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What bright soft thing is this,
Sweet Mary, thy fair eyes' expense ?
A moist spark it is,
A watery diamond; from whence
The very term, I think, was found,
The water of a diamond.
O, 'tis not a tear,
'Tis a star about to drop
From thine eye, its sphere;
The Sun will stoop and take it up.
Proud will his sister be to wear
This thine eye's jewel in her ear.
O, 'tis a tear,
Too true a tear; for no sad eyne,
How sad soe'er,
Rain so true a tear as thine;
Each drop, leaving a place so dear,
Weeps for itself, is its own tear.
Such a pearl as this is,
(Slipp'd from Aurora's dewy breast) The rose-bud's sweet lip kisses ;
And such the rose itself, that's vex'd
With ungentle flames, does shed,
Sweating in a too warm bed.
Such the maiden gem
By the purpling vine put on,
Peeps from her parent stem,
And blushes on the bridegroom Sun:
The watery blossom of thy eyne,
Ripe, will make the richer wine.
Fair drop, why quak'st thou so?
'Cause thou straight must lay thy head In the dust ? O no;
The dust shall never be thy bed : A pillow for thee will I bring, Stuffed with down of angel's wing. Thus carried up on high,
(For to Heaven thou must go) Sweetly shalt thou lie,
And in soft slumbers bathe thy woe; Till the singing orbs awake thee, And one of their bright chorus make thee. There thyself shalt be
An eye, but not a weeping one; Yet I doubt of thee,
Whether th' had'st rather there have shone
eye of Heaven ; or still shine here
In the Heaven of Mary's eye, a TEAR.
Our B[lessed] Lord in his Circumcision
to his fatber.
To Thee these first-fruits of My growing death,
(For what else is My life?) lo! I bequeath.
Taste this, and as Thou lik’st this lesser flood
Expect a sea ; My heart shall make it good.
Thy wrath that wades here now, ere long shall swim,
The flood-gate shall be set wide ope for Him.
Then let Him drink, and drink, and do His worst,
To drown the wantonness of His wild thirst.
Now's but the nonage of My pains, My fears
re yet both in their hopes, not come to years.
The day of My dark woes is yet but morn,
My tears but tender, and My death new-born,
Yet may these unfledged griefs give fate some guess,
These cradle-torments have their towardness.
These purple buds of blooming death may be
Erst the full stature of a fatal tree.
And till My riper woes to age are come,
This knife may be the spear's præludium.
“Heither Durst any Man from that Day
ask him any more Questions."
'Midst all the dark and knotty snares,
Black wit or malice can or dares,
Thy glorious wisdom breaks the nets,
And treads with uncontrolled steps.
Thy quell’d foes are not only now
Thy triumphs, but Thy trophies too :
They both at once Thy conquests be,
And Thy conquests' memory.
Stony amazement makes them stand
Waiting on Thy victorious hand,
Like statues fixed to the fame
Of Thy renown, and their own shame:
As if they only meant to breathe,
To be the life of their own death.
'Twas time to hold their peace when they
Had ne'er another word to say :
Yet is their silence, unto Thee,
The full sound of Thy victory :
Their silence speaks aloud, and is
Thy well pronounc'd panegyris.
While they speak nothing, they speak all
Their share in Thy memorial.
While they speak nothing, they proclaim
Thee with the shrillest trump of Fame.
To hold eir
These wretches have to speak Thy praise.
“ wuby are ye Afraid, o ye of Little Faith?"
As if the storm meant Him;
Or 'cause Heaven's face is dim,
His needs a cloud.
Was ever froward wind
That could be so unkind,
Or wave so proud ?
The wind had need be angry, and the water black,
That to the mighty Neptune's Self dare threaten wrack.
There is no storm but this
Of your own cowardice
That braves you out;
You are the storm that mocks
Yourselves; you are the rocks
Of your own doubt :
Besides this fear of danger, there's no danger here;
And he that here fears danger, does deserve his fear.