XI. CANTICLES III. II.
I will rise, and go about the City, and will seeke him that my soule loveth: I
sought him, but I found him not.
1
O how my disappointed soule's perplext!
How restlesse thoughts swarme in my troubled brest!
How vainly pleas'd with hopes; then crossly vext
With feares! And how, betwixt them both, distrest!
What place is left unransack'd? Oh! Where, next,
Shall I go seek the Author of my Rest?
Of what blest Angell shall my lips enquire
The undiscover'd way to that entire
And everlasting solace of my hearts desire!
2
Look how the stricken Hart, that wounded, flies
Ov'r hills and dales, and seeks the lower grounds
For running streames; the whil'st his weeping eyes
Beg silent mercy from the following Hounds,
At length, embost, he droopes, drops downe, and lies
Beneath the burthen of his bleeding wounds:
Ev'n so my gasping soule, dissolv'd in teares,
Doth search for thee, my God, whose deafned eares
Leave me th'unransom'd Prisner to my panick feares.
3
Where have my busie eyes not pry'd? O where,
Of whom hath not my thred-bare tongue demanded?
I search'd this glorious City; Hee's not here;
I sought the Countrey; She stands empty-handed:
I search'd the Court; He is a stranger there:
I ask'd the land; Hee's shipp'd: the sea; hee's landed:
I climb'd the ayre, my thoughts began t'aspire;
But, ah! the wings of my too bold desire,
Soaring too neare the Sun, were sing'd with sacred fire.
4
I moov'd the Merchants eare; alas, but he
Knew neither what I said, nor what to say:
I ask'd the Lawyer; He demands a Fee,
And then demurres me with a vaine delay:
I ask'd the Schoole-man; His advice was free,
But scor'd me out too intricate a way;
I ask'd the Watch-man (best of all the foure)
Whose gentle answer could resolve no more;
But that he lately left him at the Temple doore.
5
Thus having sought, and made my great Inquest
In ev'ry place, and search'd in ev'ry eare;
I threw me on my Bed; but ah! my rest
Was poyson'd with th'extreames of griefe and feare,
Where, looking downe into my troubled brest,
The Magazen of wounds, I found him there;
Let others hunt, and show their sportfull Art;
I wish to catch the Hare before the start,
As Potchers use to do; Heav'ns Form's a troubled heart.
S. AMBROS. Lib. 3 de Virg.
Christ is not in the market; not in the streets: For Christ is peace; in the
market are strifes: Christ is Justice: in the market is iniquity: Christ is a
Labourer; in the market is idlenesse: Christ is Charity; in the market is
slander: Christ is Faith; in the market is fraud: Let us not therefore seeke
Christ, where we cannot find Christ.
S. HIEROM. Ep. 22 Eustoch.
Jesus is jealous: He will not have thy face seene: Let foolish virgins ramble
abroad; seeke thou thy Love at home.
EPIGRAM 11.
[What lost thy Love? Will neither Bed nor Board]
What lost thy Love? Will neither Bed nor Board
Receive him? Not by teares to be implor'd
It is the Ship that mooves, and not the Coast;
I feare, I feare, my soule, 'tis thou art lost.
