LXV. Why art thou troubled, Herod? what vain fear Thy blood-revolving breast to rage doth move? Poor jealousy! why should He wish to prey LXVI. Make to thy reason, man, and mock thy doubts; What His steeds? alas! a simple ass. IL FINE DEL PRIMO LIBRO 'THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK.' The Tear. What bright soft thing is this, Sweet Mary, thy fair eyes' expense? A watery diamond; from whence 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, 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 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 In the Heaven of Mary's eye, a TEAR. -:0: Our Blessed] Lord in his Circumcision to his Father. To Thee these first-fruits of My growing death, Taste this, and as Thou lik'st this lesser flood Thy wrath that wades here now, ere long shall swim, To drown the wantonness of His wild thirst. Now's but the nonage of My pains, My fears And till My riper woes to age are come, "Neither Durst any Man from that Day ask him any More Questions."— S. Matt. xxii., 46. 'Midst all the dark and knotty snares, Of Thy renown, and their own shame: 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. |