 | Schola Cordis or the Heart of it Selfe, gone away from God
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Ode. 31.
The Soule.
Lord, wilt thou suffer this? Shall vermine spoile
The fruit of all thy toyle,
Thy trees, thine herbs, thy plants, thy flow'rs thus:
And for an overplus
Of spite, and malice overthrow thy mounds,
Lay common all thy grounds?
Canst thou endure thy pleasant garden should
Be thus turn'd up as ordinary mould?
Christ.
What is the matter? why do'st thou complaine?
Must I as well maintaine,
And keep, as make thy fences? wilt thou take
No paines for thine own sake?
Or doth thy self-confounding fancy feare thee,
When there's no danger neer thee?
Speak out thy doubts, and thy desires, and tell me,
What enemy or can, or dares to quell thee?
| Schola Cordis or the Heart of it Selfe, gone away from God
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