I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? were we not wean'd till then? But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den? 'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be; If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee. And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone; Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown; Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two better hemispheres Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally; If our two loves be one, or thou and I Love so alike that non can slacken, none can die.
All kings, and all their favourites, All glory of honours, beauties, wits, The sun itself, which makes time, as they pass, Is elder by a year now than it was When thou and I first one another saw. All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay; This no to-morrow hath, nor yesterday; Running it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day. Two graves must hide thine and my corse; If one might, death were no divorce. Alas! as well as other princes, we --Who prince enough in one another be-- Must leave at last in death these eyes and ears, Oft fed with true oaths, and with sweet salt tears; But souls where nothing dwells but love --All other thoughts being inmates--then shall prove This or a love increased there above, when bodies to their graves, souls from their graves remove. And then we shall be thoroughly blest; But now no more than all the rest. Here upon earth we're kings, and none but we Can be such kings, nor of such subjects be. Who is so safe as we? where none can do Treason to us, except one of us two. True and false fears let us refrain, Let us love nobly, and live, and add again Years and years unto years, till we attain To write threescore; this is the second of our reign.
A Hymn to God the Father
Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done, For I have more. Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin, and made my sin their door? Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallowed in a score? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done. For I have more. I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore: And, having done that, Thou hast done: I fear no more.
At the Round Earth's Imagined Corners
At the round earth's imagined corners blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go; All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom war, death, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you, whose eyes Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space; For if above all these my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace, When we are there. Here on this lowly ground, Teach me how to repent, for that's as good As if Thou hadst seal'd my pardon with Thy blood.
Batter my Heart
Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurp'd town, to another due, Labour to admit you, but O, to no end. Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captived, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain; But am bethroth'd unto your enemy; Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
O, My Black Soul
O, my black soul, now thou art summoned By sickness, Death's herald and champion; Thou'rt like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turn to whence he's fled; Or like a thief, which till death's doom be read, Wisheth himself deliver'd from prison, But damn'd and haled to execution, Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned. Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack; But who shall give thee that grace to begin? O, make thyself with holy mourning black, And red with blushing, as thou art with sin; Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might, That being red, it dyes red souls to white.