OH louing Lord, thou only didst defere | |
| My consolation to increase it more; | |
| That thy delightfull presence might preferre | |
| The better welcome, being wisht so sore; | |
| In that thy absence little hope had left | 5 |
| Vnto my hart so long of blisse bereft. | |
| |
| It may be that I knew not former blisse, | |
| Till I a time was from the sweetnes weaned; | |
| Nor what it was such treasures rich to misse, | |
| Which in thy presence I of late attained; | 10 |
| Vntill my pouerty had made it cleere, | |
| Of what inestimable rate they were. | |
| |
| But now thou shewst me by a proofe most sweete, | |
| That though I pay’d thee with my deerest loue, | |
| With water of my teares to wash thy feete, | 15 |
| With my best breath, which all desire could moue; | |
| Yet small the price was that I did bestowe, | |
| Waying the worth, which now thou let’st me know. | |
| |
| I sought thee dead, pind in a stony gaill, | |
| But find thee liuing, and at liberty; | 20 |
| Shrinde in a shroud, thy visage wan and pale, | |
| Left as the modell of all misery; | |
| But now inuest in glorious robes I finde thee, | |
| And as the president of blisse I minde thee. | |
| |
| As all this while I sought, but could not finde; | 25 |
| Wept without comfort; cald, vnanswerd too: | |
| So now thy comming satisfies my minde, | |
| Thy tryumphes please my teares, which long did wooe; | |
| And all my ioyes are husht with this one word, | |
| “Mary,” ’cause sweetly spoken from my Lord. | 30 |
| |
| For when I heard thee call in wonted sort, | |
| And with thy vsuall voyce, my only name | |
| Issuing from that thy heauenly mouth’s report, | |
| So strange an alteration it did frame, | |
| As if I had beene wholly made anew, | 35 |
| Being only nam’d by thee, whose voyce I knew: | |
| |
| Whereas before my griefe benum’d me so, | |
| My body seem’d the hearce of my dead hart; | |
| My hart, soule’s coffin, kil’d with care and woe; | |
| And my whole selfe did seeme in euery part | 40 |
| A double funerall presented plaine, | |
| Of Thee, and of myselfe, together slaine. | |
| |
| But now this one word hath my sence restored, | |
| Lightened my minde, and quickened my hart; | |
| And in my soule a liuing spirit powred, | 45 |
| Yea, with sweete comfort strengthened euery part: | |
| For well this word a spirit dead may raise, | |
| Which only word made heauen, world, and seas. | |
| |
| Mary I was, when sinne possest me whole, | |
| Mary I am, being now in a state of grace; | 50 |
| Mary did worke the ill that damn’d her soule, | |
| Mary did good in giuing euill place: | |
| And now I showe both what I was and am; | |
| This word alone displaies my ioy and shame. | |
| |
| For by his vertues that did speake the same, | 55 |
| An epitome of all his mercies sweete, | |
| A repetition of my miseries came, | |
| And all good haps I did together meete; | |
| Which so my sences rauished with ioy, | |
| I soone forgot my sorrowes and annoy. | 60 |
| |
| And thus my hart a troope of ioyes did leade; | |
| Mustred in rancks to mutiny they fell, | |
| Conspiring which might worthiest bee made; | |
| With them my owne vnworthies doe rebell, | |
| And long in doubtfull issue they contend, | 65 |
| Till view of highest blis the strife did end. | |
| |
| He was my Sun, whose going downe did leaue | |
| A dumpish night with fearefull fancies fill’d; | |
| And did each starre of glistering shines bereaue, | |
| And all the world with misty horror hill’d; | 70 |
| And euery planet raigning erst so bright | |
| Were chaung’d to dismall signes in this darke night. | |
| |
| Yet now the clearenes of his louely face, | |
| His word’s authority which all obey, | |
| This foggy darknes cleane away doth chace, | 75 |
| And brings a calme and bright well-tempred day; | |
| And doth depurple clouds of melancholy, | |
| Awaks my sence, and cures mye lethargy. | |
| |
| Rapt with his voyce, impatient of delay, | |
| Out of his mouth his talke I gredily take, | 80 |
| And to this first and only word I say, | |
| And with one other word this answeare make: | |
| “Rabboni”—then my ioy my speech did choke, | |
| I could no more proceede, nor more heare spoke. | |
| |
| Loue would haue spoke, but feare concealde the clause; | 85 |
| Hope framed words, but doubt their passage staies: | |
| When I should speake, I then stood in a pawse; | |
| My sodaine ioy my inward thoughts quite slayes: | |
| My voyce doth tremble, and my tongue doth falter; | |
| My breath doth faile, and all my sences alter. | 90 |
| |
| Lastly, in lieu of words issue my teares; | |
| Deepe sighes instead of sentences are spent; | |
| Their mother’s want they fill with sobbes and feares, | |
| And from the hart half-vttered words they sent; | |
| Which in so passion’s conflict disagree, | 95 |
| To sounds perceau’d they cannot sorted bee. | |
| |
| So fares the hart that’s sick for sodaine ioy, | |
| Attayning that for which it long did fire: | |
| For euen as feare is loue’s still seruile boy, | |
| And hope an vsher vnto hot desire; | 100 |
| So loue is hard a firme beliefe in gaining, | |
| And credulous coniectures entertayning. | |
| |
| And though desire be apt for to admit | |
| Of wisht-for comfort any smallest shade; | |
| The hotter yet it burnes in hauing it, | 105 |
| The more it cares to haue it perfit made; | |
| And while least hope is wanting, which is sought, | |
| The best assurances auantage nought. | |
| |
| And euen as hope doth still the best presume, | |
| Inuiting ioy to welcome good successe; | 110 |
| So feare suspects true blisse can hardly come, | |
| And calls vp sorrowe, making it seem lesse; | |
| With griefe bewailing the incertainty | |
| Of that which should be sole felicity. | |
| |
| And while as these doe mutually contend, | 115 |
| Feare sometimes falleth into deepe dispaire; | |
| Hope rising vp, his fiery darts doth send | |
| Of wrath, repining to the empty ayre; | |
| Making a doubtfull skirmish dead they stand, | |
| Till euidence of proofe the strife haue scand. | 120 |
| |
| For though poore I so suddainly reply’d, | |
| Vpon the notice of his voyce well knowne, | |
| Yet for because so rare a chaunce I spide, | |
| His person chang’d, himselfe vnlookt for showne, | |
| The sight my thoughts into sedition drew, | 125 |
| Till they were purg’d from doubts by stricter view. | |
| |
| And then, though speeches would haue issued faine, | |
| And my poore hart to his hand duty sent, | |
| Yet euery thought, for vtterance taking paine, | |
| Which first might be receau’d, so hastly went, | 130 |
| That I was forst, indifferent iudge to all, | |
| To act by signes, and let my speeches fall. | |
| |
| And runing to the haunt of my delight, | |
| My chiefest blis, I straight fall at his feete, | |
| And kindly offer in my Sauiour’s sight | 135 |
| To bath them now with teares of ioy most sweete; | |
| To sanctifie my lippes with kissing his | |
| Once grieuous, but now glorious wounds of blis. | |
| |
| To heare more words I listed not to stay, | |
| Beeing with the word itself now happy made; | 140 |
| But deem’d a greater blisse for to assay | |
| To haue at once my wishes full apaid, | |
| In honouring and kissing of his feete, | |
| Then in the hearing of his speeche lesse sweete. | |
| |
| For euen as loue in nature coueteth | 145 |
| To be vnited, yea, transformed whole | |
| Out of itselfe into the thing it loueth; | |
| So what vnits loue most affecteth sole, | |
| And still preferreth least coniunction euer | |
| Before best ioyes which distance seemes to seuer. | 150 |
| |
| To see him, therefore, doth not me suffice; | |
| To heare him doth not quiet whole my mind; | |
| To speake with him in so familiar wise | |
| Is not enough my loose let soule to bind: | |
| No, nothing can my vehement loue appease, | 155 |
| Least by his touch my wo-worne hart I please. | |
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