| WHEN for the thorns with which I long, too long, | |
| With many a piercing wound, | |
| My Saviour’s head have crown’d, | |
| I seek with garlands to redress that wrong; | |
| Through every garden, every mead, | 5 |
| I gather flow’rs (my fruits are only flow’rs), | |
| Dismantling all the fragrant towers | |
| That once adorn’d my shepherdesse’s head: | |
| And now, when I have summ’d 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 disguis’d, does fold, | 15 |
| With wreaths of fame and interest. | |
| Ah, foolish man, that would’st debase with them | |
| And mortal glory, Heaven’s diadem! | |
| But Thou who only could’st the Serpent tame, | |
| Either his slipp’ry knots at once untie, | 20 |
| And disintangle all his winding snare; | |
| Or shatter too with him my curious frame, | |
| And let these wither—so 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. | |
