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Yea let my life & me
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,
Hail; & strike home & make me see
That wounded bosomes their own weapons be.
Nail'd hands! & peirced hearts!
Come your whole selves, sorrow's great son & mother!
Of greifes his portion, who (had all their due)
Shall I, sett there
So deep a share
(Dear wounds) & onely now
In sorrows draw no Dividend with you?
I[f] not more soft, mine eyes!
Flow, tardy founts! & into decent showres
And if thou yet (faint soul!) deferr
To bleed with him, fail not to weep with her.
Rich Queen, lend some releife;
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
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.
Of me & of my end!
Fold up my life in love; and lay't beneath
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.
What need thy fair head bear a part
Thy restlesse feet now cannot goe
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!
No hair so small, but payes his river
But while I speak, whither are run All the rivers nam'd before?
I counted wrong. There is but one;
Rain-swoln rivers may rise proud,
This thy blood's deluge, a dire chance
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.