Tixall Poetry.
49
Then for my frend to die, whos worth I deeme
Beyond my owne, weire not for love of him,
But for preferring of my just esteeme.
Beyond my owne, weire not for love of him,
But for preferring of my just esteeme.
Now if self-murder be of sinnes the worst,
Self-hatred is of vice the most accurst,
And so self-love, of vertues, still the first.
Self-hatred is of vice the most accurst,
And so self-love, of vertues, still the first.
Love greater grows by how much more tis spy'd,
From self-love lesse remov'd, and more aly'd,
Or as the lov'd is more to th' lover ty'd.
From self-love lesse remov'd, and more aly'd,
Or as the lov'd is more to th' lover ty'd.
So man, then neihbor, next our kin apeare,
As sister, mother, wyfe, in order deare,
As more or lesse they to ourselves draw neare.
As sister, mother, wyfe, in order deare,
As more or lesse they to ourselves draw neare.
T' expresse our perfect'st love, we're us'd to cry,
My hart, my lyfe, my soule, my better I!
And what, I pray, but self-love meanes this My?
My hart, my lyfe, my soule, my better I!
And what, I pray, but self-love meanes this My?
Nay, in my purest thoughts, on God I call,
My Maker, Saviour, Comforter, my all,
And soaring highest down to self-love fall.
My Maker, Saviour, Comforter, my all,
And soaring highest down to self-love fall.
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