 | Silex Scintillans |  |
Mount of Olives.
1
Sweete, sacred hill! on whose fair browMy Saviour sate, shall I allow
Language to love
And Idolize some shade, or grove,
Neglecting thee? such ill-plac'd wit,
Conceit, or call it what you please
Is the braines fit,
And meere disease;
28
2
Cotswold, and Coopers both have metWith learned swaines, and Eccho yet
Their pipes, and wit;
But thou sleep'st in a deepe neglect
Untouch'd by any; And what need
The sheep bleat thee a silly Lay
That heard'st both reed
And sheepward play?
3
Yet, if Poets mind thee wellThey shall find thou art their hill,
And fountaine too,
Their Lord with thee had most to doe;
He wept once, walkt whole nights on thee,
And from thence (his suff'rings ended,)
Unto glorie
Was attended;
4
Being there, this spacious ballIs but his narrow footstoole all,
And what we thinke
Unsearchable, now with one winke
He doth comprise; But in this aire
When he did stay to beare our Ill
And sinne, this Hill
Was then his Chaire.
| Silex Scintillans | |