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HERE a little child I stand
Cold as paddocks though they be,Here I lift them up to Thee,For a benison to fallOn our meat and on us all. Amen.
Why I tie about thy wrist,
For what other reason ’tisBut to show thee how, in part,Thou my pretty captive art?But thy bond slave is my heart:’tis but silk that bindeth thee,Knap the thread and thou art free;But ’tis otherwise with me:-I am bound and fast bound, soThat from thee I cannot go;If I could, I would not so.
To gather flowers, Sappha went,
Within her lawny continent,The treasure of the Spring.She smiling blush’d, and blushing smiled,And sweetly blushing thus,She look’d as she’d been got with childBy young Favonius.Her apron gave, as she did pass,An odour more divine,More pleasing too, than ever wasThe lap of Proserpine.
In the hour of my distress,
And when I my sins confess,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!When I lie within my bed,Sick in heart, and sick in head,And with doubts discomforted,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!When the house doth sigh and weep,And the world is drown’d in sleep,Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!When the artless doctor seesNo one hope, but of…
All things decay with time: The forest sees
That timber tall, which three-score lustres stoodThe proud dictator of the state-like wood,I mean the sovereign of all plants, the oak,Droops, dies, and falls without the cleaver’s stroke.