I will not marry; or, if she be mine, She and her children shall be Thine. My bosom-friend, if he blaspheme Thy name, I will tear thence his love and fame. One half of me being gone, the rest I give Unto some chapel, die or live. As for Thy passion - but of that anon, For Thy predestination, I'll contrive, That three years hence, if I survive, I'll build a spital, or mend common ways, But mend my own without delays. Then I will use the works of Thy creation, As if I used them but for fashion. The world and I will quarrel; and the year Shall not perceive that I am here. My music shall find Thee, and every string Shall have his attribute to sing; That all together may accord in Thee, And prove one God, one harmony. Thy art of love, which I'll turn back on Thee, Then for Thy passion I will do for that Alas, my God, I know not what. THE REPRISAL. I HAVE Consider'd it, and find There is no dealing with Thy mighty passion. O make me innocent, that I Ah! was it not enough that Thou By Thy eternal glory didst outgo me? Couldst thou not grief's sad conquests me allow, But in all victories overthrow me ? Yet by confession will I come The man, who once against Thee fought. THE AGONY. PHILOSOPHERS have measured mountains, Fathom'd the depths of seas, of states, and kings, Walk'd with a staff to heaven, and traced foun tains: But there are two vast, spacious things, The which to measure it doth more behoove: Yet few there are that sound them: sin and love. Who would know sin, let him repair Sin is that press and vice, which forceth pain Who knows not love, let him assay, And taste that juice, which on the cross a pike Did set again abroach; then let him say If ever he did taste the like. Love is that liquor sweet and most divine, THE SINNER. LORD, how I am all ague, when I seek centre. In so much dregs the quintessence is small: And though my hard heart scarce to Thee can groan, Remember that Thou once didst write in stone. GOOD FRIDAY. O MY chief good, How shall I measure out Thy blood? Shall I Thy woes Number according to Thy foes? Or, since one star show'd Thy first breath, Or shall each leaf, Which falls in autumn, score a grief? Then let each hour Of my whole life one grief devour; Or rather let My several sins their sorrows get; That, as each beast his cure doth know, SINCE blood is fittest, Lord, to write My heart hath store; write there, where in That when sin spies so many foes, Thy whips, Thy nails, Thy wounds, Thy woes, All come to lodge there, sin may say, No room for me, and fly away. |