Nor thou, nor thy religion, dost control
  The amorousness of an harmonious soul;
  But thou wouldst have that love thyself:  as thou
  Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now. 
  Thou lov’st not, till from loving more thou free
  My soul:  who ever gives, takes liberty: 
    Oh, if thou car’st not whom I love,
      Alas, thou lov’st not me!

  Seal then this bill of my divorce to all
  On whom those fainter beams of love did fall;
  Marry those loves, which in youth scattered be
  On face, wit, hopes, (false mistresses), to thee. 
  Churches are best for prayer that have least light: 
  To see God only, I go out of sight;
    And, to ’scape stormy days, I choose
      An everlasting night

To do justice to this poem, the reader must take some trouble to enter into the poet’s mood.

It is in a measure distressing that, while I grant with all my heart the claim of his “Muse’s white sincerity,” the taste in—­I do not say of—­some of his best poems should be such that I will not present them.

Out of twenty-three Holy Sonnets, every one of which, I should almost say, possesses something remarkable, I choose three.  Rhymed after the true Petrarchian fashion, their rhythm is often as bad as it can be to be called rhythm at all.  Yet these are very fine.

  Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay? 
    Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste;
    I run to death, and death meets me as fast,
  And all my pleasures are like yesterday. 
  I dare not move my dim eyes any way,
    Despair behind, and death before doth cast
    Such terror; and my feeble flesh doth waste
  By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh. 
  Only them art above, and when towards thee
    By thy leave I can look, I rise again;
  But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
    That not one hour myself I can sustain: 
  Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
  And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.

  If faithful souls be alike glorified
    As angels, then my father’s soul doth see,
    And adds this even to full felicity,
  That valiantly I hell’s wide mouth o’erstride: 
  But if our minds to these souls be descried
    By circumstances and by signs that be
    Apparent in us—­not immediately[78]—­
  How shall my mind’s white truth by them be tried? 
    They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,
  And, style blasphemous, conjurors to call
  On Jesu’s name, and pharisaical
    Dissemblers feign devotioen.  Then turn,
  O pensive soul, to God; for he knows best
  Thy grief, for he put it into my breast.

  Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
    Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
    For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow,
  Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.