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Hfc Holy Sonset*.
What if this present were the world's last night?
Mark in my heart, O Soul! where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucify'd, and tell
Whether his countenance can thee affright;
Tears in his eyes quench the ama2ing light;
Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierc'd head fell.
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell
Which pray'd forgiveness for his foes' fierce spite?
No, no; but as in my idolatry
I said to all my profane mistresses, W
Beauty'of pity, foulness only is
A sign of rigour, so I say to thee:
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign'd;
This beauteous form assumes a piteous mind. 14
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 f admit you, but, oh! to no end:
Reason, your viceroy' in me, we should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue;
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'dfain,.
But am betroth'd unto your enemy. t0
164 HOLY SONNETS.
Was fiom the world's beginning slain, and he
Vengeance will sit above our faults; but till
We see her not nor them. Thus blind, yet still
Enough we labour under age and care:
(Strange thing!) perceive not; our faults are not seen,
But we know ourselves least; mere outward shows
Our minds so store,
That our souls, no more than our eyes, disclose
But form and colour: only he who knows
Himself knows more. 2*