But can these fair Flouds be Freinds with the bosom fires that fill you! Æternall Teares should thus distill thee! Twas his well-pointed dart That digg'd these wells, & drest this wine; The way into these weeping Eyn. Vain loves avant! bold hands forbear! And now where're he strayes, Or more unwellcome wayes, He's followed by two faithfull fountaines; Two walking baths; two weeping motions; O Thou, thy lord's fair store! He might provoke the wealth of Princes. Who is that King, but he Who calls't his Crown to be call'd thine, Waited on by a wandring mine, A voluntary mint, that strowes Warm sylver shoures where're he goes! 100 110 120 O pretious Prodigall! Fair spend-thrift of thy self! thy measure Even to the last Pearle in thy threasure. All places, Times, & objects be Thy teare's sweet opportunity. Does the day-starre rise? Still the FOUNTAIN weeps for all. Let night or day doe what they will, Does thy song lull the air; At these thy weeping gates, By thine Ey's tinct enobled thus Not, so long she lived, Shall thy tomb report of thee; Thus must we date thy memory. Others by moments, months, & yeares 130 140 150 So doe perfumes expire. So sigh tormented sweets, opprest With proud unpittying fires. Such Teares the suffring Rose that's vext With ungentle flames does shed, Sweating in a too warm bed. Say, ye bright brothers, The fugitive sons of those fair Eyes Your fruitfull mothers! What make you here? what hopes can tice You to be born? what cause can borrow You from those nests of noble sorrow? Whither away so fast? For sure the sordid earth Your Sweetnes cannot tast Nor does the dust deserve your birth. Sweet, whither hast you then? o say We goe not to seek, The darlings of Auroras bed, The rose's modest Cheek Nor the violet's humble head, Though the Feild's eyes too WEEPERS be Because they want such TEARES as we. Much lesse mean we to trace Or pertch't upon fear'd Diadems. Crown'd Heads are toyes. We goe to meet A worthy object, our Lord's FEEt. Richard Crashaw. 160 170 180 Hymn to Saint Teresa. Ove, thou art Absolute sole lord Love, art Absolute le prove the word, To Wee'l now appeal to none of all Those thy old Souldiers, Great & tall, Ripe Men of Martyrdom, that could reach down Speak lowd into the face of death Their Great LORD's glorious name, to none Of those whose spatious Bosomes spread a throne And milky soul of a soft child. Scarse has she learn't to lisp the name What death with love should have to doe; Nor has she e're yet understood Why to show love, she should shed blood, Scarse has she Blood enough to make ΤΟ 20 Man trembles at, you straight shall find LOVE touch't her HEART, & lo it beates Since 'tis not to be had at home No home for hers confesses she But where she may a Martyr be. She'l to the Moores; And trade with them, For this unvalued Diadem. She'l offer them her dearest Breath, With CHRIST'S Name in't, in change for death. 50 She'l bargain with them; & will give Farewell, all pleasures, sports, & joyes, (Never till now esteemed toyes) Farewell what ever deare may be, 60 |