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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 ?
In the dust? O no;
The dust shall never be thy bed :
Thus carried up on high,
Sweetly shalt thou lie,
And in soft slumbers bathe thy woe;
There thyself shalt be
but not a weeping one ;
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.
ACH blest drop on each blest limb,
Is wash'd itself, in washing Him :
'Tis a gem while it stays here; While it falls hence 'tis a tear.
To wash an Ethiop:
For his white soul is made:
A black-faced house will love.
On the Miracle of multiplied Loaves.
That under hunger's teeth will needs be found:
Upon the Sepulchre of our Lord.
Now the grave lies buried.
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.
speaks: the sound
He charges to be quiet; it runs round.
Which way my poor tears to Himself may go.
Were it enough to show the place, and say,
To Pontius washing his Hands.
That labour'd to have waslı'd thy guilt:
The flood, if any can, that can suffice, Must have its fountain in thine eyes.
To the Infant Martyrs.
In Heav'n you'll learn to sing ere here to speak;
Be your delay; The place that calls you hence is, at the worst,
Milk all the way.