Love, thou art absolute sole lord
Of life and death. To prove the word,
We’ll now appeal to none of all
Those thy old soldiers, great and tall,
Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down
With strong arms their triumphant crown;
Such as could with lusty breath
Speak loud into the face of death
Their great Lord’s glorious name; to none
Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne
For Love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat,
And see Him take a private seat;
Making His mansion in the mild
And milky soul of a soft child.
Scarce has she learnt to lisp the name
Of Martyr, yet she thinks it shame
Life should so long play with that breath
Which spent can buy so brave a death.
She never undertook to know
What death with love should have to do;
Nor has she e’er yet understood
Why to show love she should shed blood;
Yet though she cannot tell you why,
Scarce has she blood enough to make
A guilty sword blush for her sake;
Yet has she a heart dares hope to prove
How much less strong is death than love.
Be love but there, let poor six years
Be posed with the maturest fears
Man trembles at, you straight shall find
Love knows no nonage, nor the mind.
‘Tis love, not years or limbs, that can
Make the martyr or the man.
Love touched her heart, and lo it beats
High, and burns with such brave heats,
Such thirsts to die, as dares drink up
A thousand cold deaths in one cup.
Good reason, for she breathes all fire;
Her weak breast heaves with strong desire
Of what she may with fruitless wishes
Seek for amongst her mother’s kisses.
Since ’tis not to be had at home,
No home for hers confesses she
But where she may a martyr be.
She‘ll to the Moors and trade with them
For this unvalued° diadem.
She‘ll offer them her dearest breath,
With Christ’s name in ‘t, in change for death.
She‘ll bargain with them, and will give
Them God, teach them how to live
In Him; or, if they this deny,
For Him she‘ll teach them how to die.
So shall she leave amongst them sown
Her Lord’s blood, or at least her own.
Farewell then, all the world, adieu!
Teresa is no more for you.
Farewell, all pleasures, sports, and joys,
Never till now esteemed toys;
Farewell, whatever dear may be,
Mother’s arms, or father’s knee;
Farewell house and farewell home,
She’s for the Moors and martyrdom!
Sweet, not so fast! lo, thy fair Spouse
Whom thou seek’st with so swift vows
Calls thee back, and bids thee come
T’ embrace a milder martyrdom.
Blest powers forbid thy tender life
Should bleed upon a barbarous knife;
Or some base hand have power to rase
Thy breast’s chaste cabinet, and unease
A soul kept there so sweet; oh no,
Wise Heav’n will never have it so.
Thou art Love’s victim, and must die
A death more mystical and high; Into
Love’s arms thou shalt let fall
A still surviving funeral.
His is the dart must make the death
Whose stroke shall taste thy hallowed breath;
A dart thrice dipped in that rich flame
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