I charge you, O daughter of Jerusalem, if you find my beloved, that you tell him
that I am sick of love.
1
You holy Virgins, that so oft surround
The Cities Saphyre Wals, whose snowy feet
Measure the pearly Paths of sacred, ground,
And trace the new Jerus'lems Jasper street;
Ah, you whose care-forsaken hearts are crown'd
With your best wishes; that enjoy the sweet
Of all your Hopes; If ere you chance to spie
My absent Love, O tell him that I lie
Deep wounded with the flames, that furnac'd from his eye.
2
I charge you, Virgins, as you hope to heare
The heav'nly Musick of your Lovers voice;
I charge you by the solemne faith ye beare
To plighted vowes, and to the loyall choice
Of your Affections; or, if ought more deare
You hold; by Hymen; by your marriage joyes,
I charge you, tell him, that a flaming dart,
Shot from his Eye, hath pierc'd my bleeding heart;
And I am sick of love, and languish in my smart.
3
Tell him, O tell him, how my panting brest
Is scorch'd with flames, and how my soule is pin'd;
Tell him, O tell him, how I lie opprest
With the full torments of a troubled mind;
O tell him, tell him, that he loves in jest,
But I, in earnest; Tell him, hee's unkind:
But if a discontented frowne appeares
Upon his angry Brow, accoast his eares
With soft and fewer words, and act the rest in teares.
4
O tell him, that his cruelties deprive
My soule, of peace, while peace, in vaine, she seeks;
Tell him, those Damask roses, that did strive,
With white, both fade upon my sallow cheeks;
Tell him, no token does proclaime I live,
But teares, and sighs, and sobs, and sudden shreeks;
Thus if your piercing words should chance to bore
His harkning eare, and move a sigh, give ore
To speak; and tell him—Tell him, that I could do no more.
5
If your elegious breath should hap to rouze
A happy teare, close harb'ring in his eye,
The urge his plighted faith, the sacred vowes,
Which neither I can break, nor He deny;
Bewaile the Torments of his loyall Spouse,
That for his sake, would make a sport to die:
O blessed Virgins, how my passion tires
Beneath the burthen of her vaine desires!
Heav'n never shot such flames, Earth never felt such fires.
S. AUGUST. Med. cap. 40.
What shall I say? What shall I doe? Whether shall I goe?
Where shall I seek him? Or when shall I find him? Whom shall I ask? Who will
tell my beloved that I am sick of love?
GULIEL. in Cap. 5. Cant.
I live; But not I: It is my beloved that lives in me: I love my selfe, not
with my owne love, but with the love of my beloved, that loves me: I love not
my selfe in my selfe, but my selfe in him, and him in me.
