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But now I die ; now all is finished.
Never was grief like mine.
O King of grief! (a title strange, yet true,
To thee of all kings only due)
Who in all grief preventest me?
That all thy body was one door. Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold ?
'Tis but to tell the tale is told.
Was such a grief as cannot be.
And side with thy triumphant glory?
Thy rod, my posie? cross, my bower? But how then shall I imitate thee, and
Copy thy fair, though bloody hand ? Surely I will revenge me on thy love,
And try who shall victorious prove. .
All back unto thee by the poor.
The honour doth belong to thee.
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,
When with the other I have done. 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 altogether may accord in thee,
And prove one God, one harmony. If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appear,
If thou hast given it me, 'tis here. Nay, I will read thy book, and never move
Till I have found therein thy love;
O my dear Saviour, Victory!
Alas ! my God, I know not what.
I HAVE consider'd it, and find
My sins deserve the condemnation.
O make me innocent, that I
For by thy death I die for thee.
Ah! was it not enough that thou
But in all victories overthrow me?
Yet by confession will I come
The man, who once against thee fought.
PHILOSOPHERS have measured mountains, Fathom'd the depths of seas, of states, and kings, Walk'd with a staff to heaven, and traced fountains :
But there are two vast, spacious things,
Who would know Sin, let him repair
His skin, his garments, bloody be.
Who knows not Love, let him assay,
LORD, how I am all ague, when I seek
What I have treasured in my memory!
Since, if my soul make even with the week,
I find there quarries of piled vanities,
But shreds of holiness, that dare not venture
To show their face, since cross to thy decrees :
In so much dregs the quintessence is small :
The spirit and good extract of my heart
hundredth part. Yet, Lord, restore thine image, hear my call :
And though my hard heart scarce to thee can groan,
O my chief good,
And each grief tell?
Shall I thy woes Number according to thy foes? Or, since one star show'd thy first breath,
Shall all thy death ?
Or shall each leaf,
Of the true vine?
Then let each hour
whole life one grief devour ; That thy distress through all may run,
And be my sun.
Or rather let
Each sin may so.
SINCE blood is fittest, Lord, to write