The poem
Oh Book! infinite sweetness! let my heart Suck ev'ry letter, and a honey gain, Precious for any grief in any part; To clear the breast, to mollify all pain. Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make A full eternity: thou art a mass Of strange delights, where we may wish and take. Ladies, look here; this is the thankfull glass, That mends the looker's eyes: this is the well That washes what it shows. Who can endear Thy praise too much? thou art heav'n's Lidger here, Working against the states of death and hell. Thou art joy's handsel: heav'n lies flat in thee, Subject to ev'ry mounter's bended knee.