Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, S. JOHN: THE DISCIPLE, WHOM JESUS LOVED, by JOSEPH BEAUMONT



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S. JOHN: THE DISCIPLE, WHOM JESUS LOVED, by            
First Line: Belov'd indeed: not that thine onely heart
Last Line: Those flames the phenix lived, must it dy.
Subject(s): Jesus Christ; John The Apostle, Saint (1st Century)


BELOV'D indeed: not that thine onely Heart
Had captiv'd His, & did monopolize
All its rich wares of Love, wch did impart
Themselves in liberall fulnes, & surprise
The Universe wth Sweetnes; but yt Hee
Who loved all Men was IN LOVE WITH THEE.

He was in love with thy Virginitie,
Which with all blooming beauties was bedeckt:
Millions of softest Graces shin'd in Thee,
Which from Heavns Treasuries He did select
To garnish out a worthy Spouse, in whose
Delicious eyes, his owne He meant to lose.

He was in love with ye Reflection
Of His owne Sweetnes shining in thy Face;
With Sympathetik Joy He dwelt upon
His iterated Selfe in that pure Glasse,
Striveing all amorous Arts on it to prove;
O blessed Soule wth whom Love fell in Love.

From off ye troubled Maine He lured Thee
Into a deeper Sea of calmest Pleasures,
The Bosome of Supreme Serenitie
To which ye Ocean is but poore in Treasures:
His owne dear Breast to Thee He opened wide,
And let Thee in unto its fullest Tide.

There didst Thou lie next to ye Heart of Love,
Whose ravishing imbraces kept Thee warme
With all ye best of Heavn, no more above,
But folded up in His incircling Arme:
Whence our admiring Thoughts, Great Saint, conclude,
Thou wert aforehand with Beatitude.

The loftiest Stories, where pure Seraphs dwell
Exalted in felicities bright Sphear,
Thy dainty Habitation doth excell;
For at His Footstoole They lie prostrate there
Amidst ye Sweets of whose all-balmy Breast
Thine onely Head makes its Delicious Nest.

What potent Joyes, what mysticall Delight,
Woo'd & beseig'd thy Soule on every side,
Whilst thy inamour'd Spouse spent all ye might
Of Heavnly tendernes on his deare Bride!
How many healing wounds gave His Loves Dart,
How many living Deaths to thy soft Heart.

Thus while He lived, He sweetly live'd in Thee:
But now He dyes: Behold Him nayled fast
Unto His Death. Yet no Mortalitie
Can seize upon His Love; observe his last
And tenderest words, whilst He Himselfe doth dy,
To Thee He gives Loves living Legacie.

Into His Dearest Mothers Bosome Hee
Commendeth Thee, & bids Her owne her Son!
What Nature could not, Love commands to be,
And Mary must be Mother unto John.
Jesus & John love had so closely tyde,
That in their Mother They must not divide.

Mary no other Glasse could find, where Shee
So fair an Image of her Son might read;
Nor John so pure a Mirrour, wherin Hee
His ever-looking-longing eyes might feed
On His dear Lord. Thus Love, though dead & gone,
Sweetly leaves John his Spouse, Mary her Son.

No wonder, dearest Saint, yt on Thy Toung
Love builds his Hive, & drops his Honey thence,
Whilst thy Soule-charming Words relish so strong
Of Heavns best Sweets, & choicest influence:
That Love, from his owne Wing lent Thee ye quill
Which all thy Lines wth Charity doth fill.

No wonder yt Port Latin saw ye Oile
Scalding in vaine: Thou, who dost live by Fire,
And in whose Breast such amorous streams doe boile,
Canst feele no other Flames. O, no: some higher
Fervor of Love must melt thine owne, & send
Thee to ye flaming Bosome of thy Friend.

The languishments of never-faint Desire
Must crowne thy Life with correspondent Death:
Though by sharp pains thy Brethren doe expire,
This dainty Martyrdome must end ye Breath
Of ye BELOVE'D DISCIPLE; onely by
Those Flames the Phenix lived, must it dy.





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