By John Donne.
Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise,
Weav'd in my low devout
melancholy,
Thou which of good, hast, yea art treasury,
All changing unchanged Ancient of days,
But do not, with a vile crown of frail
bays,
Reward my muse's white sincerity,
But what thy thorny crown gained, that give me,
A crown of
Glory, which doth flower always;
The ends crown our works, but thou crown'st our ends,
For at our end begins our endlesse rest,
The first last end, now
zealously possest,
With a strong sober
thirst, my
soul attends.
'Tis time that
heart and voice be lifted high,
Salvation to all that will is nigh.
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