 | Saint Peters complaint |  |
35
MARY MAGDALENS BLVSH.
The signes of shame that staine my blushing face,
Rise from the feeling of my rauing fits,
Whose ioy, annoy: whose guerdon, is disgrace:
Whose solace, flyes: whose sorrow, neuer flits:
Bad seede I sow'd: worse fruite is now my gaine:
Soone dying mirth begat long liuing paine.
Rise from the feeling of my rauing fits,
Whose ioy, annoy: whose guerdon, is disgrace:
Whose solace, flyes: whose sorrow, neuer flits:
Bad seede I sow'd: worse fruite is now my gaine:
Soone dying mirth begat long liuing paine.
Now pleasure ebbes: reuenge beginnes to flow:
One day doth wreake the wrath that many wrought:
Remorse doth teach my guiltie thoughts to know,
How cheape I sould, that Christ so deerely bought.
Faults long vnfelt doth conscience now bewraye,
VVhich cares must cure, and teares must wash awaye.
One day doth wreake the wrath that many wrought:
Remorse doth teach my guiltie thoughts to know,
How cheape I sould, that Christ so deerely bought.
Faults long vnfelt doth conscience now bewraye,
VVhich cares must cure, and teares must wash awaye.
All ghostly dynts that grace at me did dart,
Like stubborne rocke I forced to recoyle;
To other flights an ayme I made my hart,
Whose wounds, then wel-come, now haue wrought my foyle.
Woe worth the bow, who worth the archers might,
That draue such arrowes to the marke so right.
Like stubborne rocke I forced to recoyle;
To other flights an ayme I made my hart,
Whose wounds, then wel-come, now haue wrought my foyle.
Woe worth the bow, who worth the archers might,
That draue such arrowes to the marke so right.
36
To pull them out, to leaue them in, is death:
One, to this world: one, to the world to come:
Wounds may I weare, and draw a doubtfull breath:
But then my wounds will worke a dreadfull dome.
And for a world, whose pleasures passe away:
I lose a world, whose ioyes are past decay.
One, to this world: one, to the world to come:
Wounds may I weare, and draw a doubtfull breath:
But then my wounds will worke a dreadfull dome.
And for a world, whose pleasures passe away:
I lose a world, whose ioyes are past decay.
O sence, O soule, O had, O hoped blisse,
You wooe, you weane, you draw, you driue me back.
Your crosse-encountring, like their combate is,
That neuer end but with some deadly wrack.
When sense doth winne, the soule doth loose the field,
And present happes, make future hopes to yeeld.
You wooe, you weane, you draw, you driue me back.
Your crosse-encountring, like their combate is,
That neuer end but with some deadly wrack.
When sense doth winne, the soule doth loose the field,
And present happes, make future hopes to yeeld.
O heauen, lament: sense robbeth thee of Saints:
Lament O soules, sense spoyleth you of grace.
Yet sence doth scarse deserue these hard complaints,
Loue is the thiefe, sense but the entring place.
Yet graunt I must, sense is not free from sinne,
For theefe he is that theefe admitteth in.
Lament O soules, sense spoyleth you of grace.
Yet sence doth scarse deserue these hard complaints,
Loue is the thiefe, sense but the entring place.
Yet graunt I must, sense is not free from sinne,
For theefe he is that theefe admitteth in.
| Saint Peters complaint | |