The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/Confession
For works with similar titles, see Confession.
¶ Confession.
O What a cunning guestIs this same grief! within my heart I madeClosets, and in them many a chest;And, like a master in my trade,In those chests, boxes; in each box, a till:Yet grief knows all, and enters when he will.
No scrue, no piercer canInto a piece of timber work and winde,As Gods afflictions into man,When he a torture hath design'd.They are too subtill for the subt'llest hearts;And fall, like rheumes, upon the tendrest parts.
We are the earth; and they,Like moles within us, heave, and cast about:And till they foot and clutch their prey,They never cool, much lesse give out.No smith can make such locks but they have keyes:Closets are halls to them; and hearts, high-wayes.
Onely an open breastDoth shut them out, so that they cannot enter;Or, if they enter, cannot rest,But quickly seek some new adventure.Smooth open hearts no fastning have; but fictionDoth give a hold and handle to affliction.
Wherefore my faults and sinnes,Lord, I acknowledge; take thy plagues away:For since confession pardon winnes,I challenge here the brightest day,The clearest diamond: let them do their best,They shall be thick and cloudie to my breast.