The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/The Agonie
For works with similar titles, see Agony.
¶ The Agonie.
PHilosophers have measur'd mountains,Fathom'd the depths of seas, of states, and kings,Walk'd with a staffe to heav'n, and traced fountains:But there are two vast, spacious things,The which to measure it doth more behove:Yet few there are that sound them; Sinne and Love.
Who would know Sinne, let him repairUnto mount Olivet; there shall he seeA man so wrung with pains, that all his hair,His skinne, his garments bloudie be.Sinne is that presse and vice, which forceth painTo hunt his cruell food through ev'ry vein.
Who knows not Love, let him assayAnd taste that juice, which on the crosse a pikeDid set again abroach; then let him sayIf ever he did taste the like.Love is that liquour sweet and most divine,Which my God feels as bloud; but I, as wine.