Sancta Maria Dolorvm, or the Mother of Sorrows

In shade of Death's sad treeStood dolefull shee.Ah she! now by none otherName to be known, alas, but Sorrow's Mother.Before her eyes,Her's, and the whole World's ioyes,Hanging all torn she sees; and in His woesAnd paines, her pangs and throes:Each wound of His, from euery part,All, more at home in her one heart.

What kind of marble, than,Is that cold manWho can look on and see,Nor keep such noble sorrowes company?Sure eu'en from you(My flints) some drops are due,To see so many unkind swords contestSo fast for one soft brest:While with a faithfull, mutuall floud,Her eyes bleed teares, His wounds weep blood.

O costly intercourseOf deaths, and worse--Diuided loues. While Son and motherDiscourse alternate wounds to one another,Quick deaths that growAnd gather, as they come and goe:His nailes write swords in her, which soon her heartPayes back, with more then their own smart.Her swords, still growing with His pain,Turn speares, and straight come home again.

She sees her Son, her God,Bow with a loadOf borrow'd sins; and swimmeIn woes that were not made for Him.Ah! hard commandOf loue! Here must she stand,Charg'd to look on, and with a stedfast eySee her life dy:Leauing her only so much breathAs serues to keep aliue her death.

O mother turtle-doue!Soft sourse of loue!That these dry lidds might borrowSomthing from thy full seas of sorrow!O in that brestOf thine (the noblest nestBoth of Loue's fires and flouds) might I reclineThis hard, cold heart of mine!The chill lump would relent, and proueSoft subject for the seige of Loue.

O teach those wounds to bleedIn me; me, so to readThis book of loues, thus writIn lines of death, my life may coppy itWith loyall cares.O let me, here, claim shares!Yeild somthing in thy sad praerogatiue(Great queen of greifes), and giueMe, too, my teares; who, though all stone,Think much that thou shouldst mourn alone.

Yea, let my life and meFix here with thee,And at the humble footOf this fair tree, take our eternall root.That so we mayAt least be in Loue's way;And in these chast warres, while the wing'd wounds fleeSo fast 'twixt Him and thee,My brest may catch the kisse of some kind dart,Though as at second hand, from either heart.

O you, your own best darts,Dear, dolefull hearts!Hail! and strike home, and make me seeThat wounded bosomes their own weapons be.Come wounds! come darts!Nail'd hands! and peirced hearts!Come your whole selues, Sorrow's great Son and mother!Nor grudge a yonger brotherOf greifes his portion, who (had all their due)One single wound should not haue left for you.

Shall I, sett thereSo deep a share(Dear wounds), and onely nowIn sorrows draw no diuidend with you?O be more wise,If not more soft, mine eyes!Flow, tardy founts! and into decent showresDissolue my dayes and howres.And if thou yet (faint soul!) desertTo bleed with Him, fail not to weep with her.

Rich queen, lend some releife;At least an almes of greifTo' a heart who by sad right of sinCould proue the whole summe (too sure) due to him.By all those stingsOf Loue, sweet-bitter things,Which these torn hands transcrib'd on thy true heart;O teach mine too the artTo study Him so, till we mixWounds, and become one crucifix.

O let me suck the wineSo long of this chast Vine,Till drunk of the dear wounds, I beA lost thing to the world, as it to me.O faithfull friendOf me and of my end!Fold vp my life in loue; and lay't beneathMy dear Lord's vitall death.Lo, heart, thy hope's whole plea! her pretious breathPour'd out in prayrs for thee; thy Lord's in death.