The Coronet
When
for
the
Thorns
with
which
I
long,
too
long,
With
many
a
piercing
wound,
My
Saviours
head
have
crown'd,
I
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
Towers
That
once
adorn'd
my
Shepherdesses
head.
And
now
when
I
have
summ'd
up
all
my
store,
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
That,
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
them,
And
mortal
Glory,
Heavens
Diadem!
But
thou
who
only
could'st
the
Serpent
tame,
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
dost
tread,
May
crown
thy
Feet,
that
could
not
crown
thy
Head.
