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THese Eyes (deare Lord) once Tapers of Desire,
Fraile Scouts betraying what they had to keep,
Which their own heart, then others set on fire,
Their trait'rous black before thee here out-weep;
These Locks of blushing deeds, the gilt attire,
Waves curling, wrackfull shelves to shadow deep,
Rings wedding Soules to Sins lethargick sleep,
To touch thy sacred Feet do now aspire.
In Seas of care behold a sinking Barke,
By winds of sharpe remorse unto thee driven,
O let me not be Ruines aym'd at marke,
My faults confest (Lord) say they are forgiven.
Thus sigh'd to Jesus the Bethanian faire,
His teare-wet Feet still drying with her Haire.