Upon A Scar In A Virgin's Face.

As sunbeams pierce the glass, and streaming in,
No crack or schism leave i' th' subtle skin:
So the Divine Hand worked and brake no thread,
But, in a mother, kept a maidenhead.

The shame of man's face is no more
Than prayers repell'd, says Cassiodore.

'Twas but a single rose,
Till you on it did breathe;
But since, methinks, it shows
Not so much rose as wreath.

God then confounds man's face when He not bears
The vows of those who are petitioners.

God scourgeth some severely, some He spares;
But all in smart have less or greater shares.

Do with me, God, as Thou didst deal with John,
Who writ that heavenly Revelation.
Let me, like him, first cracks of thunder hear,
Then let the harps enchantments stroke mine ear:
Here give me thorns, there, in Thy kingdom, set
Upon my head the golden coronet;
There give me day; but here my dreadful night:
My sackcloth here; but there my stole of white.