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O that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountaine of teares, that I might weepe day and night.

O that mine eyes were springs, and could transforme
Their drops to seas! My sighs, into a storme
Of Zeale, and sacred Violence, wherein
This lab'ring vessell, laden with her sin,
Might suffer sodaine shipwracke, and be split
Upon that Rock, where my drench'd soule may sit
Orewhelm'd with plenteous passion; O, and there
Drop, drop into an everlasting teare!
Ah me! that ev'ry sliding veine that wanders
Through this vast Isle, did worke her wild Meanders
In Brackish teares, instead of blood, and swell
This flesh with holy Dropsies, from whose Well,
Made warme with sighs, may fume my wasting breath,
Whilst I dissolve in steames, and reeke to death!
These narrow sluces of my dribling eyes
Are much too streight for those quick springs that rise,
And hourely fill my Temples to the top;
I cannot shed for ev'ry sin a drop;
Great builder of mankind, why hast thou sent
Such swelling floods, and made so small a vent?
O that this flesh had been compos'd of snow,
Instead of earth; and bones of Ice, and so,
Feeling the Fervor of my sin; and lothing
The fire I feele, I might be thaw'd to nothing!
O thou, that didst, with hopefull joy, entombe
Me thrice three Moones in thy laborious wombe,
And then, with joyfull paine, brought forth a Son,
What worth thy labour, has thy labour done?
What was there? Ah! what was there in my birth
That could deserve the easiest smile of mirth?
A man was borne: Alas, and what's a man?
A scuttle full of dust, a measur'd span
Of flitting Time; a furnish'd Pack, whose wares
Are sullen griefs, and soule-tormenting Cares:
A vale of teares; a vessell tunn'd with breath,
By sicknesse broacht, to be drawne out by death:
A haplesse, helplesse thing; that, borne, does cry
To feed; that feeds to live; that lives to die.
Great God and Man, whose eyes spent drops so often
For me, that cannot weepe enough; O soften
These marble braines, and strike this flinty rock;
Or if the musick of thy Peters Cock
Will more prevaile, fill, fill my hearkning eares
With that sweet sound, that I may melt in teares:
I cannot weepe, untill thou broach mine eye;
Or give me vent, or els I burst, and die.

S. AMBROS. in Psal. 118.

He that commits sinnes to be wept for, cannot weepe for sinnes committed: And being himselfe most lamentable, hath no teares to lament his offences.

NAZIANZ. Orat. 3.

Teares are the deluge of sinne, and the worlds sacrifice.

S. HIEROM. in Esaiam.

Prayer appeases God, but a teare compels him: That moves him but this constraines him.