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The Church.
¶ The Search.
Whither, O, whither art thou fled,
My Lord, my Love?
My searches are my daily bread;
Yet never prove.
My Lord, my Love?
My searches are my daily bread;
Yet never prove.
My knees pierce th'earth, mine eies the skie;
And yet the sphere
And centre both to me denie
That thou art there.
And yet the sphere
And centre both to me denie
That thou art there.
Yet can I mark how herbs below
Grow green and gay;
As if to meet thee they did know,
While I decay.
Grow green and gay;
As if to meet thee they did know,
While I decay.
Yet can I mark how starres above
Simper and shine,
As having keyes unto thy love,
While poore I pine.
Simper and shine,
As having keyes unto thy love,
While poore I pine.
I sent a sigh to seek thee out,
Deep drawn in pain,
Wing'd like an arrow: but my scout
Returns in vain.
Deep drawn in pain,
Wing'd like an arrow: but my scout
Returns in vain.
I tun'd another (having store)
Into a grone;
Because the search was dumbe before:
But all was one.
Into a grone;
Because the search was dumbe before:
But all was one.
Lord, dost thou some new fabrick mold
Which favour winnes,
And keeps the present, leaving th' old
Unto their sinnes?
Which favour winnes,
And keeps the present, leaving th' old
Unto their sinnes?
Where
