The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/Dulnesse
¶ Dulnesse.
WHy do I languish thus, drooping and dull,As if I were all earth?O give me quicknesse, that I may with mirthPraise thee brim-full!
The wanton lover in a curious strainCan praise his fairest fair;And with quaint metaphors her curled hairCurl o're again.
Thou art my lovelinesse, my life, my light,Beautie alone to me:Thy bloudy death and undeserv'd, makes theePure red and white.
When all perfections as but one appeare,That those thy form doth show,The very dust, where thou dost tread and go,Makes beauties here.
Where are my lines then? my approaches? views?Where are my window-songs?Lovers are still pretending, & ev'n wrongsSharpen their Muse.
But I am lost in flesh, whose sugred lyesStill mock me, and grow bold:Sure thou didst put a minde there, if I couldFinde where it lies.
Lord, cleare thy gift, that with a constant witI may but look towards thee:Look onely; for to love thee, who can be,What angel fit?