Dost thou not in pride and scorn
Fill with tempests all my morn,
And with jealousies and fears?—
And fill my pleasant nights with tears?
O'er my sins thou dost sit and moan:
Hast thou no sins of thine own?
O'er my sins thou dost sit and weep
And lull thine own sins fast asleep.
Thy weeping thou shalt ne'er give o'er;
I sin against thee more and more,
And never will from sin be free
Till thou forgive and come to me.
What transgressions I commit
Are for thy transgressions fit,—
They thy harlots, thou their slave;
And my bed becomes their grave.
Seven of my sweet loves thy knife
Hath bereaved of their life:
Their marble tombs I built, with tears
And with cold and shadowy fears.
Seven more loves weep night and day
Round the tombs where my loves lay,
And seven more loves attend at night
Around my couch with torches bright.
And seven more loves in my bed
Crown with vine my mournful head;
Pitying and forgiving all
Thy transgressions, great and small.
