The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/Grief
For works with similar titles, see Grief.
¶ Grief.
O Who will give me tears? Come all ye springs,Dwell in my head and eyes: come clouds, & rain:My grief hath need of all the watry things,That nature hath produc'd. Let ev'ry veinSuck up a river to supply mine eyes,My weary weeping eyes too drie for me,Unlesse they get new conduits, new suppliesTo bear them out, and with my state agree.What are two shallow foords, two little spoutsOf a lesse world? the greater is but small,A narrow cupboard for my griefs and doubts,Which want provision in the midst of all.Verses, ye are too fine a thing, too wiseFor my rough sorrows: cease, be dumbe and mute,Give up your feet and running to mine eyes,And keep your measures for some lovers lute,Whose grief allows him musick and a ryme:For mine excludes both measure, tune, and time.Alas, my God!