150
The first Booke of
Cant. X.
But after labors long, and sad delay,Bring them to ioyous rest and endlesse blis.But first thou must a season fast and pray,Till from her bands the spright assoiled is,And haue her strength recur'd from fraile infirmitis.
That done, he leads him to the highest Mount;Such one, as that same mighty man of God,That blood-red billowes like a walled frontOn either side disparted with his rod,Till that his army dry-foot through them yod,Dwelt forty daies vpon; where writt in stoneWith bloody letters by the hand of God,The bitter doome of death and balefull moneHe did receiue, whiles flashing fire about him shone.
Or like that sacred hill, whose head full hie,Adornd with fruitfull Oliues all arownd,Is, as it were for endlesse memoryOf that deare Lord, who oft thereon was fownd,For euer with a flowring girlond crownd:Or like that pleasaunt Mount, that is forayThrough famous Poets verse each where renownd,On which the thrise three learned Ladies playTheir heuenly notes, and make full many a louely lay.
From thence, far off he vnto him did shewA litle path, that was both steepe and long,Which to a goodly Citty led his vew;Whose wals and towres were builded high & strongOf perle and precious stone, that earthly tongCannot describe, nor wit of man can tell;Too high a ditty for my simple song:The Citty of the greate king hight it well,Wherein eternall peace and happinesse doth dwell.
As
