9.Shall I set thereSo deep a share(Dear wounds) and onely nowIn sorrows draw no dividend with you!O be more wife,If not more soft, mine Eyes!Flow, tardy Founts! and into decent showrsDissolve my Days and Hours.And if thou yet (faint soul!) deferTo bleed with him, fail not to weep with her.10.Rich Queen, lend some relief;At least an alms of GriefTo' a heart who by sad right of sinCould prove the whole sum (too sure) due to him.By all those stingsOf Love, sweet bitter things,Which these torn hands transcrib'd on thy true Heart;O teach mine too, the ArtTo study him so, till we mixWounds, and become one Crucifix.11.O let me suck the WineSo long of this chaste Vine,Till, drunk of the dear wounds, I beA lost thing to the World, as it to me.0