A faculty for woes[94] and innate gift. Fierce knife, from which experience sharp He borrows, While the Child hastes to grow the Man of Sorrows; Fierce knife, 'neath which Thou draw'st Thy golden breath, Advancing as 'twere 'neath the rod of Death. R. WI. VIRGO. Ne, pia, ne nimium, Virgo, permitte querelis: Haud volet, haud poterit natus abesse diu. Nam quid eum teneat? vel quae magis oscula vellet? Vestri illum indigenam quid vetet esse sinus? Quippe illis quae labra genis magis apta putentur? Quaeve per id collum dignior ire manus? His sibi quid speret puer ambitiosius ulmo, Quove sub amplexu dulcius esse queat? O quae tam teneram sibi vitis amicior ulmum Implicet, alternis nexibus immoriens? Cui circum subitis eat impatientior ulnis? Aut quae tam nimiis vultibus ora notet? Quae tam prompta puer toties super oscula surgat? Qua signet gemma nobiliore genam? Illa ubi tam vernis adolescat mitius auris, Tamve sub apricis pendeat uva jugis? Illi qua veniat languor tam gratus in umbra? Commodius sub quo murmure somnus agat? O ubi tam charo, tam casto in carcere regnet, Maternoque simul virgineoque sinu, Ille ut ab his fugiat, nec tam bona gaudia vellet? Ille ut in hos possit non properare sinus? Ille sui tam blanda sinus patrimonia spernet? Haeres tot factus tam bene deliciis? Ne tantum, ne Diva, tuis permitte querelis: Quid dubites? Non est hic fugitivus Amor. TRANSLATION. TO THE VIRGIN MARY, ON LOSING THE CHILD JESUS. Not, not too much, Virgin, to plaints give way; Nor will, nor can, thy Son long from thee stay. Why should He? Where so love to be carest? What could prevent His nestling in thy breast? What lips more suited to those cheeks divine? What hand to clasp that neck more fit than thine? What could He hope more clinging than these arms? Or what embraces e'er possess such charms? What kindlier vine its tender elm around Could twine, in mutual folds e'en dying found? To whom with sudden arms more eager go? Who on this face such yearning glances throw? Where 'mid such quick-rain'd kisses could He wake?' Whence His prest cheek a nobler ruby take? Where could that grape ripen in airs more mild, Or hang 'neath hills where suns so sweetly smil'd? Where could such grateful languor o'er Him creep, Or what more soothing murmur lull to sleep? Where could He reign in nook so chaste, so dear, As in this Mother's, Virgin's bosom here? Could He fly hence, and such blest joys decline, And could He help hastening to breast of thine? This balmy bosom's heritage not share, Of such delights so easily made heir? Nay, Lady, nay; thy loud complainings stay; Be cheer'd: this is no Love that flies away. R. WI. APOCALYPSE XII. 7.