SAINT Peter's complaint.  
With other Poems.  
AT LONDON. Printed by I. R. for G. C. 1595.   

The Printer to the Gentlemen Readers.  
Having beheld (kind Gentlemen) the numberless judges of not to be reckoned labours, with what kind admiration you have entertained the Divine Complaint of holy Peter; and having in my hands certain especial Poems and divine Meditations, full as worthy belonging to the same, I thought it a charitable deed to give them life in your memories, which else should die in an obscure sacrifice, gently embrace them, gentle censurers of gentle endeavours: so shall you not be fantastic in diversity of opinions, nor contradict your resolves by denying your former judgements, but still be yourselves discreetly virtuous, nor could I other wish, but that the courteous reader of these labours, not having already bought Peter's Complaint, would not for so small a mite of money lose so rich a treasure of heavenly wisdom as these two Treatises should minister unto him, the one so needfully depending upon the other. One thing amongst the rest I am to admonish thee of, that having in this Treatise read Mary's visitation, the next that should follow is Christ's nativity, but being afore printed in the end of Peter's Complaint, we have here of purpose omitted; that thou shouldest not be abridged of that and the other like comforts which that other treatise proffereth thee.  
Yours (kind Gentlemen) in all his abilities. I. B.   

The Author to the Reader.  

Dear eye that dost peruse my Muse's style.  
With easy censure deem of my delight:  
Give soberest countenance leave sometime to smile,  
And gravest wits to take a breathing flight:  
Of mirth to make a trade may be a crime,  
But tired spirits for mirth must have a time.   

The lofty Eagle soars not still above,  
High flights will force her from the wing to stoop,  
And studious thoughts at times men must remove,  
Lest by excess before their time they droop.  
In courser studies 'tis a sweet repose,  
With Poets pleasing vain to temper prose.   

Profane conceits and feigning fits I fly,  
Such lawless stuff doth lawless speeches fit:  
With David verse to virtue I apply,  
Whose measure best with measured words doth fit:  
It is the sweetest note that man can sing,  
When grace in virtues key tunes nature's string.    

The Author to the Reader.  

Dear eye that daynest to let fall a look,  
On these sad memories of Peter's plaints:  
Muse not to see some mud in clearest brook,  
They once were brittle mould that now are Saints.  
Their weakness is no warrant to offend,  
Learn by their faults, what in thine own to mend.   

If equities even-hand the balance held,  
Where Peter's sins and ours were made the weights:  
Ounce, for his dram: Pound, for his Ounce we yield:  
His ship would groan to feel some sinners freightes.  
So ripe is vice, so green is virtues bud:  
The world doth wax in ill, but wain in good.   

This makes my mourning Muse resolve in tears,  
This themes my heavy pen to plain in prose,  
Christ's Thorn is sharp, no head his Garland wears:  
Still finest wits are stilling Venus' Rose.  
In paynim toys the sweetest veins are spent:  
To Christian works, few have their talents lent.   

Licence my single pen to seek a fere,  
You heavenly sparks of wit, show native light:  
Cloud not with misty loves your Orient clear,  
Sweet flights you shoot; learn once to level right.  
Favour my wish, well-wishing works no ill:  
I move the Suit, the Grant rests in your will.    

SAINT PETER'S Complaint.  

LAunch forth my Soul into a main of tears,  
Full fraught with grief the traffic of thy mind:  
Torn sails will serve, thoughts rend with guilty fears:  
Give care the stern: use sighs in am of wind:  
Remorse, thy Pilot: thy misdeed, thy Card?  
Torment thy Haven: Shipwreck, thy best reward.   

Eat not the shelf of most deserved shame:  
Stick in the sands of agonizing dread:  
Contènt thee to be storms and billows game:  
Divorced from grace thy soul to penance wed:  
Fly not from foreign evils, fly from thy heart:  
Worse than the worst of evils is that thou art.   

Give vent unto the vapours of thy breast,  
That thicken in the brims of cloudy eyes:  
Where sin was hatched, let tears now wash the nest:  
Where life was lost, recover life with cries.  
Thy trespass foul: let not thy tears be few:  
Baptize thy spotted soul in weeping dew.   

Fly mournful plaints, the Echoes of my ruth;  
Whose screeches in my freighted conscience ring:  
Sob out my sorrows, fruits of mine untruth:  
Report the smart of sins infernal sting.  
Tell hearts that languish in the soriest plight,  
There is on earth a far more sorry wight.   

A sorry wight, the object of disgrace,  
The monument of fear, the map of shame,  
The mirror of mishap, the stain of place,  
The scorn of time, the infamy of fame:  
An excrement of earth, to heaven hateful,  
Injurious to man, to God ungrateful.   

Ambitious heads dream you offortunes pride:  
Fill volumes with your forged Goddess praise.  
You fancies drudges, plunged in folly's tide:  
Devote your fabling wits to lovers lays:  
Be you o sharpest griefs, that ever wrung,  
Text to my thoughts, Theme to my plaining tongue.   

Sad subject of my sin hath stored my mind.  
With everlasting matter of complaint:  
My threnes an endless Alphabet do find,  
Beyond the pangs which jeremy doth paint.  
That eyes with errors may just measure keep,  
Most tears I wish that have most cause to weep.   

All weeping eyes resign your tears to me:  
A sea will scantly rinse my ordur'de soul:  
Huge horrors in high tides must drowned be,  
Of every tear my crime exacteth toll.  
These stains are deep: few drops, take out no such:  
Even salve with sore: and most, is not too much.   

I feared with life, to die; by death to live:  
I left my guide, now left, and leaving God.  
To breath in bliss, I feared my breath to give:  
I feared for heavenly reign, an earthly rod.  
These fears I feared, fears feeling no mishaps:  
O fond, o faint, o false, o faulty laps.   

How can I live, that thus my life denied?  
What can I hope, that lost my hope in fear?  
What trust to one, that truth itself defi'de?  
What good in him, that did his God forswear?  
O sin, of sins, of evils, the very worst:  
O matchless wretch: o caitiff most accursed.   

Vain in my vaunts I vowed if friends had failed  
Alone Christ's hardest fortunes to abide:  
Giant in talk, like dwarf, in trial quailed:  
Excelling none, but in untruth and pride.  
Such distance is between high words and deeds:  
In proof the greatest vaunter seldom speeds.   

Ah rashness hasty rise to murdering leap,  
Lavish in vowing, blind, in seeing what:  
Soon sowing shames, that long remorse must reap:  
nursing with tears, that oversight begat;  
Scout of repentance, harbinger of blame,  
Treason to wisdom, mother of ill name.   

The borneblind beggar, for received sight,  
Fast in his faith and love, to Christ remained,  
He stooped to no fear, he feared no might:  
No change his choice: no threats his truth distained.  
One wonder wrought him in his duty sure:  
I, after thousands did my Lord abjure.   

Can servile fear of rendering natures due,  
Which growth in years was shortly like to claim,  
So thrall my love, that I should thus eschew  
A vowed death, and miss so fair an aim?  
Die, die, disloyal wretch, thy life detest:  
For saving thine, thou hast forsworn the best.   

Ah life, sweet drop, drowned in a sea of sowers,  
A flying good, posting to doubtful end,  
Still losing months and years to gain new hours:  
Feign, time to have, and spare, yet forced to spend;  
Thy growth, decrease, a moment, all thou hast:  
That gone, ere known: the rest: to come, or past.   

Ah life, the maze of countless straying ways,  
Open to erring steps, and strowed with baits,  
To wind weak senses into endless strays,  
A loof from virtues rough unbeaten straits;  
A flower, a play, a blast, a shade, a dream,  
A living death, a never turning stream.   

And could I rate so high a life so base?  
Did fear with love cast so uneven account,  
That for this goal I should run judas race,  
And Caiphas rage in cruelty surmount?  
Yet they esteemed thirty pence his price,  
I, worse than both, for nought denied him thrice. 
Ma    

The mother sea from overflowing deeps,  
Sends forth her issue by divided veins:  
Yet back her offspring to their mother creeps,  
To pay their purest streams with added gains;  
But I that drunk the drops of heavenly flood,  
Bemyred the giver with returning mud.   

Is this the harvest of his sowing toil?  
Did Christ manure thy heart to breed him briars?  
Or doth it need this unaccustomd soil,  
With hellish dung to fertile heavens desires?  
No, no, the Marl that perjuries doth yield,  
May spoil a good, not fat a barren field.   

Was this for best deserts the duest meed?  
Are highest worths well wag'de with spiteful hire?  
Are stoutest vows repealed in greatest need?  
Should friendship at the first affront retire?  
Blush craven sot, lurk in eternal night:  
Crouch in the darkest caves from loathed light.   

Ah wretch, why was I named son of a dove,  
Whose speeches voided spite, and breathed gall?  
No kin I am unto the bird of love:  
My stony name much better suits my fall,  
My oaths were stones; my cruel tongue the sling:  
My God, the mark: at which my spite did fling.   

Were all the jewish tiranies too few,  
To glut thy hungry looks with his disgrace:  
That thou more hateful tyrannies must show:  
And spit thy poison in thy Maker's face?  
Didst thou to spare his foes put up thy sword:  
To brandish now thy tongue against thy Lord?   

Ah tongue, that didst his praise and Godhead sound,  
How wert thou stained with such detesting words  
That every word was to his heart a wound,  
And launst him deeper than a thousand sword?  
What rage of man, yea what infernal spirit,  
Can have disgorged more loathsome dregs of spite?   

Why did the yielding sea like marble way  
Support a wretch more wavering than the waves? 
Mat   
Whom doubt did plunge, why did the water stay,  
Unkind, in kindness; murdering, while it saves?  
O that this tongue had then been fishes food,  
And I devoured before this cursing mood.   

Their surges, depths, and seas unfirme by kind,  
Rough gusts, and distance both from ship and shore,  
Were titles to excuse my staggering mind,  
Stout feet might falter on that liquid floor.  
But here, no seas, no blasts, no billows were,  
A puff of woman's wind bred all my fear.   

O coward troops far better armed than hearted,  
Whom angry words, whom blows could not provoke, 
joh.   
Whom though I taught how sore my weapon smarted,  
Yet none repaid me with a wounding stroke.  
O no: that stroke could but one moiety kill,  
I was reserved both halves at once to spill.   

Ah, whether was forgotten love exiled?  
Where did the truth of pledged promise sleep?  
What in my thoughts begat this ugly child,  
That could through rent soul thus fircely creep?  
O viper, fear their death by whom thou livest,  
All good thy ruins wreck, all evils thou givest.   

Threats threw me not, torments I none assayed:  
My fray, with shades: conceits did make me yield,  
Wounding my thoughts with fears: selfely dismayed,  
I neither fought nor lost, I gave the field;  
Infamous foil: a Maidens easy breath  
Did blow me down, and blast my soul to death.   

Titles I make untruths, am I a rock?  
That with so soft a gale was overthrown?  
Am I fit Pastor for the faithful flock,  
To guide their souls, that murdered thus mine own?  
A rock of ruin, not a rest to stay,  
A Pastor, not to feed, but to betray.   

Fidelity was flown, when fear was hatched,  
Incompatible brood in virtues nest:  
Courage can less with cowardice be matched,  
Prowess nor love lodged in divided breast;  
O adam's child, cast by a silly Eve,  
Heir to thy Father's foils, and borne to grieve.   

In Thabors' joys I eager was to dwell,  
An earnest friend while pleasure's light did shine,  
But when eclipsed glory prostrate fell,  
These zealous heats to sleep I did resign;  
And now, my mouth hath thrice his name defiled,  
That cried so loud three dwellings there to build.   

When Christ attending the distressful hour,  
With his surcharged breast did bless the ground,  
Prostrate in pangs, raining a bleeding shower,  
Me, like myself, a drowsy friend he found;  
Thrice in his care, sleep closed my careless eye,  
Presage, how him my tongue should thrice deny.   

Parting from Christ my fainting force declined,  
With lingering foot I followed him a loof,  
Base fear out of my heart his love unshrind, 
Ma● Lu●   
Huge in high words, but impotent in proof;  
My vaunts did seem hatched under Sampsons' locks,  
Yet woman's words did give me murdering knocks.   

So far lukewarm desires in crazy love,  
far off in need with feeble foot they train:  
In tides they swim, low ebbs they scorn to prove,  
They seek their friends delights, but shun their pain.  
Hire of a hireling mind is earned shame:  
Take now thy due: bear thy begotten blame.   

Ah, cool remissness, virtues quartan fever,  
Pining of love, consumption of grace:  
Old in the cradle, languor dying ever,  
Souls wilful famine, sins soft stealing pace,  
The undermining evil of zealous thought,  
Seeming to bring no harms till all be brought.   

O portresse of the door of my disgrace;  
Whose tongue, unlocked the truth of vowed mind;  
Whose words, from cowards heart did courage chase,  
And let in deathful fears my soul to blind,  
O, hadst thou been the portresse to my tomb:  
When thou wert portresse to that cursed room.   

Yet love, was loath to part; fear, loath to die:  
Stay, danger life, did counterplead their causes:  
I favouring stay, and life, bad danger fly:  
But danger did except against these clauses.  
Yet stay, and live, I would, and danger shun:  
And lost myself, while I my verdict won.   

I stayed, yet did my staying farthest part:  
I lived; but so, that saving life, I lost it:  
Danger I shunned, but to my sorer smart:  
I gained nought, but deeper damage crossed it,  
What danger, distance, death is worse than this,  
That runs from God and spoils his soul of bliss?   

O john my guide into this earthly hell, 
16   
Too well acquainted in so ill a court,  
Where railing mouths with blasphemies did swell,  
With tainted breath infecting all resort.  
Why didst thou lead me to this hell of evils:  
To show myself a fiend among the devils?   

Evil precedent, the tide that wafts to vice,  
Dumb Orator, that woes with silent deeds,  
Writing in works lessons of ill advise,  
The doing tale that eye in practice reeds:  
Taster of joys: to unacquainted hunger:  
With leaven of the old seasoning the younger,   

It seems no fault to do that all have done:  
The number of offenders hides the sin:  
Coach drawn, with many horse doth easily run.  
Soon followeth one where multitudes begin.  
O, had I in that court much stronger been;  
Or not so strong as first to enter in.   

Sharp was the weather in that stormy place, 
Ioh   
Best suiting hearts benumbed with hellish frost,  
Whose crusted malice could admit no grace,  
Where coals were kindled to the warmer's cost.  
Where fear, my thoughts candied with icy cold:  
Heat, did my tongue to perjuries unfold.   

O hateful fire (ah that I ever saw it)  
Too hard my heart was frozen for thy force,  
far hotter flames it did require to thaw it,  
Thy hell resembling heat did freeze it worse.  
O that I rather had congealed to ice:  
Then bought thy warmth at such a damning price.   

O wakeful bird, proclaimer of the day,  
Whose piercing note doth daunt the Lion's rage: 
6.   
Thy crowing did myself to me bewray, 
4.   
My frights, and brutish heats it did assuage.  
But o, in this alone unhappy cock:  
That thou to count my foils wert made the clock.   

O bird, the just rebuker of my crime,  
The faithful waker of my sleeping fears:  
Be now the daily clock to strike the time,  
When stinted eyes shall pay their task of tears.  
Upbraid mine ears with thine accusing crow:  
To make me rue that first it made me know.   

O mild revenger of aspiring pride,  
Thou canst dismount high thoughts to low effects:  
Thou mad'st a cock me for my fault to chide,  
My lofty boasts this lowly bird corrects.  
Well might a cock correct me with a crow:  
Whom hennish cackling first did overthrow.   

Weak weapons did Goliath fumes abate, 
17.   
Whose storming rage did thunder threats in vain:  
His body huge harnessed with massy plate,  
Yet David's stone brought death into his brain.  
With staff and sling as to a dog he came:  
And with contempt did boasting fury tame.   

Yet David had with Bear and Lion fought,  
His skilful might excused Goliath foil:  
The death is eased that worthy hand hath wrought,  
Some honour lives in honourable spoil.  
But I on whom all infamies must light:  
Was hisd to death with words of women's spite.   

Small gnats enforced th'Egyptian king to stoop,  
Yet they in swarms and armed with piercing stings: 
Exod●   
Smart, noise, annoyance, made his courage droop,  
No small encumbrance such small vermin brings:  
I quailed at words that neither bit nor stoung,  
And those delivered from a woman's tongue.   

Ah fear, abortive imp of drooping mind:  
Self overthrow; false friend; root of remorse:  
Sighted, in seeing evils; in shunning blind;  
Foiled without field; by fancy not by force;  
Ague of valour; frenzy of the wise;  
True honours stain; loves frost; the mint of lies.   

Can virtue, wisdom, strength by women spilled  
In David's, salomon's and Sampsons' falls, 
2. R● 3. R● Iud●   
With semblance of excuse my error gild,  
Or lend a marble gloze to muddy walls?  
O no their fault had show of some pretence,  
No veil can hide the shame of my offence.   

The blaze of beauty's beams allured their looks,  
Their looks, by seeing oft, conceived love:  
Love, by affecting, swallowed pleasures hooks:  
Thus beauty, love, and pleasure them did move.  
These Siren's sugared tunes rocked them a sleep:  
Enough, to damn, yet not to damn so deep.   

But gracious features dazzled not mine eyes,  
Two homely droils were authors of my death:  
Not love, but fear, my senses did surprise:  
Not fear of force, but fear of woman's breath.  
And those unarmed, ill graced, despised, unknown:  
So base a blast my truth hath overthrown.   

O women, woe to men: traps for their falls,  
Still actors in all tragical mischances:  
earths necessary evils, captiving thralls,  
Now murdering with your tongues, now with your glances,  
Parents of life, and love: spoilers of both,  
The thieves of hearts: false do you love or loath.   

In time, o Lord, thine eyes with mine did meet,  
In them I read the ruins of my fall:  
Their cheering rays that made misfortune sweet,  
Into my guilty thoughts poured floods of gall,  
Their heavenly looks that blessed where they beheld,  
Darts of disdain, and angry checks did yield.   

O sacred eyes, the springs of living light,  
The earthly heavens, where Angels joy to dwell:  
How could you deign to view my deathful plight,  
Or let your heavenly beams look on my hell?  
But those unspotted eyes encountered mine,  
As spotless Sun doth on the dunghill shine.   

Sweet volumes stored with learning fit for Saints,  
Where blissful quires imparadise their minds,  
Wherein eternal study never faints,  
Still finding all, yet seeking all it finds,  
How endless is your labyrinth of bliss,  
Where to be lost the sweetest finding is?   

Ah wretch how oft have I sweet lessons read,  
In those dear eyes the registers of truth?  
How oft have I my hungry wishes fed,  
And in their happy joys redressed my ruth?  
Ah that they now are Heralds of disdain:  
That erst were ever pittiers of my pain.   

You flames divine that sparkle out your heats,  
And kindle pleasing fires in mortal hearts:  
You nectared Aumbryes of soul feeding meats,  
You graceful quivers of loves dearest darts:  
You did vouchsafe to warm, to wound, to feast:  
My cold, my stony, my now famished breast.   

The matchless eyes, matched only each by other,  
Were pleased on my ill matched eyes to glance:  
The eye of liquid pearl, the purest mother,  
Broached tears in mine to weep for my mischance;  
The cabinets of grace unlocked their treasure,  
And did to my misdeed their mercy's measure.   

These blazing Comets, lightning flames of love,  
Made me their warming influence to know;  
My frozen heart their sacred force did prove,  
Which at their looks did yield like melting snow,  
They did not joys in former plenty carve,  
Yet sweet are crumbs where pined thoughts do starve.   

O living mirrors, seeing whom you show,  
which equal shadows worths with shadowed things:  
Yea make things nobler than in native hue,  
By being shaped in those life-giving springs;  
Much more my image in those eyes was graced,  
Then in myself, whom sin and shame defaced.   

Allseeing eyes, more worth than all you see,  
Of which one is the others only price:  
I worthless am, direct your beams on me,  
With quickening virtue cure my kill vice.  
By seeing things, you make things worth the sight,  
You seeing, salve, and being seen delight.   

O Pools of Hesebon, the baths of grace, 
Ca 〈…〉   
Where happy spirits dive in sweet desires:  
Where Saints rejoice to glass their glorious face,  
Whose banks make Echo to the Angels quires;  
An Echo sweeter in the sole rebound,  
Then Angels music in the fullest sound.   

O eyes, whose glances are a silent speech,  
In ciphred words high mysteries disclosing:  
Which with a look all Sciences can teach,  
Whose texts to faithful hearts need little glozing:  
Witness unworthy I, who in a look,  
Learned more by rote, than all the scribes by book.   

Tough malice still possessed their hardened minds,  
I, though too hard, learned softness in thine eye,  
Which iron knots of stubborn will unbinds,  
Offering them love, that love with love will buy,  
This did I learn, yet they could not discern it,  
But woe, that I had now such need to learn it.   

O Suns, all but yourselves in light excelling,  
Whose presence, day, whose absence causeth night,  
Whose neighbour course, brings Summer cold expelling,  
Whose distant periods frieze away delight.  
Ah, that I lost your bright and fostering beams,  
To plunge my soul in these congealed streams.   

O gracious spheres where love the Centre is,  
A native place for one selfe-loaden souls:  
The compass, love, a cope that none can mis:  
The motion, love that round about us rowles:  
O Spheres of love, whose Centre, cope and motion,  
Is love of us, love that invites devotion.   

O little worlds, the sums of all the best,  
Where glory, heaven, God, son: all virtues, stars;  
Where fire, a love that next to heaven doth rest,  
Air, light of life, that no distemper mars;  
The water, grace, whose seas, whose springs, whose showers.  
Cloth nature's earth with everlasting flowers.   

What mixtures these sweet elements do yield,  
Let happy worldlings of those worlds expound,  
But simples are by compounds far excelled,  
Both suit a place, where all best things abound.  
And if a banished wretch guess not amiss:  
All but one compound frame of perfect bliss.   

I, outcast from these world's exiled room,  
Poor Saint, from heaven, from fire cold Salamander:  
Lost fish, from those sweet waters kindly home,  
From land of life, strayed pilgrim still I wander.  
I know the cause: these worlds had never hell,  
In which my faults have best deserved to dwell.   

O Bethelem cisterns, David's most desire, 
2. Reg.   
From which my sins like fierce Philistims keep,  
To fetch your drops what champions should I hire,  
That I therein my withered heart may steep.  
I would not shed them like that holy king,  
His were but types, these are the figured thing.   

O turtle twins all bathed in virgin's milk,  
Upon the margin of full flowing banks: 
Can. 5. 12.   
Whose graceful plume surmounts the finest silk,  
Whose sight enamoreth heavens most happy ranks,  
Can I forswear this heavenly pair of doves,  
That caged in care for me were groaning loves.   

Twice Moses wand did strike the stubborn rock,  
Ere stony veins would yield their crystal blood: 
Exod. 1 verse. 6.   
Thy eyes, one look served as an only knock,  
To make my heart gush out a weeping flood.  
Wherein my sins as fishes spawn their fry,  
To show their inward shames, and then to die.   

But o, how long demur I on his eyes,  
Whose look did pierce my heart with healing wound:  
Lancing impostumed sore of perjured lies,  
Which these two issues of mine eyes hath found:  
Where run it must, till death the issues stop,  
And penal life hath purged the final drop.   

Like solest Swan that swims in silent deep,  
And never sings but obsequies of death,  
Sigh out thy plaints, and sole in secret weep,  
In suing pardon, spend thy perjured breath.  
Attire thy soul in sorrows mourning weed:  
And at thine eyes let guilty conscience bleed.   

Still in the limbeck of thy doleful breast,  
These bitter fruits that from thy sins do grow,  
For fuel, self accusing thoughts be best,  
Use fear, as fire the coals let penance blow:  
And seek none other quintessence but tears,  
That eyes may shed what entered at thine ears.   

Come sorrowing tears the of spring of my grief,  
Scant not your parent of a needful aid;  
In you I rest, the hope of wished relief,  
By you my sinful debts must be defrayed.  
Your power prevails, your sacrifice is grateful,  
By love obtaining life to men most hateful.   

Come good effects of ill deserving cause;  
Ill gotten imps, yet virtuously brought forth:  
Selfe-blaming probates, of infringed laws,  
Yet blamed faults redeeming with your worth;  
The signs of shame in you each eye may read,  
Yet while you guilty prove, you pity plead.   

O beams of mercy beat on sorrows cloud,  
Pour suppling showers upon my parched ground:  
Bring forth the fruit to your due service vowed,  
Let good desires with like deserts be crowned.  
Water young blooming virtues tender flower,  
Sin did all grace of riper growth devower.   

Weep Balm and myrrh you sweet Arabian trees,  
With purest gums perfume and pearl your ryne:  
Shed on your honey drops you busy bees,  
I barren plaint must weep unpleasant brine,  
Hornets I hive, salt drops their labour plies,  
Sucked out of sin, and shed by showering eyes.   

If David night by night did bathe his bed,  
Esteeming longest days to short too moan: 
Psal. 6   
Inconsolable tears if Anna shed,  
Who in her son her solace had foregone. 
Tob,   
Then I to days, and weeks, to months and years,  
Do own the hourly rent of stintless tears.   

If love, if loss, if fault, if spotted fame,  
If danger, death, if wrath or wreck of weal,  
Entitle eyes true heirs to earned blame,  
That due remorse in such events conceal,  
Then want of tears might well enrol my name,  
As chiefest Saint in Calendar of shame.   

Love, where I loved, was due, and best deserved,  
No love could aim at more loveworthy mark,  
No love more loved than mine of him I served,  
Large use he gave, a flame for every spark.  
This love I lost, this loss a life must rue,  
Yea life is short to pay the ruth is due.   

I lost all that I had, and had the most,  
The most that will can wish, or wit devise:  
I least performed, that did most vainly boast,  
I stained my fame in most infamous wise.  
What danger then, death, wrath, or wreck can move,  
More pregnant cause of tears then this I prove?   

If Adam sought a veil to scarf his sin,  
Taught by his fall to fear a scourging hand, 
〈…〉 3, 7,   
If men shall wish that hills should wrap them in,  
When crimes in final doom come to be scanned:  
What mount, what cave, what centre can conceal  
My monstrous fact, which even the birds reveal?   

Come shame the livery of offending mind:  
The ugly shroud, that overshadoweth blame:  
The mulct, at which foul faults are justly find,  
The damp of sin, the common sluice of fame.  
By which impostumed tongues, their humours purge,  
Light shame on me, I best deserved the scourge.   

Cain's murdering hand imbrued in brother's blood,  
More mercy than my impious tongue may crave: 
Gone 〈…〉   
He killed a rival with pretence of good,  
In hope God's doubled love alone to have.  
But fear so spoiled my vanquished thoughts of love:  
That perjured oaths my spiteful hate did prove.   

Poor Agar from her fere enforced to fly,  
wandering in Barsabeian wilds alone:  
Doubting her child through helpless drought would die,  
Laid it aloof and set her down to moan.  
The heavens with prayers: her lap with tears she filled,  
A mother's love in loss is hardly stilled.   

But Agar now bequeath thy tears to me, 
Gone, 〈…〉   
Fears, not effects, did set afloat thine eyes:  
But wretch I feel more than was feared of thee,  
Ah, not my son, my soul it is that dies.  
It dies for drought yet had a spring in sight,  
Worthy to die, that would not live and might.   

Fair Absalon's foul faults compared with mine, 
2, Re 〈…〉   
Are brightest sands, to mud of Sodom lakes.  
High aims, young spirits, birth of royal line,  
Made him play false where kingdoms were the stakes,  
He gazed on golden hopes, whose lustre wins  
Sometime the gravest wits to grievous sins.   

But I whose crime cuts off the least excuse,  
A kingdom lost, but hoped no mite of gain,  
My highest mark, was but the worthless use,  
Of some few lingering hours of longer pain;  
Ungrateful child, his parent he pursued,  
I, giants war with God himself renewed.   

joy infant Saints, whom in the tender flower 
〈…〉 2.   
A happy storm did free from fear of sin,  
Long is their life that die in blissful hour,  
joyful such ends as endless joys begin.  
Too long they live, that live till they be nought,  
Life saved by sin, base purchase dearly bought.   

This lot was mine, your fate was not so fierce,  
Whom spotless death in cradle rocked a sleep,  
Sweet Roses mixed with Lilies strowed your hearse,  
Death virgin white in martyrs red did steep.  
Your downy heads both pearls and rubies crowned,  
My hoary locks did female fears confound.   

You bleating Ewes that wail this wolvish spoil,  
Of sucking Lambs new bought with bitter throws,  
To balm your babes your eyes distill their oil,  
Each heart to tomb her child wide rapture shows;  
Rue not their death whom death did but revive:  
Yield ruth to me that lived to die alive.   

With easy loss sharp wreacks did he eschew,  
That Sindonles aside did naked slip,  
Once naked grace no outward garment knew,  
Rich are his robes whom sin did never strip,  
I that in vaunts displayed pride's fairest flags,  
Disrobed of grace, am wrapped in Adam's rags.   

When traitor to the Son, in Mother's eyes,  
I shall present my humble suit for grace,  
What blush can paint the shame that will arise,  
Or write my inward feeling in my face?  
Might she the sorrow with the sinner see,  
Though I despised: my grief might pitied be.   

But ah, how can her ears my speech endure,  
Or sent my breath still reeking hellish steam?  
Can Mother like what did the Son abjure,  
Or heart deflowered a virgins love redeem?  
The Mother nothing loves that Son doth loath,  
Ah loathsome wretch detested of them both.   

O sister Nymphs the sweet renowned pair,  
That bless Bethania bounds with your abode:  
Shall I infect that sanctified air,  
Or stain those steps where jesus breathed and trodden?  
No: let your prayers perfume that sweetened place:  
Turn me with Tigers to the wildest chase.   

Can I revived Lazarus behold, 
11.   
The third of that sweet Trinity of Saints?  
Would not astonished dread my senses hold?  
Ah yes, my heart even with his naming faints;  
I seem to see a messenger from hell,  
That my prepared torments comes to tell.   

O john, o james, we made a triple cord 
17.   
Of three most loving and best loved friends: 
〈…〉 8.   
My rotten twist was broken with a word,  
Fit now to fuel fire among the fiends;  
It is not ever true, though often spoken,  
That triple twisted cord is hardly broken.   

The dispossessed devils that out I threw,  
In jesus name, now impiously forsworn,  
Triumph to see me caged in their mew,  
Trampling my ruins with contempt and scorn;  
My perjuries were music to their dance,  
And now they heap disdains on my mischance.   

Our rock (say they) is riven, o welcome hour,  
Our eagle's wings are clipped that wrought so high:  
Our thundering Cloud made noise but cast no shower,  
He prostrate lies that would have scaled the sky;  
In woman's tongue our runner found a rub,  
Our Cedar now is shrunk into a shrub.   

These scornful words upbraid my inward thought,  
Proofs of their damned prompters neighbour voice:  
Such ugly guests still wait upon the nought,  
Fiends swarm to souls that serve from virtues choice,  
For breach of plighted truth, this true I try:  
Ah, that my deed thus gave my word the lie.   

Once, and but once, too dear a once to twice it,  
A heaven, in earth, Saints, near myself I saw;  
Sweet was the sight, but sweeter loves did spice it,  
But sights and loves did my misdeed withdraw.  
From heaven and Saints to hell and devils estranged,  
Those sights to frights, those loves, to hates are changed.   

Christ, as my God, was tempted in my thought,  
As man, he lent mine eyes their dearest light;  
But sin, his temple hath to ruin brought:  
And now, he lighteneth terror from his sight,  
Now of my lay unconsecrate desires,  
Profaned wretch I taste the earned hires.   

Ah sin, the nothing that doth all things file;  
outcast from heaven, earth's curse, the cause of hell:  
Parent of death, author of our exile,  
The wreck of souls, the wares that fiends do sell.  
That men to monsters; Angels turns to devils:  
Wrong, of all rights; self ruin: root of evils.   

A thing most done, yet more than God can do,  
Daily new done; yet ever done amiss:  
Friended of all, yet unto all a foe,  
Seeming a heaven, yet banishing from bliss.  
Served with toil, yet paying nought but pains  
Man's deepest loss, though false, esteemed gain.   

Shot, without noise: wound without present smart:  
First seeming light; proving in fine a load▪  
Entering with ease, not easily won to part,  
Far in effects from that the shows abode:  
Endorc'd with hope, subscribed with despair;  
Ugly in death, though life did feign it fair.   

O forfeiture of heaven: eternal debt,  
A moment's joy; ending in endless fires:  
Our nature's scum; the world's entangling Net:  
Night of our thoughts: death of all good desires.  
Worse than all this: worse than all tongues can say,  
Which man could owe, but only God defray.   

This fawning viper, dumb till he had wounded,  
With many mouths doth now upbraid my harms:  
My sight was veiled till I myself confounded,  
Then did I see the dissinchanted charms.  
Then could I cut the anatomy of sin,  
And search with Lynx's eyes what lay within.   

Bewitching evil, that hides death in deceits,  
Still borrowing lying shapes to mask thy face,  
Now know I the deciphring of thy sleights,  
A cunning, dearly bought with loss of grace;  
Thy sugared poison now hath wrought so well,  
That thou hast made me to myself a hell.   

My eye, reads mournful lessons to my heart,  
My heart, doth to my thought the griefs expound,  
My thought, the same doth to my tongue impart,  
My tongue, the message in the ears doth sound;  
My ears, back to my heart their sorrows send,  
Thus circling griefs run round without an end.   

My guilty eye still seems to see my sin,  
All things Characters are to spell my fall,  
What eye doth read without, heart rues within,  
What heart doth rue, to pensive thought is gall;  
Which when the thought would by the tongue digest  
The ear conveys it back into the breast.   

Thus gripes in all my parts do never fail,  
Whose only league is now in bartering pains,  
What I in gross, they traffic by retail,  
Making each others miseries their gains;  
All bound for ever, prentices to care,  
While I in shop of shame trade sorrows ware.   

Pleased with displeasing lot I seek no change,  
I wealthiest am when richest in remorse;  
To fetch my ware no seas nor lands I range,  
For customers to buy I nothing force.  
My homebred goods at home are bought and sold,  
And still in me the interest I hold.   

My comfort now is comfortless to live,  
In Orphan state devoted to mishap:  
Rend from the root, that sweetest fruit did give,  
I scorned to graff in stock of meaner sap.  
No juice can joy me but of jesse flower,  
Whose heavenly root hath true reviving power.   

At sorrows door I knocked, they craved my name;  
I answered one, unworthy to be known;  
What one, say they? one worthiest of blame.  
But who? a wretch, not Gods, nor yet his own.  
A man? O no, a beast; much worse, what creature:  
A rock: how called? the rock of scandal, Peter,   

From whence? from Caiphas house, ah dwell you there.  
sins farm I rent, there, but now would leave it▪  
What rent? my soul; what gain? unrest, and fear,  
Dear purchase. Ah too dear, will you receive it?  
What shall we give? fit tears, and times, to plain me▪  
Come in, say they; thus griefs did entertain me.   

With them I rest true prisoner to their jail,  
Chained in the iron links of basest thrall,  
Till grace vouchsafing captive soul to bail,  
In wont See degraded loves install.  
Days, pass in plaints: the nights without repose,  
I wake, to weep, I sleep in waking woes.   

Sleep, death's ally, oblivion of tears,  
Silence of passions, balm of angry sore,  
Suspense of loves, security of fears,  
Wraths lenitive, heart's ease, storms calmest shore,  
Senses and souls reprivall from all cumbers,  
Benumbing sense of ill, with quiet slumbers.   

Not such my sleep, but whisperer of dreams,  
Creating strange chimeras, feigning frights:  
Of day discourses giving fancy themes,  
To make dumb shows with worlds of antic sights,  
Casting true griefs in fancies forging mould,  
Brokenly telling tales rightly foretold.   

This sleep most fitly suiteth sorrows bed,  
Sorrow, the smart of evil, sins eldest child▪  
Best, when unkind in killing who it bred,  
A rack for guilty thoughts, a bit, for wild.  
The scourge, that whips, the salve that cures offence:  
Sorrow, my bed, and home, while life hath sense.   

Hear solitary Muses nurse my griefs,  
In silent loneness burying worldly noise,  
Attentive to rebukes, deaf to reliefs,  
Pensive to foster cares careless of joys:  
Ruing lives loss under deaths dreary roofs,  
Solemnizing my funeral behoofs.   

A self contempt, the shroud: my soul, the corpse:  
The beer, an humble hope: the hearse cloth, fear:  
The mourners, thoughts, in blacks of deep remorse:  
The hearse, grace, pity, love, and mercy bear.  
My tears, my dole: the priest, a zealous will:  
Pennance, the tomb: and doleful sighs, the knell.   

Christ, health of fevered soul, heaven of the mind,  
Force of the feeble, nurse of Infant loves,  
Guide to the wandering foot, light of the blind,  
Whom weeping wins, repentant sorrow moves.  
Father in care, mother in tender heart:  
Revive and save me slain with finnefull dart.   

If king Manasses sunk in depth of sin,  
With plaints and tears recovered grace and crown:  
A worthless worm some mild regard may win,  
And lowly creep, where flying threw it down.  
A poor desire I have to mend my ill;  
I should, I would, I dare not say, I will.   

I dare not say; I will, but wish I may,  
My pride is checked, high words the speaker spilled:  
My good, o Lord, thy gift; thy strength my stay:  
Give what thou bidst, and then bid what thou wilt.  
Work with me what thou of me dost request:  
Then will I dare the most, and vow the best.   

Prone look, crossed arms, bend knee, and contrite heart,  
Deep sighs, thick sobs, dewed eyes & prostrate prayers,  
Most humbly beg release of earned smart,  
And saving shroud in mercies sweet repairs.  
If justice should my wrongs with rigour wage:  
Fears, would despairs: ruth, breed a hopeless rage.   

Lazar at pities gate I ulcered lie,  
Craving the reffues' crumbs of children's plate:  
My sores, I lay in view to mercy's eye,  
My rags, bear witness of my poor estate:  
The worms of conscience that within me swarm:  
Prove that my plaints are less than is my harm,   

With mildness, jesus, measure my offence:  
Let true remorse thy due revenge abate:  
Let tears appease when trespass doth incense:  
Let pity temper thy deserved hate.  
Let grace forgive, let love forget my fall:  
With fear I crave, with hope I humbly call.   

Redeem my lapse with ransom of thy love,  
Traverse th'indictment, rigours doom suspend:  
Let frailty favour, sorrows secure move,  
Be thou thyself, though changeling I offend.  
Tender my suit, cleanse this defiled den,  
Cancel my debts, sweet jesus, say Amen.   
The end of Saint Peter's complaint.   

MARY magdalen's BLUSH.  

THE signs of shame that stain my blushing face▪  
Rise from the feeling of my raving fits,  
Whose joy, annoy: whose guerdon, is disgrace:  
Whose solace, flies: whose sorrow, never flits:  
Bad seed I sowed: worse fruit is now my gain:  
Soon dying mirth begat long living pain.   

Now pleasure ebbs: revenge begins to flow:  
One day doth wreak the wrath that many wrought:  
Remorse doth tcach my guilty thoughts to know,  
How cheap I sold, that Christ so dearly bought.  
Faults long unfelt doth conscience now bewray,  
Which cares must cure, and tears must wash away.   

All ghostly dynts that grace at me did dart,  
Like stubborn rock I forced to recoil;  
To other flights an aim I made my heart,  
whose wounds, then welcome, now have wrought my foil.  
Woe worth the bow, woe worth the archers might,  
That drove such arrows to the mark so right.   

To pull them out, to leave them in, is death:  
One, to this world: one, to the world to come:  
Wounds may I wear, and draw a doubtful breath:  
But then my wounds will work a dreadful doom.  
And for a world, whose pleasures pass away:  
I lose a world, whose joys are past decay.   

O sense, o soul, o had, o hoped bliss,  
You woo, you wean, you draw, you drive me back.  
Your cross encountering, like their combat is,  
That never end but with some deadly wrack.  
When sense doth win, the soul doth lose the field,  
And present haps, make future hopes to yield.   

O heaven, lament: sense robbeth thee of Saints:  
Lament o souls, sense spoileth you of grace.  
Yet sense doth scarce deserve these hard complaints,  
Love is the thief, sense but the entering place.  
Yet grant I must, sense is not free from sin,  
For thief he is that thief admitteth in.    

¶ Marry magdalen's complaint at Christ's death.  

Sigh my life from life is parted:  
Death come take thy portion.  
Who survives, when life is murdered,  
lives by mere extortion.  
All that live, and not in God:  
Couch their life in deaths abode.   

Silly stars must needs leave shining,  
When the sun is shadowed.  
Borrowed streams refrain their running,  
When head springs are hindered.  
One that lives by others breath,  
Dieth also by his death.   

O true life, since thou hast left me,  
Mortal life is tedious.  
Death it is to live without thee,  
Death of all most odious.  
Turn again or take me to thee,  
Let me die or live thou in me.   

Where the truth once was, and is not,  
Shadows are but vanity:  
Showing want, that help they cannot:  
Signs, not salves of misery.  
Painted meat no hunger feeds,  
Dying life each death exceeds.   

With my love, my life was nestled  
In the some of happiness;  
From my love, my life is wrested  
To a world of heaviness.  
O, let love my life remove,  
Sith I live not where I love.   

O my soul, what did unloose thee  
From thy sweet captivity?  
God, not I, did still possess thee:  
His, not mine, thy liberty.  
O, two happy thrall thou wart,  
When thy prison, was his heart.   

Spiteful spear, that break'st this prison,  
Seat of all felicity,  
Working this, with double treason,  
Loves and lives delivery:  
Though my life thou drau'st away,  
Maugre thee my love shall stay.    

Times go by turns.  

THE lopped tree in time may grow again,  
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower:  
The soriest wight may find release of pain,  
The dryest soil suck in some moistening shower.  
Times go by turns, and chances change by course:  
From foul to fair: from better hap, to worse.   

The sea of fortune doth not ever flow,  
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb:  
Her tides hath equal times to come and go,  
Her Loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web.  
No joy so great, but runneth to an end:  
No hap so hard, but may in fine amend.   

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring,  
No endless night, yet not eternal day:  
The saddest birds a season find to sing,  
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.  
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all:  
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.   

A chance may win that by mischance was lost,  
The net that holds no great, takes little fish;  
In some things all, in all things none are crossed,  
Few, all they need: but none, have all they wish,  
Vnmedled joys here to no man befall,  
Who least, hath some, who most, hath never all.    

Look home.  

Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights,  
As beauty doth in self beholding eye:  
Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights,  
A brief wherein all marvels summed lie.  
Of fairest forms, and sweetest shapes the store,  
Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them more.   

The mind a creature is, yet can create,  
To nature's patterns adding higher skill:  
Of finest works wit better could the state,  
If force of wit had equal power of will.  
Devise of man in working hath no end,  
What thought can think an other thought can mend.   

Man's soul of endless beauty's image is,  
Drawn by the work of endless skill and might;  
This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss,  
And to discern this bliss a native light,  
To frame God's image as his worths required,  
His might, his skill, his word, and will conspired.   

All that he had his image should present,  
All that it should present he could afford:  
To that he could afford his will was bend,  
His will was followed with performing word.  
Let this suffice, by this conceive the rest,  
He should, he could, he would, he did the best.    

Fortune's falsehood.  

IN worldly merriments lurketh much misery,  
Sly fortunes subtleties in baits of happiness  
Shroud hooks, that swallowed, without recovery  
Murder the innocent with mortal heaviness.   

She sootheth appetites with pleasing vanities,  
Till they be conquered with cloaked tyranny,  
Than, changing countenance, with open enmities,  
She triumphs over them, scorning their slavery.   

With fawning flattery death's door she openeth,  
Alluring passengers to bloody destiny:  
In offers bountiful, in proof she beggereth;  
men's ruins registering her false felicity.   

Her hopes are fastened in bliss that vanisheth,  
Her smart inherited with sure possession,  
Constant in cruelty, she never altereth,  
But from one violence, to more oppression.   

To those that follow her, favours are measured  
As easy premises to hard conclusions;  
With bitter corrosives her joys are seasoned,  
Her highest benefits are but illusions.   

Her ways, a labyrinth of wandering passages:  
Fools common pilgrimage, to cursed deieties:  
Whose fond devotion and idle menages  
Are waged with weariness in fruitless drudgeries.   

Blind in her favourites foolish election,  
Chance is her arbiter in giving dignities:  
Her choice of visions, shows most discretion,  
Sith wealth the virtuous might wrest from piety.   

To humble suppliants tyrant most obstinate:  
She suitors answereth with contrarieties:  
Proud with petition, untaught to mitigate  
Rigour with clemency in hardest cruelties.   

Like Tiger fugitive from the ambitious,  
Like weeping Crodocile to scornful enemies  
Suing for amity where she is odious,  
But to her followers forswearing courtesies.   

No wind so changeable, no sea so wavering,  
As giddy Fortune in reeling varieties;  
Now mad, now merciful, now fierce, now favouring:  
In all things mutable, but mutabilities.    

Scorn not the least.  

WHere wards are weak, & foes encountering strong:  
Where mightier do assault, then do defend:  
The feebler part puts up enforced wrong,  
And silent sees, that speech could not amend.  
Yet higher powers must think, though they repine,  
When sun is set: the little stars will shine.   

While Pike doth range, the silly Tench doth fly,  
And crouch in privy creeks, with smaller fish:  
Yet Pikes are caught when little fish go buy:  
These, fleet a float; while those, do fill the dish.  
There is a time even for the worms to creep:  
And suck the dew while all their foes do sleep.   

The Marlyne cannot ever sore on high,  
Nor greedy Greyhound still pursue the chase:  
The tender Lark will find a time to fly,  
And fearful Hare to run a quiet race.  
He that high growth on Ceders did bestow:  
Gave also lowly Mush-rumpts leave to grow.   

In Amans pomp poor Mardocheus wept;  
Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe.  
The Lazar pined, while Dives feast was kept,  
Yet he, to heaven; to hell did Dives go.  
We trample grass, and prise the flowers of May:  
Yet grass is green, when flowers do fade away.    

The Nativity of Christ.  

Behold the father, is his daughter's son:  
The bird that built the nest, is hatched therein:  
The old of years, an hour hath not outrun:  
Eternal life, to live doth now begin.  
The word is dumb: the mirth of heaven doth weep:  
Might feeble is: and force doth faintly creep.   

O dying souls, behold your living spring:  
O dazzled eyes, behold your son of grace:  
Dull ears, attend what word this word doth bring:  
Up heavy hearts; with joy your joy embrace.  
From death, from dark, from deafness, from despairs:  
This life, this light, this word, this joy repairs.   

Gift better than himself, God doth not know:  
Gift better than his God, no man can see;  
This gift doth here the giver given bestow;  
Gift to this gift let each receiver be.  
God is my gift, himself he freely gave me;  
God's gift am I, and none but God shall have me.   

Man altered was by sin from man to beast;  
Beasts food is hay, hay is all mortal flesh;  
Now God is flesh, and lies in Manger priest;  
As haye, the brutest sinner to refresh.  
O happy field wherein this fodder grew,  
Whose taste, doth us from beasts to men renew.    

¶ Christ's childhood.  

TIll twelve years age, how Christ his childhood spent,  
All earthly pens unworthy were to write,  
Such acts, to mortal eyes he did present:  
Whose worth, not men, but Angels must recite.  
No nature's blots, no childish faults defiled,  
Where grace was guide, and God did play the child.   

In springing locks, lay couched hoary wit,  
In semblance young, a grave and ancient port,  
In lowly looks, high Majesty did sit:  
In tender tongue, sound sense of sagest sort,  
Nature imparted all that she could teach,  
And God supplied, where nature could not reach.   

His mirth, of modest mean a mirror was,  
His sadness, tempered with a mild aspect:  
His eye, to try each action was a glass,  
Whose looks, did good approve, and bade correct.  
His nature's gifts, his grace, his word and deed,  
Well showed that all did from a God proceed.    

A child my choice.  

LEt folly praise that fancy loves, I praise and love that child,  
Whose heart, no thought: whose tongue, no word: whose hand no deed defiled.  
I praise him most, I love him best, all praise and love is his:  
While him I love, in him I live, and cannot live amiss.   

loves sweetest mark, lauds highest theme, man's most desired light,  
To love him, life: to leave him, death: to live in him, delight.  
He mine, by gift: I his, by debt: thus each, to others due:  
First friend he was: best friend he is: all times will try him true.   

Though young, yet wise: though small, yet strong: though man, yet God he is:  
As wise, he knows: as strong, he can: as God, he loves to bliss,  
His knowledge rules: his strength, defends: his love, doth cherish all:  
His birth, our joy: his life, our light: his death, our end of thrall.   

Alas, he weeps, he sighs, he pants, yet do his Angels sing:  
Out of his tears, his sighs and throbs, doth buda joyful spring.  
Almighty babe, whose tender arms can force all foes to fly:  
Correct my faults, protect my life, direct me when I die.    

Content and rich.  

IDwell in grace's court,  
Enriched with virtues rights:  
Faith, guides my wit: love, leads my will:  
Hope; all my mind delights.   

In lowly vales I mount  
To pleasures highest pitch:  
My silly shroud true honour brings,  
My poor estate is rich.   

My conscience, is my crown:  
Contented thoughts, my rest▪  
My heart is happy in itself:  
My bliss is in my breast.   

Enough, I reckon wealth:  
A mean, the surest lot,  
That lies too high, for base contempt;  
Too low, for envies shot.   

My wishes are but few,  
All easy to fulfil:  
I make the limits of my power,  
The bonds unto my will.   

I have no hopes but one,  
Which is of heavenly reign,  
Effects attained, or not desired,  
All lower hopes resraine.   

I feel no care of coin,  
well-doing is my wealth:  
My mind to me an empire is  
While grace affordeth health.   

I clip high-clyming thoughts,  
The wings of swelling pride,  
Their fall is worst that from the height,  
Of greatest honour slide.   

Sith sails of largest size  
The storm doth soon tear,  
I bear so low and small a sail  
As freeth me from fear.   

I wrestle not with rage  
While fury's flame doth burn,  
It is in vain to stop the stream  
Until the tide doth turn.   

But when the flame is out,  
and ebbing wrath doth end,  
I turn a late enraged foe  
Into a quiet friend.   

And taught with often proof,  
A tempered calm I find;  
To be most solace, to itself;  
Best cure, for angry mind.   

Spare diet, is my fare;  
My clothes, more fit, then fine;  
I know I feed and clothe a foe:  
That pamp'red, would repine.   

I envy not their hap,  
Whom favour doth advance:  
I take no pleasure in their pain,  
That have less happy chance.   

To rise by others fall,  
I deem a losing gain:  
All states with others ruins built,  
To ruin run amain.   

No change of fortunes calms,  
Can cast my comforts down:  
When fortune smiles, I smile to think,  
How quickly she will frown.   

And when in froward mood  
She proves an angry foe:  
Small gain I found to let her come,  
Less loss to let her go.    

Loss in delays.  

Eat delays, they breed remorse,  
Take thy time while time doth serve thee,  
Creeping Snails have weakest force,  
Fly their fault lest thou repent thee,  
Good is best when soon wrought,  
Lingering labours come to nought.   

Hoist up sail, while gale doth last;  
Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure:  
Seek not time, when time is past,  
Sober speed is wisdoms leisure:  
After wits are dearly bought,  
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.   

Time wears all his locks before,  
Take thou hold upon his forehead,  
When he flies he turns no more,  
And behind his scalp is naked,  
Works aiournd have many stays,  
Long demurs breed new delays.   

Seek thy salve while sore is green,  
Festered wounds ask deeper lancing;  
After cures are seldom seen,  
Often sought scarce ever chancing,  
Time and place give best advise,  
Out of season out of prize.   

Crush the Serpent in the head,  
Break ill eggs ere they be hatched,  
Kill bad Chickens in the tread,  
Fligge, they hardly can be catched.  
In the rising, stifle ill,  
Lest it grow against thy will.   

Drops do pierce the stubborn flint,  
Not by force but often falling,  
Custom kills with feeble dint,  
More by use then strength prevailing.  
Single sands have little weight,  
Many make a drowning freight.   

Tender twigs are bend with ease,  
Aged trees do break with bending,  
Young desires make little press,  
Growth doth make them past amending.  
Happy man that soon doth knock,  
Babble babes against the rock.    

loves servile Lot.  

Love, mistress is of many minds,  
Yet few know whom they serve,  
They reckon least how little love  
Their service doth deserve.   

The will she robbeth from the wit,  
The sense from reason's lore,  
She is delightful in the rind,  
Corrupted in the core;   

She shroudeth vice in virtues vail,  
Pretending good in ill,  
She offereth joy, affordeth grief,  
A kiss where she doth kill.   

A honey shower rains from her lips,  
Sweet lights shine in her face,  
She hath the blush of virgin mind,  
The mind of Viper's race.   

She makes thee seek, yet fear to find,  
To find, but not enjoy;  
In many frowns some gliding smiles,  
She yields to more annoy.   

She woos thee to come near her fire,  
Yet doth she draw it from thee,  
far off she makes thy heart to fry,  
And yet to freeze within thee.   

She letteth fall some luring baits  
For fools to gather up:  
Too sweet, too sour to every taste  
She tempereth her cup.   

Soft souls she binds in tender twist,  
Small Flies in spinner's web,  
She sets a floote some luring streams,  
But makes them soon to ebb.   

Her watery eyes have burning force:  
Her floods and flames conspire.  
Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are:  
And sighs do blow her fire.   

May never was the Month 〈…〉 one,  
For May is full of flowers,  
But rather April wet by kind,  
For love is full of showers.   

Like tyrant cruel wounds she gives,  
Like Surgeon salve she lends,  
But salve and sore have equal force,  
For death is both their ends.   

With soothing words, enthralled souls:  
She chains in servile bands,  
Her eye in silence hath a speech,  
Which eye best understands.   

Her little sweet hath many fowres,  
Short hap immortal harms,  
Her loving looks, are murdering darts,  
Her songs bewitching charms.   

Like winter rose, and summer IIse  
Her joys are still untimely,  
Before her hope, behind remorse,  
Fair first, in fine unseemly.   

Moods passions, fancies jealous fits,  
Attend upon her train;  
She yieldeth rest without repose,  
A heaven in hellish pain.   

Her house is sloth, her door deceit,  
And slippery hope her stairs,  
Vnbashfull boldness bids her guests,  
And every vice repairs.   

Her diet is of such delight,  
As please till they be passed,  
But then the poison kills the heart,  
That did entice the taste.   

Her sleep in sin, doth end in wrath,  
Remorse rings her awake,  
Death calls her up, shame drives her out,  
Despairs her upshot make.   

Plough not the Seas, sow not the sands,  
Leave off your idle pain,  
Seek other mistress for your minds,  
loves service is in vain.    

Life is but loss.  

BY force I live in will I wish to die,  
In plaint I pass the length of lingering days,  
Free would my soul from mortal body fly,  
And tread the track, of deaths desired ways;  
Life is but loss, where death is deemed gain,  
And loathed pleasures breed displeasing pain.   

Who would not die to kill all murdering grieves,  
Or who would live in never dying fears?  
Who would not wish his treasure safe from thieves,  
And quit his heart from pangs, his eyes from tears?  
Death parteth but two, ever fight foes,  
Whose civil strife, doth work our endless woes.   

Life is a wandering course to doubtful rest,  
As oft a cursed rise to damning leap;  
As happy race to win a heavenly crest,  
None being sure, what final fruits to reap.  
And who can like, in such a life to dwell,  
Whose ways are strait to heaven, but wide to hell.   

Come cruel death why ling'rest thou so long,  
What doth withhold thy dint from fatal stroke?  
Now priest I am alas thou dost me wrong,  
To let me live more anger to provoke:  
Thy right is had, when thou hast stopped my breath,  
Why shouldst thou stay, to work my double death?   

If Saules attempt in falling on his blade,  
As lawful were, as ethe to put in ure:  
If Sampsons' leave, a common law were made,  
Of Abel's lot if all that would were sure.  
Then cruel death thou shouldst the tyrant play,  
With none but such as wished for delay.   

Where life is loved, thou ready art to kill,  
And to abridge with sudden pangs their joy,  
Where life is loathed thou wilt not work their will,  
But dost adjourn their death to their annoy,  
To some thou art a fierce unbidden guest,  
But those that crave thy help thou helpest least.   

avant o viper, I thy spite defy,  
There is a God that overrules thy force,  
Who can thy weapons to his will apply,  
And shorten or prolong our brittle course:  
I on his mercy, not thy might rely,  
To him I live, for him I hope to die.    

I die alive.  

O Life what lets thee from a quick decease?  
O death what draws thee from a present prey?  
My feast is done my soul would beat ease,  
My grace is said, o death come take away.   

I live, but such a life as ever dies,  
I die but such a death, as never ends,  
My death to end my dying life denies,  
And life my living death no whit amends.   

Thus still I die, yet still I do revive,  
My living death by dying life is fed:  
Grace more than nature keeps my heart alive,  
Whose idle hopes and vain desires are dead.   

Not where I breath, but where I love I live,  
Not where I love, but where I am I die:  
The life I wish, must future glory give,  
The deaths I feel, in present dangers lie.    

What joy to line.  

I wage no war, yet peace I none enjoy,  
I hope, I fear, I fry in freezing cold,  
I mount in mirth still prostrate in annoy,  
I all the world embrace, yet nothing hold.  
All wealth is want where chiefest wishes fail,  
Yea life is loathed, where love may not prevail.   

For that I love, I long, but that I lack,  
That others love I loath, and that I have:  
All worldly fraights to me are deadly wrack,  
Men, present hap, I future hopes do crave.  
They loving where they live, long life require,  
To live where best I love, death I desire.   

Hear love is lent for loan of filthy gain,  
Most friends befriend themselves with friendships show  
Hear, plenty peril, want doth breed disdain,  
Cares common are, joys faulty, short & few.  
Here honour envied, meanness is despised,  
Sin deemed solace, virtue little prized.   

Hear beauty is a bait that swallowed chokes,  
A treasure sought still to the owner's harms:  
A light that eyes to murdering sighs provokes,  
A grace that souls enchant with mortal charms.  
A luring aim to Cupid's fiery flights,  
A baleful bliss that damns where it delights.   

O who would live, so many deaths to try?  
Where will doth wish that wisdom doth reprove,  
Where nature craves that grace must needs deny,  
Where sense doth like, that reason cannot love,  
Where best in show, in final proof is worst,  
Where pleasures upshot is to die accursed.    

Life's death loves life.  

WHo lives in love, loves least to live,  
And long delays doth rue:  
If him he love by whom he lives,  
To whom all love is due.   

Who for our love did choose to live,  
And was content to die:  
Who loved our love more than his life,  
And love with life did buy.   

Let us in life, yea with our life,  
Requite his living love,  
For best we live when least we live,  
If love our life remove.   

Where love is hot, life hateful is,  
Their grounds do not agree:  
Love where it loves, life where it lives,  
Desireth most to be.   

And sith love is not where it lives,  
Nor liveth where it loves:  
Love hateth life, that holds it back,  
And death it best approves.   

For seldom is he won in life,  
Whom love doth most desire:  
If won by love yet not injoyde,  
Till mortal life expire.   

Life out of earth, hath not abode,  
In earth love hath no place,  
Love settled hath her joys in heaven,  
In earth life all her grace.   

Mourn therefore no true lovers death:  
Life only him annoys,  
And when he taketh leave of life,  
Then love begins his joys.    

At home in Heaven.  

Fair soul, how long shall veils thy graces shroud?  
How long shall this exile withhold thy right,  
When will thy sun disperse this mortal cloud,  
And give thy glories scope to blaze their light?  
O that a Star more fit for Angels eyes,  
Should pine in earth, not shine above the skies.   

Thy ghostly beauty offered force to God,  
It cheyned him in the links of tender love.  
It won his will with man to make abode:  
It staid his Sword, and did his wrath remove.  
It made the rigour of his justice yield,  
And Crowned mercy Empress of the field.   

This lulled our heavenly Samson fast a sleep,  
And laid him in our feeble nature's lap.  
This made him under mortal load to creep  
And in our flesh his godhead to enwrap.  
This made him sojourn with us in exile:  
And not disdain our titles in his style.   

This brought him from the ranks of heavenly quires,  
Into this vale of tears, and cursed soil:  
From flowers of grace, into a world of briars:  
From life to death, from bliss to baleful toil.  
This made him wander in our Pilgrim weed,  
And taste our torments, to relieve our need.   

O soul do not thy noble thoughts abase?  
To lose thy loves in any mortal wight:  
Content thine eye at home with native grace,  
Sith God himself is ravished with thy sight.  
If on thy beauty God enamoured be:  
Base is thy love of any less than he.   

Give not assent to muddy minded skill,  
That deems the feature of a pleasing face,  
To be the sweetest bait to lure the will:  
Not valueing right the worth of ghostly grace▪  
Let Gods and Angels censure win belief,  
That of all beauties judge our souls the chief.   

Queen Hester was of rare and peerless hue,  
And judeth once for beauty bore the vaunt,  
But he that could our soul's endowments view,  
Would soon to souls the Crown of beauty grant,  
O soul out of thyself seek God alone:  
Grace more than thine, but Gods, the world hath none.    

Lewd Love is Loss.  

MIsdeeming eye that stoupest to the lure  
Of mortal worths not worth so worthy love▪  
All beauties base, all graces are impure:  
That do thy erring thoughts from God remove.  
Sparks to the fire, the beams yield to the sun,  
All grace to God from whom all graces run.   

If picture move, more should the pattern please,  
No shadow can, with shadowed things compare,  
And fairest shapes whereon our loves do seize:  
But silly signs of Gods high beauties are.  
Go starving sense, feed thou on earthly mast,  
True love in Heaven, seek thou thy sweet repast.   

Glean not in barren soil these offal ears,  
Sith reap thou mayest whole harvests of delight.  
Base joys with griefs, bad hopes do end in fears:  
Lewd love with loss, evil peace with deadly fight:  
Gods love alone doth end with endless ease,  
Whose joys in hope, whose hope concludes in peace.   

Let not the luring train of fancies trap,  
Or gracious features proofs of nature's skill,  
Lull reasons force a sleep in errors lap,  
Or draw thy wit to bend of wanton will;  
The fairest flowers, have not the sweetest smell,  
A seeming heaven, proves oft a damning hell.   

Self-pleasing souls that play with beauty's bait,  
In shining shroud may swallow fatal hook,  
Where eager sight, or semblant fair doth wait,  
A lock it proves that first was but a look;  
The fish with ease into the Net doth glide,  
But to get out the way is not so wide.   

So long the fly doth dally with the flame,  
Until his singed wings do force his fall,  
So long the eye doth follow fancy's game,  
Till love hath left the heart in heavy thrall;  
Soon may the mind be cast in Cupid's jail,  
But hard it is imprisoned thoughts to bail.   

O loath that love, whose final aim is lust,  
Moth of the mind, eclipse of reason's light,  
The grave of grace, the mole of nature's rust,  
The wrack of wit, the wrong of every right;  
In sum, an evil whose harms no tongue can tell,  
In which to live is death, to die is hell.    

loves Garden grief.  

Vain loves avaunt infamous is your pleasure,  
Your joy deceit,  
Your jewels jests, & worthless trash your treasure,  
Fools common bait.  
Your palace is a prison that allureth  
To sweet mishap, and rest that pain procureth.   

Your garden grief, hedged in with thorns of envy,  
And stakes of strife:  
Your Allies error graveled with jealousy,  
And cares of life.  
Your banks are seats enwrapped with shades of sadness,  
Your Arbours breed rough fits of raging madness.   

Your beds are sown with seeds of all iniquity,  
And poisoning weeds:  
Whose stalks evil thoughts, whose leaves words full of vanity,  
Whose fruit misdeeds.  
Whose sap is sin, whose force and operation,  
To banish grace, and work the soul's damnation.   

Your trees are dismal plants of pining corrosives,  
Whose root is ruth.  
Whose bark is bale, whose timber stubborn fantasies:  
Whose pith untruth.  
On which in lieu of birds whose voice delighteth:  
Of guilty conscience screching note affrighteth.   

Your coolest summer gales are scalding sigh,  
Your showers are tears,  
Your sweetest smell the stench of sinful living,  
Your favours fears  
Your gardener sathan, all you reap is misery:  
Your gain remorse and loss of all felicity.    

From Fortune's reach.  

LEt fickle fortune run her blindest race:  
I settled have an unremoved mind:  
I scorn to be the game of fancies chase,  
Or vane to show the change of every wind,  
Light giddy humours stinted to no rest,  
Still change their choice, yet never chose the best.   

My choice was guided by foresightful heed,  
It was averred with approving will,  
It shallbe followed with performing deed:  
And sealed with vow, till death the chooser kill,  
Yea death though final date of vain desires,  
Ends not my choice, which with no time expires.   

To beauty's fading bliss I am no thrall:  
I bury not my thoughts in metal Mynes,  
I aim not at such fame, as feareth fall,  
I seek and find a light that ever shines:  
Whose glorious beams display such heavenly sights,  
As yield my soul a sum of all delights.   

My light to love, my love to life doth guide  
To life that lives by love, and loveth light:  
By love to one, to whom all loves are tied  
By dewest debt, and never equal right.  
Eyes light, heart's love, soul's truest life he is,  
Consorting in three joys, one perfect bliss.   
FINIS.