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ROBERT SOUTHWELL
With this He vanish’d out of sight
And swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I callèd unto mind
That it was Christmas Day.
And swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I callèd unto mind
That it was Christmas Day.
Give pardon blessèd soul, to my bold cries,
If they, importune, interrupt thy song,
Which now with joyful notes thou sing’st among
The angel-quiristers of th’ heavenly skies.
Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes,
That since I saw thee now it is so long,
And yet the tears that unto thee belong
To thee as yet they did not sacrifice.
I did not know that thou wert dead before,
I did not feel the grief I did sustain,
The greater stroke astonisheth the more,
Astonishment takes from us sense of pain,
I stood amazed when others’ tears begun,
And now begin to weep when they have done.
If they, importune, interrupt thy song,
Which now with joyful notes thou sing’st among
The angel-quiristers of th’ heavenly skies.
Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes,
That since I saw thee now it is so long,
And yet the tears that unto thee belong
To thee as yet they did not sacrifice.
I did not know that thou wert dead before,
I did not feel the grief I did sustain,
The greater stroke astonisheth the more,
Astonishment takes from us sense of pain,
I stood amazed when others’ tears begun,
And now begin to weep when they have done.
Love is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing,
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
All remedies refusing,
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
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