By John Donne.
By miracles exceeding power of man,
He faith in some, envy in some begat,
For, what weake
spirits admire, ambitious hate:
In both affections many to him ran,
But Oh! the
worst are most, they will and can,
Alas, and do, unto the
immaculate,
Whose creature
Fate is, now prescribe a
Fate,
Measuring selfe-life's
infinity to a span,
Nay to an
inch. Loe, where
condemned he
Bears his own
cross, with
pain, yet by and by
When it bears him, he must bear more and die;
Now thou art lifted up,
draw me to thee,
And at thy
death giving such
liberal dole,
Moist, with one drop of thy blood, my dry soule.
Back to La Corona.