The Coronet
- 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,
- 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)
- 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,
- 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,
- 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,
- May crown thy Feet, that could not crown thy Head.
- --oOo-- -