POSTHUMOUS POEMS
Where truth makes head against the violent world—
If you do this: yea, men will violate
Things hidden with securest insolence;
So that between the slayer's bearded mouth
And the chaste lip of reverence there will be
Even such communion as the traitor's kiss,
A present lie for ever.
Cel.Ay, woe's me,
A lie to say—a very bitter lie
To take upon the tongue we pray withal.
Alas, sir, while God keeps us scant of grace,
The body and the body's frail thin sense
Is liable to most dangerous attributes,
Is vulnerable to any sword of sins,
To any craft of Satan's; we should think
We are made of most frail body and weak soul
Mere tools for diabolic usages,
For ministration of man's enemy
Whom God confound! nathless it hath been kept
I say, sir, there be men have seldom sinned
Since the pure vow made clean their fleshly lips:
To God ascribe the praise, my son, not me;
Yea, be it written for me in God's book
What have I done—whereof I take but blame
Seeing there is no profit in me, none,
Nor in my service: verily I think
The keeper of God's house is more than I,
Who have but served him these hoar eighty years
If you do this: yea, men will violate
Things hidden with securest insolence;
So that between the slayer's bearded mouth
And the chaste lip of reverence there will be
Even such communion as the traitor's kiss,
A present lie for ever.
Cel.Ay, woe's me,
A lie to say—a very bitter lie
To take upon the tongue we pray withal.
Alas, sir, while God keeps us scant of grace,
The body and the body's frail thin sense
Is liable to most dangerous attributes,
Is vulnerable to any sword of sins,
To any craft of Satan's; we should think
We are made of most frail body and weak soul
Mere tools for diabolic usages,
For ministration of man's enemy
Whom God confound! nathless it hath been kept
I say, sir, there be men have seldom sinned
Since the pure vow made clean their fleshly lips:
To God ascribe the praise, my son, not me;
Yea, be it written for me in God's book
What have I done—whereof I take but blame
Seeing there is no profit in me, none,
Nor in my service: verily I think
The keeper of God's house is more than I,
Who have but served him these hoar eighty years
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