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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

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Was fiom the world's beginning slain, and he
Hath made two willswhich, with the legacy
Of his and thy kingdom, thy sons invest:
Vet such are these laws, that men argue yet
Whether a man those statutes can fulfill:
None doth; but thy all.healing grace and Spirit
Revive again what law and letter kill.
Thy law's abridgment and thy last command
Is all but love; O, let this last will stand 1



Vengeance will sit above our faults; but till
She there to sit

We see her not nor them. Thus blind, yet still
We lead her way; and thus whilst we do ill
We suffer it.

Unhappy he whom yauth makes not beware
Of doing ill:

Enough we labour under age and care:
In number th' errors of the last place are
The greatest still. 10

Yet we, that should the ill we now begin
As soon repent,

(Strange thing!) perceive not; our faults are not seen,
But past us; neither felt, but only in
The punishment.


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*

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