WHEN for the thorns with which I long, too long, | |
With many a piercing wound, | |
My Saviours head have crownd, | |
I seek with garlands to redress that wrong; | |
Through every garden, every mead, | 5 |
I gather flowrs (my fruits are only flowrs), | |
Dismantling all the fragrant towers | |
That once adornd my shepherdesses head: | |
And now, when I have summd up all my store, | |
Thinking (so I my self deceive) | 10 |
So rich a chaplet thence to weave | |
As never yet the King of Glory wore, | |
Alas! I find the Serpent old, | |
That, twining in his speckled breast | |
About the flowers disguisd, does fold, | 15 |
With wreaths of fame and interest. | |
Ah, foolish man, that wouldst debase with them | |
And mortal glory, Heavens diadem! | |
But Thou who only couldst the Serpent tame, | |
Either his slippry knots at once untie, | 20 |
And disintangle all his winding snare; | |
Or shatter too with him my curious frame, | |
And let these witherso that he may die | |
Though set with skill, and chosen out with care; | |
That they, while Thou on both their spoils dost tread, | 25 |
May crown Thy feet, that could not crown Thy head. | |