The mistake.

WHen on fairo Celia I did spie,
A wounded hēart of stone,
The wound had almost made me cry,
Sure this heart was my owne.

But when I saw it was enthron'd,
In her celestiall brest:
O then I it no longer own'd,
For mine was ne're so blest.

Yet if in highest heavens doe shine,
Each constant Martyrs heart:
Then shee may well give rest to mint,
That for her sake doth smart.

Where seated in so high a blisse,
Though wounded it shall live:
Death enters not in Paradise,
The place free life doth give.

Or if the place lesse sacred were,
Did but her saving eye▪
Bath my sicke heart in one kind teare▪
Then should I never dye.

Slight balmes may heale a slighter sore,
No medicine lesse divine,
Can ever hope for to restore,
A wounded heart like mine.