Philosophers have measured mountains,
Fathomed the depths of seas, of states, and kings,
Walked with a staff to heav’n, and tracèd fountains:
But there are two
vast, spacious things,
The which to measure it doth more behove;
Yet few there are that sound them, - Sin and Love.
Who would know Sin,
let him repair
Unto Mount Olivet; there shall he see
A Man so wrung with pains, that all his hair,
His skin, his
garments bloody be.
Sin is that press and vice, which forceth pain
To hunt his cruel food through ev’ry vein.
Who knows not Love,
let him assay
And taste that juice which on the cross a pike
Did set again abroach; then let him say
If ever he did taste
the like. Love is that liquor, sweet and most divine,
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