THE MISTAKE
When on fair Celia I did spy
A wounded heart of stone,
The wound had almost made me cry.
Sure this heart was my own!
But when I saw it was enthroned
In her celestial breast,
O then I it no longer own'd,
For mine was ne 'er so blest.
Yet, if in highest heavens do shine,
Each constant martyr's heart,
Then she may well give rest to mine,
That for her sake doth smart;
Where, seated in so high a bliss,
Though wounded, it shall live;
Death enters not in Paradise,
The place free life doth give.
When on fair Celia I did spy
A wounded heart of stone,
The wound had almost made me cry.
Sure this heart was my own!
But when I saw it was enthroned
In her celestial breast,
O then I it no longer own'd,
For mine was ne 'er so blest.
Yet, if in highest heavens do shine,
Each constant martyr's heart,
Then she may well give rest to mine,
That for her sake doth smart;
Where, seated in so high a bliss,
Though wounded, it shall live;
Death enters not in Paradise,
The place free life doth give.
Or if the place less sacred were,
Did but her saving eye
Bathe my sick heart in one kind tear,
Then should I never die.
Slight balms may heal a slighter sore,
No medicine less divine
Can ever hope for to restore
A wounded heart like mine.
Thomas Carew.
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