Page:The Sacred Books and Early Literature of the East, Volume 08.djvu/86



Sure of Thy grace, for sins why need I fear?

How can the pilgrim faint whilst Thou art near?

On the last day Thy grace will wash me white,

And make my "black record " to disappear.

Think not I dread from out the world to hie,

And see my disembodied spirit fly;

I tremble not at death, for death is true,

'Tis my ill life that makes me fear to die!

Let us shake off dull reason's incubus,

Our tale of days or years cease to discuss,

And take our jugs, and plenish them with wine,

Or e'er grim potters make their jugs of us!

How much more wilt thou chide, O raw divine,

For that I drink, and am a libertine?

Thou hast thy weary beads, and saintly show,

Leave me my cheerful sweetheart, and my wine!

Against my lusts I ever war, in vain,

I think on my ill deeds with shame and pain;

I trust Thou wilt assoil me of my sins,

But even so, my shame must still remain.

In these twin compasses, O Love, you see

One body with two heads, like you and me,

Which wander round one center, circlewise,

But at the last in one same point agree.