|
.17. |
Since She whome I lovd, hath payd her last debt [f. 37] |
To Nature, and to hers, & my good is dead |
And her Soule early into heauen rauished, |
Wholy in heauenly things my Mind is sett. |
Here the admyring her my Mind did whett |
To seeke thee God; so streames do shew ye head, |
But though I haue found thee,'& thou my thirst hast fed, |
A holy thirsty dropsy melts mee yett. |
But why should I begg more Love, when as thou |
Dost woe my Soule for hers; offring all thine: |
And dost not only feare least I allow |
My Love to Saints and Angels things diuine |
But in thy tender iealosy dost doubt |
Least ye World, fleshe, yea Deuill putt thee out. |
|
.18. |
Show me deare Christ, thy Spouse, so bright & cleare. |
What is it She, wch on the other Shore |
Goes richly painted? Or wch rob'd & tore |
Laments & mournes in Germany & here? |
Sleepes She a thousand, then peepes vp one yeare? |
Is She selfe truth & errs? now new, now'outwore? |
Doth She,' and did She, & shall She evermore |
On one, on Seauen, or on no hill appeare? |
Dwells She wt vs, or like adventuring knights |
first trauaile we to seeke & then make Love? |
Betray kind husband thy Spouse to or Sights, |
And let myne amorous Soule court thy mild Dove |
Who is most trew, & pleasing to thee, then |
When She'is embrac'd & open to most Men. |