Poem by Richard Crashaw

To the Infant Martyrs

Go, smiling souls, your new-built cages break,
In heaven you’ll learn to sing, ere here to speak,
Nor let the milky fonts that bathe your thirst
                                           Be your delay;
The place that calls you hence is, at the worst,
                                           Milk all the way.

1. On the Prodigal
2. On Mr. G. Herbert's Book
3. Satan
4. Charitas Nimia; or, The Dear Bargain
5. On the Miracle of the Multiplied Loaves

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