O MY chief good, How shall I measure out thy bloud? How shall I count what thee befell, And each grief tell? Shall I thy woes Number according to thy foes? Or, since one starre show'd thy first breath, Shall all thy death? Or shall each leaf, Which falls in autumne, score a grief? Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be signe Of the true vine? Then let each houre Of my whole life one grief devoure; That thy distresse through all may runne, And be my sunne. Or rather let My severall sinnes their sorrows get; That as each beast his cure doth know, Each sinne may so. SINCE bloud is fittest, Lord, to write Thy sorrows in, and bloudie fight; My heart hath store; write there, where in One box doth lie both ink and sinne: That when sinne spies so many foes, Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes, All come to lodge there, sinne may say, No room for me, and flie away. Sinne being gone, oh fill the place, And keep possession with thy grace; Lest sinne take courage and return, And all the writings blot or burn. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CORIDON'S SONG (IN ISAAK WALTON'S 'COMPLEAT ANGLER') by JOHN CHALKHILL EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 22. 'TIS HONOURABLE TO BE LOVE'S MARTYR by PHILIP AYRES THE TURN OF THE ROAD by JANE BARLOW TO MR. WILLIAM BASSE UPON THE NOW PUBLISHING OF HIS POEMS by RALPH BATHURST COMMENDS THE SPRING; A PARAPHRASE OF AN IDYLLIUM by BION |