Classic Poem

Sonet 2.

Sweet hand the sweet (yet cruell) bowe thow art
From whence at me fiue ivorye arrowes flye
So with fiue wounds at once I wounded lye
Bearing in breast the print of euery dart

Saynt Francis had the like yet felt no smart
Where I in liuing torments neuer dye
His wounds were in his hands and feete where I
All these same helplesse wounds feele in my hearte

Now (as Saint Francis ) if a Saint am I
The bow which shotte these shafts a relique is
I meane the hand which is the reason why
So many for devotion thee would kisse
And I thy gloue kisse as a thinge devine
Thy arrowes quiver and thy reliques shrine.