 | Otia Sacra Optima Fides |  |
46
My Looking-Glass.
Foe to Ill-faces for thy truth, be freeAnd Shadow back my Souls Deformitie,
Thou'lt please me better far, than that which can
Return a Raven White, or black a Swan:
For if thou shouldst like to thy self, rubb'd ore,
Give All for Moteless that comes Thee before,
I might suspect, (that justly) whilst thou'rt set
To me 'n Diameter for Counterfeit,
So horrid black my Conscience doth present
My Guilt-complexions Night Firmament,
Not Tincel'd with one Star of Grace, or Spark
Of Goodness, but Sin-clouded o'r and Dark.
How shall I then presume to Claim a right
In any Dawn of Mercy and of light?
Unless My Faith give credit for the Loan;
And so Gods Son lend from th' Reflection
Of His Bright Merits, so much power to say,
My Pardon's seal'd, and Night is turn'd to Day:
And then, and not before, I may seem drest,
When His Great Favour, my Great Sin's confest.
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