Schola Cordis or the Heart of it Selfe, gone away from God ::

How gladly would I bruise, and breake this heart
Into a thousand pieces, till the smart
Make it confesse, that, of its owne accord,
It wilfully rebell'd against the Lord?

Ode. 14.

1

Lord, if I had an arme of pow'r like thine,
And could effect what I desire,
My love-drawne heart, like smallest wyre,
Bended and writhen, should together twine,
And twisted stand
With thy command:
Thou should'st no sooner bid, but I would goe,
Thou should'st not will the thing I would not doe.

2

But I am weake, Lord, and corruption strong:
When I would faine doe what I should.
Then I cannot doe what I would:
Mine action's short, when mine intention's long:
Though my desire
Be quick as fire,

Yet my performance is as dull as earth,
And stifles its own issue in the birth.

3

But what I can doe, Lord, I will, since what
I would I cannot: I will try
Whether mine heart, that's hard and dry,
Being calm'd, and tempered with that
Liquor which falls
From mine eye-balls,
Will worke more pliantly, and yeeld to take
Such new impression as thy grace shall make.

4

In mine owne conscience then, as in a mortar
I'le place mine heart, and bray it there:
If griefe for what is past, and feare
Of what's to come be a sufficient torture,
I'le breake it all
In pieces small:
Sinne shall not finde a sheard without a flaw,
Wherein to lodge one lust against thy law.

5

Remember then, mine heart, what thou hast done;
What thou hast left undone: the ill
Of all my thoughts, words, deeds, is still
Thy cursed issue onely: thou art growne
To such a passe,
That never was,
Nor is, nor will there be, a sinne so bad,
But thou some way therein an hand hast had.

6

Thou hast not been content alone to sinne,
But hast made others sinne with thee,
Yea made their sinnes thine owne to be,

By liking, and allowing them therein.
Who first beginnes,
Or followes, sinnes
Not his owne sinnes alone, but sinneth o're
All the same sinnes, both after, and before.

7

What boundlesse sorrow can suffice a guilt
Growne so transcendent? Should thine eye
Weepe seas of blood, thy sighes outvie
The winds when with the waves they run at tilt,
Yet they could not
Cancell one blot.
The least of all thy sinnes against thy God
Deserves a thunderbolt should be thy rod.

8

Break then, mine heart: and since thou cannot grieve
Enough at once, while thou art whole,
Shiver thy self to dust, and dole
Thy sorrow to the sev'rall atomes, give
All to each part,
And by that art
Strive thy dissever'd self to multiply,
And want of weight with number to supply.

University of Virginia Library

The contrition of the Heart.

Epigr. 14.

Ode. 14.

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