Your sweetness cannot taste,

Nor does the dust deserve your birth. Sweet, whither hast you then? O say Why you trip so fast away?

XXXII.

We go not to seek

The darlings of Aurora's bed,

The rose's modest cheek,

Nor the violet's humble head.

Though the field's eyes too Weepers be,

Because they want such tears as we.

XXXIII.

Much less mean we to trace The fortune of inferior gems, Preferr'd to some proud face,

Or perched upon fear'd diadems:

Crown'd heads are toys. We go to meet A worthy object, our Lord's feet.

A bymn to the Hame and honour of The Admirable Saint Teresa:

Foundress of the Reformation of the Discalced Carmelites, both men and women; a woman for angelical height of speculation, for masculine courage of performance, more than a woman, who yet a child outran maturity, and durst plot a martyrdom.

Love, thou art absolute sole lord

Of life and death. To prove the word

We'll now appeal to none of all

Those thy old soldiers, great and tall,

Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down,

With strong arms, their triumphant crown ;

Such as could with lusty breath,

Speak loud into the face of Death

Their great Lord's glorious name, to none

Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne
For Love at large to fill; spare blood and sweat :
And see him take a private seat,
Making his mansion in the mild

And milky soul of a soft child.

Scarce has she learnt to lisp the name
Of martyr; yet she thinks it shame

Life should so long play with that breath
Which spent can buy so brave a death.
She never undertook to know

What Death with Love should have to do;

Nor has she e'er yet understood

Why to show love, she should shed blood,
Yet though she cannot tell you why,
She can love, and she can die.

Scarce has she blood enough to make
A guilty sword blush for her sake:
Yet has she a heart dares hope to prove
How much less strong is Death than Love.
Be Love but there; let poor six years
Be posed with the maturest fears
Man trembles at, you straight shall find
Love knows no nonage, nor the mind;
'Tis love, not years or limbs that can
Make the martyr, or the man.
Love touched her heart, and lo it beats
High, and burns with such brave heats;
Such thirsts to die, as dares drink up
A thousand cold deaths in one cup.
Good reason; for she breathes all fire;
Her white breast heaves with strong desire
Of what she may, with fruitless wishes,
Seek for amongst her mother's kisses.

Since 'tis not to be had at home

She'll travel to a martyrdom.

No home for hers confesses she

But where she may a martyr be.

She'll to the Moors; and trade with them

For this unvalued diadem:

She'll offer them her dearest breath,

With Christ's name in't, in change for death:
She'll bargain with them; and will give

Them God; teach them how to live
In Him or, if they this deny,

For Him she'll teach them how to die :
So shall she leave amongst them sown
Her Lord's blood; or at least her own.
Farewell then, all the World! adieu!
Teresa is no more for you.

Farewell, all pleasures, sports, and joys
(Never till now esteemed toys)
Farewell, whatever dear may be,

Mother's arms, or father's knee :
Farewell house, and farewell home!
She's for the Moors, and martyrdom.

Sweet, not so fast! lo, thy fair Spouse,
Whom thou seek'st with so swift vows;
Calls thee back, and bids thee come
T' embrace a milder martyrdom.

Blest powers forbid, thy tender life
Should bleed upon a barbarous knife:
Or some base hand have power to rase
Thy breast's chaste cabinet, and uncase
A soul kept there so sweet: O no,
Wise Heaven will never have it so.
Thou art Love's victim; and must die
A death more mystical and high:

Into Love's arms thou shalt let fall

A still-surviving funeral.

His is the dart must make the death

Whose stroke shall taste thy hallowed breath;
A dart thrice dipp'd in that rich flame.
Which writes thy Spouse's radiant name
Upon the roof of Heaven, where aye

It shines; and with a sovereign ray
Beats bright upon the burning faces

Of souls which in that Name's sweet graces
Find everlasting smiles: so rare,

So spiritual, pure, and fair

Must be th' immortal instrument

Upon whose choice point shall be sent

A life so loved: and that there be

Fit executioners for thee,

The fairest and first-born sons of fire,
Blest seraphim, shall leave their quire,
And turn Love's soldiers, upon thee
To exercise their archery.

O how oft shalt thou complain
Of a sweet and subtle pain:
Of intolerable joys:

Of a death, in which who dies

Loves his death, and dies again,

And would for ever so be slain.

And lives, and dies; and knows not why

To live, but that he thus may never leave to die.