AND art thou grieved, sweet and sacred Dove, When I am sowre, And crosse thy love? Grieved for me? the God of strength and power Griev'd for a worm, which, when I tread, I passe away and leave it dead? Then weep, mine eyes, the God of love doth grieve: Weep, foolish heart, And weeping live; For death is drie as dust. Yet if ye part, End as the night, whose sable hue Your sinnes expresse: melt into dew. When sawcie mirth shall knock or call at doore, Cry out, Get hence; Or cry no more. Almightie God doth grieve, he puts on sense: I sinne not to my grief alone, But to my Gods too; he doth grone. O take thy lute, and tune it to a strain, Which may with thee All day complain. There can no discord but in ceasing be. Marbles can weep; and surely strings More bowels have than such hard things. Lord, I adjudge myself to tears and grief, Ev'n endlesse tears, Without relief. If a cleare spring for me no time forbears, But runnes, although I be not drie; I am no crystall, what shall I? Yet if I wail not still, (since still to wail Nature denies; And flesh would fail, If my deserts were masters of mine eyes:) Lord, pardon, for thy Sonne makes good My want of tears with store of bloud. |