[] Richard Crashaw, 1646

Saint Mary Magdalene, or The Weeper [1]

Hail, sister springs!

Parents of sylver-footed rills!

Ever bubbling things!

hawing crystall! snowy hills,

5       Still spending never spent! I mean

Thy fair eyes, sweet MAGDALENE!

Heavens thy fair eyes be;

Heavens of ever-failling starres.

‘Tis seed-time still with thee

10     And starres thou sow’st, whose harvest dares

Promise the earth to counter shine

Whatever makes heavn’s forhead fine,

But we’are deceived all.

Starres indeed they are too true;

15     For they but seem to fall,

As Heavn’s other spangles doe.

It is not for our earth & us

To shine in Things so pretious.

Upwards thou dost weep.

20     Heavn’s bosome drinks the gentle stream,

Where th’milky rivers creep,

Thine floates above; & is the cream.

Waters above th’Heavns, what they be

We’are thaught best by thy THEARES & thee.

25     Every morn from hence

A brisk Cherub somthing sippes

Whose sacred influence

Addes sweetnes to his sweetest Lippes,

Then to his musik. And his song

30     Tasts of his Breakfast all day long.

When sorrow would be seen

In her brightest majesty

(For she is a Queen)

The is she drest by none but thee.

35     Then, & only then she weares

Her proudest pearles; I mean, thy TEARES.

The deaw no more will weep

The primrose’s pale cheek to deck,

The deaw no more will sleep

40     Nuzzel’d in the lilly’s neck;

Much rather would it be TEAR,

And leave them Both to tremble here.

There’s no need at all

That the balsom-sweating bough

45     So coyly should let fall

His med’cinable teares; for now

Nature hath learn’t to extract a deaw

More sovereign & sweet from you.

Yet let the poore drops weep

50     (Weeping is the ease of woe)

Softly let them creep,

Sad that they are vanquish’d so.

They, though to others no releife,

Balsom may be, for their own greife.

55     Such the maiden gemme

By the purpling vine put on,

Peeps from her parent stemme

And blushes at the bridegroomes sun.

This watry Blossom of they eyn

60     Ripe, will make the richer wine.

When some new bright Guest

Takes up among the starres a room,

And Heavn will make a feast,

Angels qith crystall violls come

65     And draw from these full eyes of thyne

Their master’s Water: their own wine.

Golden though he be,

Golden Tagus murmures tho;

Were his way by thee

70     Content & quiet he would goe.

So much more rich would he esteem

Thy sylver, then his golden streem.

Well does May that lyes

Smiling in thy cheeks, confesse

75     The April in thune eyes.

Mutual sweetnesse they expresse.

No April ere lent kinder showres,

Nor May return’d more faithfull flowres.

O cheeks! Bedds of chast loves

80     By your own showres seasonably dash’t.

Eyes! nests of milky doves

In your own wells decently washt.

O wit of love! that thus could place

Fountain & Garden in one face.

85     O sweet Contest; of woes

With loves, of teares with smiles disputing!

O fair, & Freindly Foes,

Each other kissing & confuting!

While rain & sunshine, Cheekes & Eyes

90     Close in kind contrarietyes.

But can these fair Flouds be

Freinds with the bosom fires that fill you!

Can so great flames agree

Aeternall Teares should thus distill thee!

95     O flouds, o fires! o suns, ô showres!

Mixt & made freinds by love’s sweet powres.

Twas his well-pointed dart

That digg’d these wells, & drest this wine;

And thaught the wounded HEART

100   The way into these weeping Eyn.

Vain loves avant! bold hands forbear!

The lamb hath dipp’t his white foot here.

And now where’er he strayes

Among the Galilean mountaines,

105   Or more unwellcome wayes,

He’s followed by two faithfull fountaines;

Two walking baths; two weeping motions;

Portable, & compendious oceans.

O Thou, thy lord’s fair store!

110   In thy rich & rare expenses,

Even when he show’d most poor,

He might provoke the wealth of Princes.

What Prince’s wanton’st pride e’re could

Wash with Sylver, wipe with gold?

115   Wo is that King, but he

Who calls’t his Crown to be call’d thine,

That thus can boast to be

Waited on by a wandrinfg mine,

A voluntary mint, that strowes

120   Warm sylver shoures where’er he goes!

O pretious Prodigall!

Fair spend-thrift of thy self! thy measure

(Merciless love!) is all.

Even to the last Pearle in thy threasure.

125   All places, Times, & objects be

Thy teare’s sweet opportunity.

Does the day-starre rise?

Still thy starres doe fall & fall;

Does day cloes his eyes?

130   Still the FOUNTAIN weeps for all.

Let night or day doe what they will,

Thou hast thy task; thou weepest still.

Does thy song lull the air;

Thy failling teares keep faithfull time.

135   Does thy sweet-breath’d prayer

Up in clouds of incense climb?

Still at each sigh, that is, each stop,

A bead, that is, A TEAR, does drop.

At these thy weeping gates,

140   (Watching their watry motion)

Each winged moment waits,

Takes his TEAR, & gets him gone.

By thine Ey’s tinct enobled thus

Time layes him up; he’s pretious.

145   Not, so long she lived,

Shall thy tomb report of thee;

But, so long as she greived,

Thus must we date thy memory.

Others by moments, months, & yeares

150  Measure their ages; thou, by TEARES.

So doe perfumes expire,

So sigh tormented sweets, opprest

With proud unpittying fires.

Such Teares the suffring Rose that’s vext

155  With ungentle flames does shed,

Sweating in a too warm bed.

Say, ye brigh brothers,

The fugitive sons of those fair Eyes

Your fruitfull mothers!

160   What make you here? what hopes can tice

You to be born? what cause can borrow

You from those nests of noble sorrow?

Whither away so fast?

For sure the sordid earth

165   Your Sweetne cannot tast

Nor does the dust deserve your birth.

Sweet, whither hast you then? o say

Why you trip so fast away?

We goe not to seek

170   The darlings of Auroras bed,

The rose’s modest Cheeck

Nor the violet’s humble head,

Though the Feild’s eyes to WEEPERS be

Because they want such TEARES as we.

175   Much lesse mean we to trace

The fortune of inferior gemmes,

Preferr’d to some proud face

Or perch’d upon fear’d Diadems.

Crown’d Heads are toyes. We goe to meet

180   A worthy object, our Lord’s FEET.

[]