 | The Poems and Sonnets of Henry Constable |  |
xxxi
[Sweet hand! the sweet but cruell bowe thou art]
Sweet hand! the sweet but cruell bowe thou art,
From whence at mee five yvorie arrowes flie;
So with five woundes at once I wounded lie,
Bearing my brest the print of every dart.
From whence at mee five yvorie arrowes flie;
So with five woundes at once I wounded lie,
Bearing my brest the print of every dart.
Saint Fraunces had the like, yet felt no smart,
Where I in living torments never die;
His woundes were in his hands and feete, where I
All these five helplesse wounds feele in my hart.
Where I in living torments never die;
His woundes were in his hands and feete, where I
All these five helplesse wounds feele in my hart.
Now (as Saint Fraunces) if a Saint am I,
The bowe that shot these shafts a relique is;
I meane the hand; which is the reason why
So many for devotion thee would kisse;
And some thy glove kisse, as a thing divine:
This arrowes' quiver, and this relique's shrine.
The bowe that shot these shafts a relique is;
I meane the hand; which is the reason why
So many for devotion thee would kisse;
And some thy glove kisse, as a thing divine:
This arrowes' quiver, and this relique's shrine.
| The Poems and Sonnets of Henry Constable | |