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Yea let my life & me
Fix here with thee,

And at the Humble foot

Of this fair TREE take our eter[n]all root.

That so we may

At least be in loves way;

And in these chast warres while the wing'd wounds flee
So fast'twixt him & thee,

My brest may catch the kisse of some kind dart,
Though as at second hand, from either heart.


O you, your own best Darts
Dear, dolefull hearts!

Hail; & strike home & make me see
That wounded bosomes their own weapons be.

Come wounds! come darts!

Nail'd hands! & peirced hearts!

Come your whole selves, sorrow's great son & mother!
Nor grudge à yonger-Brother

Of greifes his portion, who (had all their due)
One single wound should not have left for you.


Shall I, sett there

So deep a share

(Dear wounds) & onely now

In sorrows draw no Dividend with you?
O be more wise

I[f] not more soft, mine eyes!

Flow, tardy founts! & into decent showres
Dissolve my Dayes & Howres.

And if thou yet (faint soul!) deferr

To bleed with him, fail not to weep with her.


Rich Queen, lend some releife;
At least an almes of greif

To'a heart who by sad right of sin

Could prove the whole summe (too sure) due to him. By all those stings

Of love, sweet bitter things,

Which these torn hands transcrib'd on thy true heart
O teach mine too the art

To study him so, till we mix
Wounds; and become one crucifix.


O let me suck the wine

So long of this chast vine

Till drunk of the dear wounds, I be

A lost Thing to the world, as it to me.
O faithfull freind

Of me & of my end!

Fold up my life in love; and lay't beneath
My dear lord's vital death.

Lo, heart, thy hope's whole Plea! Her pretious Breath
Powr'd out in prayrs for thee;, thy lord's in death.










Esu, no more! It is full tide.

From thy head & from thy feet,

From thy hands & from thy side
All the purple Rivers meet.


What need thy fair head bear a part
In showres, as if thine eyes had none?
What need They help to drown thy heart,
That strives in torrents of it's own?


Thy restlesse feet now cannot goe
For us & our eternall good.

As they were ever wont. What though?
They swimme. Alas, in their own floud.


Thy hands to give, thou canst not lift; Yet will thy hand still giving be.

It gives but ô, it self's the gift.

It gives though bound; though bound 'tis free.


But ô thy side, thy deep-digg'd side!
That hath a double Nilus going.
Nor ever was the pharian tide
Half so fruitfull, half so flowing.


No hair so small, but payes his river.
To this red sea of thy blood

Their little channells can deliver
Somthing to the Generall floud.


But while I speak, whither are run All the rivers nam'd before?

I counted wrong. There is but one;

But ô that one is one all ore.


Rain-swoln rivers may rise proud,
Bent all to drown & overflow.
But when indeed all's overflow'd
They themselves are drowned too.


This thy blood's deluge, a dire chance

Dear LORD to thee, to us is found

A deluge of Deliverance;

A deluge least we should be drown'd.

N'ere wast thou in a sense so sadly true, The WELL of living WATERS, Lord, till now.





From the head of our Bl. LORD,
all Bloody.

Now'st thou This, Souldier? 'Tis à much-chang'd plant
which yet

Thy selfe didst sett.

O who so hard a Husbandman did ever find;
A soile so kind?

Is not the soile a kind one, which returnes
Roses for Th[or]nes?

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