| WHEN for the Thorns with which I long, too long, | |
| With many a piercing wound, | |
| My Saviours head have crown'd, | |
| I seek with Garlands to redress that Wrong: | |
| Through every Garden, every Mead, | 5 |
| I gather flow'rs (my fruits are only flow'rs) | |
| Dismantling all the fragrant Towers | |
| That once adorn'd my Shepherdesses head. | |
| And now when I have summ'd up all my store, | |
| Thinking (so I my self deceive) | 10 |
| 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 flow'rs disguis'd does fold, | 15 |
| With wreaths of Fame and Interest. | |
| Ah, foolish Man, that would'st debase with them, | |
| And mortal Glory, Heavens Diadem! | |
| But thou who only could'st the Serpent tame, | |
| Either his slipp'ry knots at once untie, | 20 |
| And disintangle all his winding Snare: | |
| Or shatter too with him my curious frame: | |
| 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, | 25 |
| May crown thy Feet, that could not crown thy Head. | |
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