 | Poemata sacra |  |
Meditat. II. We hanged our harps upon the willows, Psal. 137.
When sorrows do salute, joyes take farewel:These pair of guests never together dwell:
They inne at severall signes; Sorrow she lies
At the sad Count'nace, Joy at Flaming eyes,
And sanguine face blithe looks: their empires are
Divided: Sorrows kingdome is not farre
From Babylons sad rivers, and there grows
A grove of shadie willows; under flows
A pitchie current; on the gloomie trees
Do hang these harps of pleasure. Oh who sees
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Thus sits Contrition on a shady green
Nigh to these streams and willows, while her lute
(As though it were sad penance to be mute)
Hangs by her for a time hid amongst leaves,
Whil'st she forgetfull of her musick grieves.
Thus sinfull souls lay by a while their joyes,
And sorrow seems to hide these pleasing toyes:
When they have sigh't some minutes, then again
They take their harps to tune their wonted strain.
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