art, my syster, I thee kepe
From all assaultes: thou art a sealed spryng
Of waters pure, in truthes moysture so depe,
That all may drynke whome grace shal therto bryng.

The planted trees and frutes whiche grow in thee,
Of Pomegranates are lyke a paradise,
Beset about with fruites that pleasaunt bee,
Of cumly heygth that spryng in goodly wyse.

In thee doeth grow spykenarde and Calamus
With saffron, Camphor, and the swete cypres,
And all the trees that grow in Libanus:
Swete Cynamome, strong Myrrhe and Aloes.

With all hote spices aromatical.
These are the elect and faythfull that doe dwell
In thee my church, in office seueral:
Who all through fayth, excedyng swete do smel.

And thou my spouse of gardeyns art a wel,
Thy dewie fayth doth moysten euery coost:
Thou art also a poole the whiche doeth wel
Vp lyuely springes, from out the holy goost.

With these thy streames whiche calmly take theyr course
From Libanus, my wurde that mountayne clere,
Thou waterest the gardens fine or course
Of all good folke, that in thy waye appere,

Vp North wynde vp, vp tribulacion,
Cum blast my gardeyn, that I may it trye:
Cum Southwynde eke, cum consolacion
And cherysh it, least sum part hap to dye.

That whyle ye two vpon my churche do blow,
The fragrant smell of truth may from her flow.

XXXIV
The Spouse To Her Beloued.

Now that I am proued
Let my best Beloued
Whome mercie hath moued,
To make me his gardeyn:

Cum eat, and for good take
My wurkes, for his blood sake
The fruites let hym good make,
Whiche grow in my gardeyn.

Here endeth the fowerth Chapter.