|
| Elegy |
| To a Lady whose chayne was lost |
| The Bracelet Armilla |
|
| Not that in colour it was like thy hayre [154] |
| (ffor armlets of that thou mayst let mee weare) |
| Not that thy hand it oft embrac'd and kist |
| (ffor so it had that good w.ch oft I mist) |
| Nor for that silly old Morality |
| That as those linkes are tyd, our hearts should bee |
| Mourne I that I thy seuenfold chayne haue lost, |
| Nor for the lucks sake, but the bitter cost |
| Oh shall 12 righteous Angels, w.ch as yet |
| No leauen of vile soader did admitt |
| Nor yet by any taint haue strayd or gon |
| ffrom the first state of theyr Creation |
| Angels w.ch heauen com̀„aunded to prouide |
| All things for mee, and bee my faythfull guide, |
| To gayne new frinds, t'appease greate enemyes |
| To comfort my soule when I lye or rise, |
| Shall these 12 Innocents, by thy severe |
| Sentence, Dread Iudge) my sinnes greate burden beare? |
| Shall they bee burnt, and in the fornace throwne |
| And punishd for offences, not theyr owne? |
| They saue not mee, they doe not ease my paynes |
| When as in Hell th'are burnd and ty'd in chaynes. |
| Were they but Crownes of France I cared not |
| ffor most of them theyr naturall countrys rott |
| I thinke possesseth, they come heere to vs |
| So leane, so pale, so lame, so ruinous. |
| And how-soe're French kings most Christian bee |
| Theyr Crownes ar circumcisd most iewishly
|
[CW: Or__] |