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Ord, what is man? why should he coste thee
Love is too kind, I see; & can
Alas, sweet lord, what wer't to thee
In the deep hell.
What have his woes to doe with thee?
Let him goe weep
O're his own wounds;
Nor spheares let fall their faithfull rounds.
Still would The youthfull SPIRITS sing;
And bow their flaming heads before thee
Keep warm thy prayse
Both nights & dayes,
And teach thy lov'd name to their noble lyre.
Le[t] froward Dust then doe it's kind; And give it self for sport to the proud wind. Why should a peice of peevish clay plead shares In the Eternity of thy old cares?'
Why shouldst you bow thy awful Brest to see What mine own madnesses have done with me?
Should not the king still keepe his throne
E're the lesse glorious run?
If I were lost in misery,
What was it to thy heavn & thee?
What did the Lamb, that he should dy?
If my base lust,
Bargain'd with Death & well-beseeming dust
Why should his unstaind brest make good My blushes with his own heart-blood?
O my SAVIOUR, make me see How dearly thou hast payd for me
That lost again my LIFE may prove As then in DEATH, So now in love.
Patheticall descant upon the
Written by Jacopone da Jodi
See Beeson for Latin.
N shade of death's sad TREE
IN Stood Dolefull SHEE.
Ah SHE! now by none other
Name to be known, alas, but SORROW's [M]OTHER.
Her's, & the whole world's joyes,
Hanging all torn she sees; and in his woes
What kind of marble than
Who can look on & see,
Nor keep such noble sorrowes company?
(My Flints) some drops are due
O costly intercourse
Of deaths, & worse
Divided loves. While son & mother
Discourse alternate wounds to one another;
Quick Deaths that grow
And gather, as they come & goe:
His Nailes write swords in her, which soon her heart
She sees her son, her GOD,
Of borrowd sins; And swimme
In woes that were not made for Him.
Of love! Here must she stand
Charg'd to look on, & with à stedfast ey
Leaving her only so much Breath
O Mother turtle-dove!
Soft sourse of love
That these dry lidds might borrow Something from thy full Seas of sorrow! O in that brest
Of thine (the nobest nest
Both of love's fires & flouds) might I recline
O teach those wounds to bleed
O let me, here, claim shares;
Me too my teares; who, though all stone, Think much that thou shouldst mourn alone.