AS I one evening sat before my cell, Me thoughts a starre did shoot into my lap. I rose, and shook my clothes, as knowing well, That from small fires comes oft no small mishap. When suddenly I heard one say, Do as thou usest, disobey, Expell good motions from thy breast, Which have the face of fire, but end in rest. I, who had heard of musick in the spheres, But not of speech in starres, began to muse: But turning to my God, whose ministers The starres and all things are; If I refuse, Dread Lord, said I, so oft my good; Then I refuse not evín with bloud To wash away my stubborn thought: For I will do or suffer what I ought. But I have also starres and shooters too, Born where thy servants both artilleries use. My tears and prayers night and day do wooe, And work up to thee; yet thou dost refuse. Not but I am (I must say still) Much more obligíd to do thy will, Then thou to grant mine: but because Thy promise now hath evín set thee thy laws. Then we are shooters both, and thou dost deigne To enter combate with us, and contest With thine own clay. But I would parley fain: Shunne not my arrows, and behold my breast. Yet if thou shunnest, I am thine: I must be so, if I am mine. There is no articling with thee: I am but finite, yet thine infinitely.
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