The Second Decade. Sonnet IX. Sweet hand! the sweet but cruel bow thou art!

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

SWEET hand! the sweet but cruel bow thou art!

From whence at me five ivory arrows fly;

So with five wounds at once I wounded lie,

Bearing my breast the print of every dart.

Saint FRANCIS had the like; yet felt no smart,

Where I in living torments never die.

His wounds were in his hands and feet; where I

All these five helpless wounds feel in my heart.

Now, as Saint FRANCIS, if a Saint am I,

The bow that shot these shafts a relic is.

I mean the hand, which is the reason why

So many for devotion thee would kiss:

And some thy glove kiss, as a thing divine;

This arrows’ quiver, and this relic’s shrine.