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HOLY SONNETS. |
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La Corona. |
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1. Deigne at my hands this crown of prayer and praise, |
Weav'd in my low devout melancholie, |
Thou which of good, hast, yea art treasury, |
All changing unchang'd Antient of dayes, |
But doe not, with a vile crowne of fraile bayes, |
Reward my muses white sincerity, |
But what thy thorny crowne gain'd, that give mee, |
A crowne of Glory, which doth flower alwayes; |
The ends crowne our workes, but thou crown'st our ends, |
For, at our end begins our endlesse rest, |
The first last end, now zealously possest, |
With a strong sober thirst, my soule attends. |
'Tis time that heart and voice be lifted high, |
Salvation to all that will is nigh, |
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Annunciation. |
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2 Salvation to all that will is nigh, |
That All, which alwayes is All every where, |
Which cannot sinne, and yet all sinnes must beare, |
Which cannot die, yet cannot chuse but die, |
Loe, faithfull Virgin, yeelds himselfe to lye |
In prison, in thy wombe; and though he there |
Can take no sinne, nor thou give, yet he'will weare |
Taken from thence, flesh, which deaths force may trie.
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[CW: Ere] |