Immensitie cloysterd in thy deare wombe,
Now leaves his welbelov'd imprisonment,
There he hath made himselfe to his intent,
Weake enough, now into our world to come,
But Oh, for thee, for him, hath th'inne no roome?
Yet lay him in this stall, and from the Orient,
Starres and wisemen will travell to prevent
Th'effect of Herod's jealous generall doome.
Seest thou, my Soule, with thy faiths eyes, how he
Which fils all place, yet none holds him, doth lye?
Was not his pity toward thee wondrous high,
That would have need to be pittied by thee?
Kisse him, and with him into Egypt goe,
With his kinde mother who partakes thy woe.
—John Donne, The Prince of Poets
Now leaves his welbelov'd imprisonment,
There he hath made himselfe to his intent,
Weake enough, now into our world to come,
But Oh, for thee, for him, hath th'inne no roome?
Yet lay him in this stall, and from the Orient,
Starres and wisemen will travell to prevent
Th'effect of Herod's jealous generall doome.
Seest thou, my Soule, with thy faiths eyes, how he
Which fils all place, yet none holds him, doth lye?
Was not his pity toward thee wondrous high,
That would have need to be pittied by thee?
Kisse him, and with him into Egypt goe,
With his kinde mother who partakes thy woe.
—John Donne, The Prince of Poets
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