by Andrew Marvell
When for the Thorns with which I long, too
With many a piercing wound,
My Saviour's head have crown'd,
seek with Garlands to redress that Wrong:
Through every Garden, every Mead,
I gather flow'rs (my fruits are only flow'rs)
Dismantling all the fragrant
That once adorn'd my Shepherdess's head.
And now when I have summ'd up all my
Thinking (so I my self deceive)
So rich a Chaplet thence to weave
As never yet the king of Glory wore:
Alas I find the Serpent old
twining in his speckled breast,
About the flow'rs disguis'd does fold,
With wreaths of Fame and Interest.
Ah, foolish Man, that would'st debase with
And mortal Glory, Heavens Diadem!
But thou who only could'st the
Either his slipp'ry knots at once untie,
And disintangle all
his winding Snare:
Or shatter too with him my curious frame:
And let these
wither, so that he may die,
Though set with Skill and chosen out with Care.
That they, while Thou on both their Spoils
May crown thy Feet, that could not crown thy Head.