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O, 'tis not a tear,
From thine eye its sphere;
The sun will stoop and take it up. wel
Proud will his sister be to wear
This thine eye's jewel in her ear.
O, 'tis a tear,
Too true a tear: for no sad eyne,
How sad soe'er,
Rain so true a tear as thine; Each drop leaving a place so dear, Weeps for itself, is its own tear.
Such a pearl as this is,
Such the maiden gem
Peeps from her parent stem,
* See these latter lines and the following verse in "The Weeper," as printed in the editions of 1646, 1648, and 1652.,
Fair drop, why quak'st thou so?
The dust shall never be thy bed:
A pillow for thee will I bring,
Stuffed with down of angel's wing.
Thus carried up on high,
For to Heaven thou must go,
And in soft slumbers bathe thy woe;
Till the singing orbs awake thee,
And one of their bright chorus make thee.
Whither th' hadst rather there have shone
An eye of Heaven; or still shine here,
In th' heaven of Mary's eye, a tear.
On the Water of our Lord's Baptism.
While it falls hence 'tis a tear.
On the Baptized Ethiopian.
He's wash'd, his gloomy skin a peaceful shade
And now, I doubt not, the Eternal Dove
A black-faced house will love.
On the Miracle of multiplied Loaves.
Upon the Sepulchre of our Lord.
ERE, where our Lord once laid his Head,
The Widow's Mites.
WO mites, two drops, yet all her house and land, Fall from a steady heart, though trembling hand: The other's wanton wealth foams high, and brave; The other cast away, she only gave.
On the Prodigal.
ELL me, bright boy, tell me, my golden lad,
What all thy wealth in council? all thy state? Are husks so dear? troth 'tis a mighty rate.
On the still surviving Marks of our Saviour's
HATEVER story of their cruelty,
Or nail, or thorn, or spear have writ in Thee,
Sweet is the difference:
Once I did spell
A wound of Thine;
The Sick implore St. Peter's Shadow.
Thy shadow, Peter, must show me the sun, My light's thy shadow's shadow, or 'tis done.
The Dumb healed, and the People enjoined silence. HRIST bids the dumb tongue speak; it
He charges to be quiet; it runs round.
If in the first He us'd His finger's touch:
Come, see the place where the Lord lay. HOW me Himself, Himself, bright Sir, O show Which way my poor tears to Himself may go. Were it enough to show the place, and say, Look, Mary, here see where thy Lord once lay; Then could I show these arms of mine and say, Look, Mary, here see where thy Lord once lay.
To Pontius washing his Hands.
HY hands are wash'd, but O, the water's spilt
The flood, if any can, that can suffice,
Must have its fountain in thine eyes.
To the Infant Martyrs.
O, smiling souls, your new-built cages break,
The place that calls you hence is, at the worst,