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The Shorter Poems of Ralph Knevet

A Critical Edition by Amy M. Charles

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[21] The Dialogue
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315

[21] The Dialogue

Soule
Nor wealthy mines, nor mineralls I seeke:
My thoughts are low, and meeke,
And like a tender leeke
Both white, and greene; Though like a Cedar high,
Yet ever groweing by
Unfain'd humility:
And though I may submisse, and humble seeme,
My hopes are levelld for a Diademe./

Dispayre
A Diademe? Alas, a racke, or wheele,
Or scourge of burning steele,
Thou rather oughtst to feele,
Then such a royall guerdon to expect,
Which onely hath respect,
To favorites elect.
Thy Soveraigne Lord with pierceing thornes was crown'd
And must thy temples bee with glory bound?

Soule
(I know) my Lord did weare a crowne of scorne,
His sacred browes were torne,
With points of the sharp thorne:
Steele pierc'd His hands, and feet, and the tough corde
The tender body gor'd,
Of my immortall Lord:

316

Into his very soule the iron went;
With tortures Hee was all to pieces rente:/

Dispayre
And if thy Lord such torments did endure,
Wilt Thou thy self assure,
To live in blisse secure:
Better then him dos't Thou thy self esteeme?
How cans't Thou thinke, or dreame
Of any Diademe?
Since that thy Lord did never crowne put on,
But that of torture, and derision.

Soule
My Lord was mock'd, tormented, and abus'd,
No suffring He refus'd,
That I might bee excus'd:
Hee on his blessed shoulders did sustaine
The burthen of my paine,
And did for mee ordaine
A Crowne of glory, upon this condition,
That I should seeke't by faith, and true contrition.

Dispayre
(Vaine Soule) that ar't but a proud puffe of breath,
Destind for wrath, and death,
Rather then triumphes wreath,
How cans't Thou hope from Him to receive good,
Since Thou, and Sinne thy broode,
Are guilty of his blood:
Thy hopes of Heaven are vaine, not worth a shell,
Thou must resolve t'abide with mee, in Hell./


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Soule
Avoyde (Dispayre) unto thy realme retire,
Of darknes, and of fire,
I tend to a place higher:
Though poore in worth, yet rich in hope I am:
Love doth my heart inflame,
But Faith must winne the game:
A crowne of glory I looke to inherit,
By heavenly mercy, not through humane merit./