When for the thorns with which I long, too long, With many a piercing wound, My Saviour's head have crown'd, I seek with garlands to redress that wrong: Through every garden, every mead, I gather flowers -- (my fruits are only flowers), Dismantling all the fragrant towers [99] That once adorn'd my shepherdesse's head: And now, when I have summ'd up all my store, Thinking, (so I myself deceive), So rich a chaplet thence to weave As never yet the King of Glory wore: Alas! I find the Serpent old, That, twining-in his speckled breast, About the flowers disguised, does fold With wreaths of fame and interest. Ah, foolish man, that would'st debase with them, And mortal glory, Heaven's diadem! -- But Thou Who only could'st the Serpent tame, Either his slippery knots at once untie, And disentangle all his winding snare; Or shatter too, with him, my curious frame [100] , And let these wither -- so that he may die -- Though set with skill, and chosen out with care: That they, while Thou on both their spoils dost tread, May crown Thy feet, that could not crown Thy head. Footnotes: [99] towers, garlands to crown a girl [100] frame, his own ingenious poetry |