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Holy Sonnet I.



Tho has made me, and shall thy work decay?



Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste;



I run to death, and death meets me as fast,



And all my pleasures are like yesterday.



I dare not move my dim eyes any way,



Despair behind, and death before doth cast



Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste



By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.



Only thou art above, and when towards thee



By thy leave I can look, I rise again;



But our old subtle foe so tempteth me



That not one hour myself I can sustain.



Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,



And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.



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Holy Sonnet 2.



As due by many titles I resign



My self to Thee, O God; first I was made



By Thee, and for Thee, and when I was decayed



Thy blood bought that, the which before was Thine;



I am Thy son, made with Thy Self to shine,



Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid,



Thy sheep, thine image, and, till I betrayed



My self, a temple of Thy Spirit divine;



Why doth the devil then usurp on me?



Why doth he steal, nay ravish that's thy right?



Except thou rise and for thine own work fight,



Oh I shall soon despair, when I do see



That thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,



And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.



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Holy Sonnet 3



O might those sighs and tears return again



Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent,



That I might in this holy discontent



Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourned in vain;



In mine Idolatry what showers of rain



Mine eyes did waste! what griefs my heart did rent!



That sufferance was my sin; now I repent;



'Cause I did suffer I must suffer pain.



Th' hydropic drunkard, and night-scouting thief,



The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud



Have the remembrance of past joys for relief



Of comming ills. To (poor) me is allowed



No ease; for long, yet vehement grief hath been



Th' effect and cause, the punishment and sin.



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Holy Sonnet 4



Oh my black soul! Now art thou summoned



By sickness, death's herald, and champion;



Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done



Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled;



Or like a thief, which till death's doom be read,



Wisheth himself delivered from prison,



But damned and haled to execution,



Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned.



Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack;



But who shall give thee that grace to begin?



Oh make thy self with holy mourning black,



And red with blushing, as thou art with sin;



Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might



That being red, it dyes red souls to white.



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Holy Sonnet 5



I am a little world made cunningly



Of elements and an angelic sprite,



But black sin hath betray'd to endless night



My world's both parts, and oh both parts must die.



You which beyond that heaven which was most high



Have found new spheres, and of new lands can write,



Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might



Drown my world with my weeping earnestly,



Or wash it, if it must be drown'd no more.



But oh it must be burnt; alas the fire



Of lust and envy have burnt it heretofore,



And made it fouler; let their flames retire,



And burn me O Lord, with a fiery zeal



Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal.



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Holy Sonnet 6



This is my play's last scene; here heavens appoint

My pilgrimage's last mile; and my race,



Idly, yet quickly run, hath this last pace,



My span's last inch, my minute's latest point;



And gluttonous death will instantly unjoint



My body and my soul, and I shall sleep a space;



But my'ever-waking part shall see that face



Whose fear already shakes my every joint.



Then, as my soul to'heaven, her first seat, takes flight,



And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell,



So fall my sins, that all may have their right,



To where they'are bred, and would press me, to hell.



Impute me righteous, thus purg'd of evil,



For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil.

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Holy Sonnet 7



At the round earth's imagined corners, blow



Your trumpets, Angels, and arise, arise



From death, you numberless infinities



Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,



All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,



All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,



Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes,



Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe.



But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space,



For, if above all these, my sins abound,



'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace,



When we are there; here on this lowly ground,



Teach me how to repent; for that's as good



As if thou hadst seal'd my pardon, with thy blood.



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Holy Sonnet 8



If faithful souls be alike glorified



As angels, then my father's soul doth see,



And adds this even to full felicity,



That valiantly I hell's wide mouth o'erstride:



But if our minds to these souls be descried



By circumstances, and by signs that be



Apparent in us, not immediately,



How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried?



They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,



And vile blasphemous conjurers to call



On Jesus name, and Pharisaical



Dissemblers feigne devotion. Then turn,



O pensive soul, to God, for he knows best



Thy true grief, for he put it in my breast.



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Holy Sonnet 9



If poisonous minerals, and if that tree



Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us,



If lecherous goats, if serpents envious



Cannot be damn'd, alas, why should I be?



Why should intent or reason, born in me,



Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous?



And mercy being easy, and glorious



To God, in his stern wrath why threatens he?



But who am I, that dare dispute with thee,



O God? Oh, of thine only worthy blood



And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood,



And drown in it my sins' black memory.



That thou remember them, some claim as debt;



I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.



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Holy Sonnet I0



Death be not proud, though some have called thee



Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,



For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,



Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.



From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,



Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,



And soonest our best men with thee do go,



Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.



Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,



And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,



And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,




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