Sufficeth her, that she a lay-place gain,
To trim thy Vestments, or but bear thy train;
Though nor in tune, nor wing, she reach thy Lark,
Her Lyrick feet may dance before the Arke.
Who knows, but that her wandring eys that run,
Now hunting Glow-worms, may adore the Sun,
A pure flame may, shot by Almighty powre
Into her brest, the earthy flame devoure.
My eys, in penitentiall dew may steep
That brine, which they for sensuall love did weep.
So (though 'gainst Natures course) fire may be quencht
With fire, and water be with water drencht;
Perhaps my restless soul, tyr'd with pursuit
Of mortall beauty, seeking without fruit
Contentment there, which hath not, when enjoy'd,
Quencht all her thirst, nor satisfied, though cloy'd;
Weary of her vain search below, Above
In the first fair may find th' immortall Love.
Prompted by thy example then, no more
In moulds of clay will I my God adore;
But tear those Idols from my heart, and write
What his blest Spirit, not fond Love, shall indite;
Then I no more shall court the verdant Bay,
But the dry leaveless Trunk on Golgotha;
And rather strive to gain from thence one Thorn,
Than all the flourishing wreaths by Laureats worn.