 | Silex Scintillans |  |
The Brittish Church.
1
Ah! he is fled!And while these here their mists, and shadowes hatch,
My glorious head
Doth on those hills of Myrrhe, and Incense watch.
Hast, hast my deare,
The Souldiers here
Cast in their lotts againe,
That seamless coat
The Iewes touch'd not,
These dare divide, and staine.
2
O get thee wings!Ot if as yet (untill these clouds depart,
And the day springs,)
Thou think'st it good to tarry where thou art,
Write in thy bookes
My ravish'd looks
Slain flock, and pillag'd fleeces,
And haste thee so
As a young Roe
Upon the mounts of spices.
O Rosa Campi! O lilium Convallium! quomodò nunc
facta es pabulum Aprorum!
| Silex Scintillans | |