XXXV
Christe To His Spouse.

To thee my Spouse, my gardeyn great of price,
My syster dere, I am cum at thy request:
I haue cropt my myrrhe, and odourykyng spice,
Good wurkes whiche fayth hath gendred in thy brest.

My hunney combe with hunney of the best
My wurde, my truth, my promise I haue eat:
I stande therto, and wyll perfourme the rest
That graunted is in swete so fyne a meat.

My cheryng wyne, the strongest of my truth,
Whiche in mennes heartes through preachyng, depe is sounk:
Myxt with my mylke, weak doctrine for my youth,
Powrde out by thee, I haue both seen and drounk.

XXXVI
Christe To His Spouse.

Eat my frendes and drynke,
My Spouses mylke and wine:
My wurde whiche to the brynke
Is full of foode diuine,
Both meat and drynke.

My Frendes whome I loue moste
Drynke, drinke tyll ye be drounk:
Drynke tyll my holly goste
In you be throughly sunke,
Drinke and be drunke.

XXXVII
The Spouse To The Younglynges.

I i my selfe whome flesh doeth ouermatche
Doe slepe in sinne, obey my worldly wyll:
But yet my harte, and sprite doe wake and watche,
To serue the Lorde, his lawes for to fulfyll
With harte and mynde.

But whyle I thus, in fleshly slepe am styll,
Beholde the voyce of Christe whome moste I loue,
I hear in flesh, wheron he knocketh styll,
From earth commaundyng me to cum aboue,
True rest to fynde.

XXXVIII
Christe To His Perfect Spouse.

Open to me, my syster, my Loue,
Receyue my truthe, that I shal to thee shew:
Open to me my darlyng, my Doue,
For loe my head, my head is full of dewe,
Of truth, grace, and mercie.

Also my hears with nyght drops abounde,
My truth is full of tribulacion:
Fear thou not yet, for fayth shall thee grounde
And make thee strong in persecucion,
Through truth, grace, and mercie.
XXXIX
The Spouse To Her Beloued.

My fleshly coat, my trust in wurkes of man
I haue put of, I count them all as vayne,
And rest in peace: o Lorde howe shal I than,
Attyre my selfe, and put it on agayne?

My feete also, my affectes and pleasures vyle,
Are washt away, as thou thyself moste good,
Commaundedst me: why shall I then defyle
My feete agayne, in vile and fylthy mud?

XL
The Spouse To The Younglynges.

My Loue dyd put his hande of myght,
In to my hole of fleshly sence:
Whereby myne inwarde partes outryght
Dyd swel and ryse, through influence
Of grace.

Than vp I rose with diligence
To open that he mought cum in
Whome I doe loue, by whome my sence
Of fleshly wit was made so thin.
By grace.

No sooner I vp risen was
But that my handes (fast shut before)
Dyd drop with Mirrhe, good wurkes did passe
My fyngers from styll more and more
By grace.

The doar bar eke that made me slacke
To let hym in that knocked fast
My carnal sence I thrust abacke:
But Christe before was goen and past,
Helas.

As soone as my Beloued spake,
My soule to search hym waxed meke:
My soule long hyd, his voyce dyd make
From flesh to flee, his helpe to seke
Apace.

I sought hym long but coulde not fynde;
I called hym, he answered not:
Awhyle he left me to my mynde,
Because at fyrst I opened not.
Helas.

The tyrauntes that the citie watche
False Prelates whiche the truth confounde,
That sought for Christe poore me dyd catche,
And stroke therfore, and dyd me wounde
Helas.

The kepers of the cursed wall,
Suche rites as truthles men deuise:
By force dyd take my cloke and all,
Because I dyd theyr wurkes dispise,
Helas.

Ye daughters of Ierusalem,
Ye faythfull preachers of the wurd,
Whiche preache Gods truthes, and folow them,
That stryke with his two edged swurd
By grace:

I charge you yf ye chaunce to fynde
Christe my Beloued that dwelles aboue,
Ye shew hym how sore I in mynde
Am sycke, and languish whole for loue
Of grace.
XLI.
The Younglynges To The Spouse.

VVhat one is he, Beloued of thee,
Beloued of God aboue,
Of women bryght, O fayrest to syght,
What maner one is thy Loue?
What maner one is. &c.

What may he be, Beloued of thee,
Of God beloued also:
What one is he, So loued of thee,
Of whome thou doest charge vs so?
Of whome thou doest, &c.

XLII
The Spouse To The Younglynges.

Christe God and man (ye young) yf ye know not,
Is suche an one as hath in hym no spot.
My Loue ye shall vnderstand,
Is whyte in diuinitie, Red in humanitie,
Chosen among a thousand.

His head the father, God the most of myght,
Is golde, of nature perfect, pure and bryght.
My Loue ye shall vnderstand,
Is whyte in diuinitie, Red in humanitie,
Chosen among a thousand.

His heares, his truthes, are lyke the Palmetree bowe,
Crow blacke to suche as wyll them not allow.
My Loue ye shal vnderstand,
Is whyte in diuinitie, Red in humanitie,
Chosen among a thousand.

XLIII
The Churche To The Younglinges.

My Spousis iyes, his iudgementes wunderful
Are lyke the Doues, vpon the water brooke,
Whiche washt with mylke of truth, rest where they wull,
Replete with sprite and power echewhere to looke.

His Chekes, his wurdes wherby we doe hym know,
Are lyke earthbeds, of spices fine and pure:
Good bokes in whiche his truth doeth dayly grow
For preachers suche as put the same in vre.

His lyppes, suche men by whome he speakes his wyll
Are lillies whyte, where puritie is had:
From whome the myrrhe of scripture doeth distil,
Preseruyng good, but bytter to the bad.

His handes, his power by whiche all thynges are wrought,
Knowen by the wurkes, are very rynges of gold:
With Hiacincthes set as full as can be thought,
His goodly wurkes whiche dayly we beholde.

His belly or harte, whiche are affectes and wyl,
Are constant, firme, lyke to the Eliphantes tooth,
Beset with saphirs, clernes shynyng styl,
In all his wurkes both doen and that he doeth.

His Legges, whiche are his strength, his force, his garde,
His enmies doune, his faythful vp to holde:
Are pyllers strong, of marble stone most harde,
That buylded be on bases made of golde.

His shape, in whiche he sheweth hymself to vs,
In whiche through fayth, all faythful doe hym see,
Is most of price lyke to mount Libanus,
Wheron doeth grow the hye swete Cedre tree.

His throte, the fayth whiche we receyue of hym
Wherby we take his peace and righteousnes,
Is swete, swete, swete: my Loue in euery lym,
So perfect is, as no toung can expresse.

XLIV
The Spouse to the Younglynges.

Ye faythfull would ye know,
At full what one he is?
My wit and learnyng is to low
To shew that shape of his.

Yet thus saye I of hym,
Because ye me requyrde:
His excellence in euery lym,
Ought wholly be desyerde.

My Loue is suche a gem,
My Frende also is he:
Ye daughters of Ierusalem,
Suche is my Loue to me.

Here eendeth the fifth chapter.