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XIII.
What if this present were the worlds last night? *
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwel,
The Picture of Christ crucifi'd, and tell
Whether his countenance can thee affright,
Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light,
Bloud fils his frowns, which from his pierc'd head fell.
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,
Which pray'd forgiveness for his foes fierce spight?
No, no; but as in my Idolatrie
I said to all my profane Mistresses,
Beautie, of pity, foulness only is
A sign of rigour: so I say to thee,
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign'd,
This beauteous forme assumes a piteous mind.
XIV.
Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, you
As yet but knock, breath, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'rthrow me,'and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurpt Town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but oh, to no end.
Reason your Viceroy in me, we should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue,
Yet dearly' I love you' and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy,
Divorce me,'untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you 'enthral me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

[CW: XV.]