When for the Thorns with which I long, too long, <br />With many a piercing wound, <br />My Saviours head have crown'd, <br />I seek with Garlands to redress that Wrong: <br />Through every Garden, every Mead, <br />I gather flow'rs (my fruits are only flow'rs) <br />Dismantling all the fragrant Towers <br />That once adorn'd my Shepherdesses head. <br />And now when I have summ'd up all my store, <br />Thinking (so I my self deceive) <br />So rich a Chaplet thence to weave <br />As never yet the king of Glory wore: <br />Alas I find the Serpent old <br />That, twining in his speckled breast, <br />About the flow'rs disguis'd does fold, <br />With wreaths of Fame and Interest. <br />Ah, foolish Man, that would'st debase with them, <br />And mortal Glory, Heavens Diadem! <br />But thou who only could'st the Serpent tame, <br />Either his slipp'ry knots at once untie, <br />And disintangle all his winding Snare: <br />Or shatter too with him my curious frame: <br />And let these wither, so that he may die, <br />Though set with Skill and chosen out with Care. <br />That they, while Thou on both their Spoils dost tread, <br />May crown thy Feet, that could not crown thy Head.<br /><br />Andrew Marvell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-coronet/
