What if this present were the world's last night?
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
Whether that countenance can thee affright
Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light
Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell
Which prayed forgiveness for his foes' fierce spite?
No, no; but as in my idolatry
I said to all my profane mistresses
Beauty, of pity, foulness only is
A sign of rigour: so I say to thee
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned
This beauteous form assures a piteous mind