AN Excellent Poem, upon the longing of a blessed heart: which loathing the world, doth long to be with Christ. With an Addition, upon the definition of love.  
Compiled by Nicholas Breton, Gentleman.  Cupio dissolui, & esse cum Christo. 
Imprinted at London, for john Browne, and john Deane, 1601.   

To the Right Honourable, my singular good Lord, the Favourer of all good Studies, and Lover of all virtues, the Lord North, Nicholas Breton wisheth increase of honour, continuance of health, and eternal happiness.  
RIght Honourable, knowing the nature of men so different, that it is hard for one to speak of all; & the delights of the most part of the world so far from longing after heaven, that if the mercy of God were not the greater, the Devil would make too great a Harvest on the Earth: sorry to see the dispositions of the wicked, and wishing the number of the virtuous were increased (among the which, if I might without flattery speak a truth, I should note your Honour, for a kind of Phoenix among men) I have, upon my knowledge of your worthiness, in the good regard of all well disposed Spirits, presumed, out of the humble Meditations of no worldly mind, to present your Honour, with a little volume of the vain delights of the worldly, and the better longings of the godly. In which, I am persuaded, when your Honour, hath noted, what is love, and what is worth the loving, you will love me nothing the worse, for my loves longing. But leaving to your honourable discretion, the liking of my soul's labour, and commandment of my heart's love: in the humility of affectionate service, I rest  
Your Honours, in all humble and bounden duty, Nicholas Breton.   

To the Reader.  
IF you love yourself, or like to be loved, it were good, you did first know what love is; where it is to be sought; and how to be had: which in this little lesson following, you may hap to hit on. For if you mistake the matter, as many have done, that set their wits a woll-gathering, upon the back of a Woodcock, in thinking love to be either nothing, or at least as little worth; or such a kind of Riddle as is scarcely worth the reading: you may hap either never find what it is, repent the seeking, or not care for the having of it; or standing in your own light, be but little beloved for your lost labour. But, if with the eye of a careful heart, you will look into the love of the soul, there I would be glad to see you longing, and wish you (having not to trouble you with more words than matter) the love of God, you to love me as I do you, and God to love us all: and so I end.  
Yours, in the love of charity, Nicholas Breton.   


TWo hopeful Twins, joint issues of one brain,  
A Ravished Soul, and longing Spirit sends  
Into your bosoms high and heavenly train,  
That are wits kinsmen, and the Muse's friends.  
Embrace them, love them, and with judgements view  
Eye them. Believe me, Reader, thou shalt find  
Their limbs well measured, and proportions true;  
No part dissenting from their perfect kind.  
Only the fashion sits not on their clothes,  
To make them sightly to fantastic eyes.  
Pallas, not Venus, did the work dispose,  
Cutting their garments from Angelic skies.  
Plain is their habit, yet Divine and sweet:  
Fit for the wise, but for the wisest meet.   
H. T. Gent.   

Ad Librum.  

Go Book, and baulk those eyes,  
That love but shadows sights:  
And let them gape for flies,  
That make but Buzzards flights.   

And tell the humble heart,  
That longs in better love,  
To him thou wilt impart  
Thy spirits Turtle dove.   

Whose flesh, the soul doth feed,  
With that eternal sweet,  
Wherein hearts eyes may read,  
How life and love do meet,   

To make the blessed see  
The love, that longeth best:  
And what those longings be,  
Whose love is never blest.   

That love not misconceived in thought,  
May never long for that is nought.    

Bretons Longing.  
WHat life hath he that never thinks of Love?  
And what such love, but hath a special liking?  
And, what such liking, but will seek to prove?  
The best to find, the comfort of his seeking?  
But, while fond thoughts in folly's pack are peeking,  
Better conceited wits may easily find  
The truest wealth that may enrich the mind.  

But, since the difference twixt the good, and bad,  
Is easily seen in notes of their delights:  
And that those notes are needful to be had,  
To see whose eyes are of the clearest sights:  
Whose are the days, and whose may be the nights:  
From the poor Crouch, unto the Princely Crown,  
I will the difference, as I find, set down.   

The worldly Prince longs to increase his State,  
To conquer Kingdoms, and to wear their Crowns,  
A foreign power, by forces to abate,  
To make but footstools, of their fairest Towns,  
And, hates the spirits of those home-made Clowns,  
That will not venture life for Victory,  
But yet, forgets that God should have the glory.   

The worldly councillor doth beat his brains,  
How to advise his Sovereign for the best,  
And in his place, doth take continual pains,  
To keep his Prince in such a pleasing rest,  
That he may still be leaning on his breast,  
Thinking his hap unto a heaven so wrought:  
But yet perhaps, God is not in his thought.   

The Soldier, he delighteth all in Arms,  
To see his colours in the field displayed,  
And longs to see the issue of those harms,  
That may reveal an enemy dismayed,  
A Fort defeated, or a Town betrayed,  
And still to be in action, day and night:  
But little thinks on God in all the fight.   

The worldly Scholar loves a world of Books,  
And spends his life in many an idle line:  
Mean while his heart, to heaven but little looks,  
Nor loves to think upon a thought divine:  
These thoughts of ours (alas) so low incline,  
We seek to know, what nature can effect:  
But unto God, have small, or no respect.   

The Poet, with his fictions, and his fancies,  
Pleaseth himself with humorous inventions:  
Which well considered, are a kind of franzies,  
That carry little truth in their intentions:  
While wit and reason, falling at contentions,  
Make wisdom find, that follies strong illusion  
Brings wit and senses wholly to confusion.   

The worldly Lawyer studieth right and wrong:  
But how he judgeth, there the question lies.  
For, if you look for what his love doth long,  
It is the profit of his plea doth rise,  
There is the worldly Lawyer's Paradise:  
He neither longs, the right, nor wrong, to see:  
But to be fingering of the golden fee.   

The Cosmographer doth the world survey,  
The hills, and dales, the nooks and little crooks,  
The woods, the plains, the high, and the by-way,  
The Seas, the Rivers, and the little brooks:  
All these he finds within his compassed books;  
And with his needle, makes his measure even:  
But, all this whlie he doth not think of heaven.   

Th'Astronomer stands staring on the Sky,  
And will not have a thought beneath a star:  
But, by his speculation doth espy  
A world of wonder, coming from afar;  
And tells of times, and natures, peace and war:  
Of Mars his sword, and Mercury his Rod:  
But all this while, he little thinks on God.   

The worldly Merchant ventreth far and near?  
And shuns nor Land, nor Sea to make a gain,  
Thinks neither travail, care, nor cost too dear,  
If that his profit countervail his pain,  
While so his mind is on the getting vain,  
That if his Ship, do safely come on shore,  
Gold is his God, and he desires no more.   

The worldly Courtier learns to crouch and creep,  
Speak fair, wait close, observe his time and place,  
And wake, and watch and scarcely catch a sleep,  
Till he have got into some favours grace,  
And will all cunning in his course embrace,  
That may unto Authority advance:  
But if he think of God, it is a chance.   

The worldly Farmer fills his Barns with Corn,  
And ploughs, and sows, and digs, and delves, & hedges,  
Looks to his cattle, will not lose a horn,  
Fels down his woods, and falls unto his wedges,  
And grinds his Axes, and doth mend their edges,  
And dearly sells, that he good cheap hath bought:  
But, all the while God is not in his thought.   

The Sailor, he doth by his compass stand,  
And weighs his anchors, and doth hoist his sails,  
And longs for nothing, but to get on land,  
While many a storm his starting spirit quails,  
And fear of Pirates, his poor heart assails:  
But once on shore, carouse and casts off fear,  
Yet scarcely thinks on God that set him there.   

The worldly Preacher talks of Sacrifice,  
Of Sacraments, and holy Mysteries:  
Mean while, he longs but for the Benefice,  
That should preserve his purse from beggaries,  
Because he loves no worldly miseries.  
For many a Preacher, that God's word hath taught,  
Shows by his life, God lives not in his thought.   

The world's Physician, that in sickness tries  
The nature of the herbs and Minerals:  
And, in his simples, and his compounds spies,  
Which way to make the Patient's funerals,  
Or profit by his Cures in generals,  
longs but to see how long they may endure:  
But scarcely thinks on God in all the Cure.   

The world's physician, that doth tune his voice,  
Unto such notes as Musics skill hath set:  
Whose heart doth in the harmony rejoice,  
Where pleasing Consorts are most kindly met:  
But still perhaps his spirit doth forget,  
In all his hymns, and songs, and sweetest lays,  
To think of God, or of his worthy praise.   

The Politician hath a world of plots,  
In which his spirit hath his special spies,  
Ties, and unties a Thousand sundry knots,  
In which the substance of his study lies:  
And many tricks his close experience tries,  
How to deceive the world with many a wile:  
But never thinks on God in all the while.   

The travailer delighteth in the view  
Of change and choice of sundry kind of creatures:  
To mark the habits, and to note the hue  
Of far borne people, and their sundry natures,  
Their shapes, their speech, their gates, their looks, their features,  
And longs abroad to make his life's abode:  
Yet haply never longs to be with God.   

The Painter in his colours takes delight,  
And near the life, to make the livelihood:  
While only shadows do deceive the sight,  
That take such pleasure in a piece of wood:  
But doth not long for that same living food,  
Which neither eye hath seen, nor heart conceived,  
The God of truth, that never soul deceived.   

The Lover, he, but on his Lady thinketh,  
And how to catch her in a kind content,  
And looks, and leers, and trolls the eye, and winketh,  
And seeks how thoughts in silence may be sent,  
And longs to see the end of his intent,  
And thinks himself a King, to get a kiss:  
But where is God, in all these thoughts of his?   

Th'Artificer that hath a work to do,  
And brings his hand unto his heads devise,  
longs till he see, what it will come unto,  
And how his pains have profit in the price,  
And having cast it over twice or thrice,  
joys in his heart: but scarcely hath a thought,  
To thank his God, that him the cunning taught.   

The Churl, that sits and champes upon his chaff,  
And will not stir a foot from his Barn flower,  
Except it be, among his bags to laugh,  
He can the poor so with his purse devour,  
longs but to use the poison of his power,  
T'enrich himself, to bring a world to nought,  
Shows, that God never dwells within his thought.   

As for those beggarly conditions  
Of basest trades, that like to miry hogs,  
Do show their spirits dispositions,  
In digging with their noses under logs,  
For slime and worms: or like to ravening dogs,  
Long but for that, which doth the belly fill,  
Most of them think on God against their will.   

These are the worldlings, and their world's delights,  
Whose longing, God knows, is not worth the loving:  
These are the objects of those evil sights,  
That virtue hath from her fair eyes removing.  
These are the passions of corruptions proving:  
But, they that love, and long for God his sight,  
In worldly trifles never take delight.   

The Prince anointed with the oil of grace,  
Who sits with mercy, in the seat of peace,  
Will long to see his Saviour in the face,  
And, all his right into his hands release,  
(Whose only sight would make all sorrow cease)  
And lay both Crown, and Kingdom at his feet,  
But of his presence to enjoy the sweet.   

The councillor with heavenly grace inspired,  
Where wisdom guides the lineaments of wit,  
Although he hath to honour's place aspired,  
His heart doth show, it longs not after it:  
His love desires, a higher mark to hit:  
For while he leaneth on his Prince's breast,  
His longing is, but with his God to rest.   

The Courtier, that is once in God his grace,  
What ever countenance in the Court he bears,  
His heart aspireth to a better place:  
Which humble love doth long for with those tears,  
Which all too nought, the pride of pleasure wears,  
And never rests until his God he see,  
With whom his soul in love doth long to be.   

The Soldier, that hath fought the spirits fight,  
Will put off war, and long to live in peace,  
And not in discord, but concord delight,  
Where gracious kindness, makes all quarrels cease,  
While patience, doth all passions so appease,  
That, he shall find that Soldier only blest,  
Whose faith, in God, doth set his soul at rest.   

The Lawyer, that hath read the Laws of God,  
And in his heart is touched with his love:  
And knows the smart of the supernal Rod,  
Will one day work, for silly souls behove.  
Who have their comfort in the heavens above,  
Will leave all golden fees, to see the grace,  
That mercy's justice shows in jesus face.   

The Scholar, that begins with Christ his cross,  
And seeks good speed, but in the holy Ghost,  
Finds by his book, that silver is but dross,  
And all his labour, in his study lost,  
Where faith, of mercy, cannot sweetly boast,  
And love doth long for any other bliss,  
Then, what in God, and in his grace is.   

And such a Poet as the Psalmist was,  
Who had no mind, but on his masters love:  
Whose Muses did the world in Music pass,  
That only song but of the souls behove,  
In giving glory to the God above,  
Would all worlds fictions wholly lay aside,  
And only long, but with the Lord to bide.   

The Cosmographer, that by rules of grace,  
surveys the City of the heavenly Saints,  
Will never long for any earthly place,  
That either pen prescribes, or Painter paints:  
But in the faith, that never fails, nor faints,  
Will long to see in heavens jerusalem,  
The gracious God of glories Diadem.   

The true Astronomer, that sees the Sun,  
And knows that God, from whom it takes his light,  
And in the course, the Moon and stars do run,  
Finds the true guider of the day and night,  
longs but to see his only blessed sight,  
Who Sun, and Moon, and stars their brightness gives,  
And, in whose face, all brightness glory lives.   

The Mariner, that oft hath past the Seas,  
And in his perils, seen the power of God,  
Whose only mercy doth the storms appease,  
And brings the Ship unto his wished Road,  
Will never long, on earth to make abode:  
But in the heavens, to see that blessed hand,  
That, at his beck, so rules both Sea and Land.   

The Merchant, that hath cast within his mind,  
How much the spirits gain the flesh surmounts,  
And by his faith, in mercy's love doth find  
The joyful sum of such a soul's accounts,  
As to salvation of the whole amounts,  
Will leave the world, but on Christ's face to look,  
Which all the faithful make their living Book.   

The Farmer, that hath felt his neighbour's need,  
And found, how God, and charity are one:  
And knows there is a better kind of feed,  
Then grass, or Corn, or flesh, or blood, or bone,  
Will wish himself from his world's treasure gone,  
Upon those joys to feed in mercy's bliss,  
Where Christ his presence is heavens Paradise.   

The true Physician that doth know the natures,  
And dispositions of each Element,  
And knows that God created hath all Creatures  
Beneath, and eke above the Firmament,  
And over all, hath only Government,  
Will only long that glorious God to know,  
That gives the sickness and doth cure it so.   

The soul's physician, that doth find the ground,  
Of truest Music, but in God his grace,  
Will think all singing, but an idle sound,  
Where God his praise hath not the highest place,  
And only longs to see that blessed face,  
Which makes the Virgins, Saints, and Angels sing,  
An Halleluiah, to their heavenly King.   

The Preacher, that doth in his soul believe  
The word of God, which to the world he teacheth,  
And in his spirit inwardly doth grieve,  
He cannot live so heavenly as he preacheth,  
While faith no further then to mercy reacheth,  
Would wish in soul, to leave his Benefice,  
To make himself to Christ a Sacrifice.   

The Politician, that hath plotted much,  
In worldly matters greatly to his gain,  
Will find, if God do once his spirit touch,  
Zacheus heart will have another vain,  
To climb aloft, and to come down again,  
And leave all plots, to come but to that place,  
Where he might see sweet jesus in the face.   

Th'Artificer, that hath a work in hand,  
And feels the grace of God within his heart:  
And by the same, doth surely understand,  
How God alone perfecteth every part,  
And only is the giver of all Art,  
Will gladly leave his work, and long to be,  
Where he might Christ his soul's workmaster see.   

The Painter, that doth paint a dainty Image,  
So near the life as may be to the same,  
And makes an Ass unto an Owl do homage,  
While shadows bring the senses out of frame,  
If God his heart, once with his love inflame,  
His Pictures all will under foot be trod,  
And he will long, but for the living God.   

The travailer, that walks the world about,  
And sees the glorious works of God on high,  
If God his grace once kindly find him out,  
And unto heaven do lift his humble eye,  
His soul in faith, will such perfections spy,  
That leaving all, that he on earth can see,  
His love will long, but with the Lord to be.   

The Churl, that never chanced upon a thought  
Of charity, nor what belongs thereto,  
If God his grace, have once his spirit brought,  
To feel what good the faithful almers do,  
The love of Christ will so his spirit woo,  
That he will leave Barnes corn, and bags of Coin,  
And land and life, with jesus love to join.   

Thus, from the Prince, unto the poorest state,  
Who seems to live, as void of reason's sense,  
If God once come, who never comes too late,  
And touch the soul, with his sweet Quintessence  
Of mercies gracious glorious patience:  
His soul will leave what ever it doth love,  
And long to live, but with the Lord above.   

Now, to the tenure of that longing time,  
That loving spirits think too long will last,  
The maid new married, in her pregnant prime,  
longs till the time of forty weeks be past,  
And blameth time, he makes no greater haste,  
Till in her arms, she sweetly have received,  
Her Comforts fruit within her womb conceived.   

Thus forty weeks, she labours all in love,  
And at the last doth travail all in pain:  
But, shortly after doth such comfort prove,  
As glads her heart, and makes all whole again:  
So, in her Infants pretty smiling vain,  
Pleasing herself, that all her grief is gone,  
When she may have her babe to look upon.   

Penelope, at her dear loves departing,  
In sober kindness did conceal her care:  
Though in her heart she had that inward smarting,  
That times continuance after did declare:  
Where constant love did show, without compare,  
A perfect passion of true virtues vain,  
Longing but for Ulysses home again.   

How many years, the Story doth set down,  
In which she felt, the gall of absence grief:  
When constant faith, on foul effects did frown,  
Which sought to be to charity a thief,  
Of nature's beauty, the true honour chief:  
Long languishing in absence cruel hell:  
But, when she saw his presence all is well.   

But, if I may in holy lines begin,  
To speak of joseph▪ and his longing love  
Unto his brethren, but to Benjamin  
To note the passion, nature did approve,  
Which did such tears in his affection move,  
That well from thence, the Proverb sweet might spring,  
The love of Brethren is a blessed thing.   

Well may I see the notes of nature's grief,  
In absence of the object of affection:  
And longing for the substance of relief,  
In presence find the life of loves perfection,  
While eye, and heart, are led by one direction.  
Yet all this while, I do not truly prove  
The blessed longing of the spirits love.   

When Mary Magdalene, so full of sin,  
As made her heart a harbour of ill thought,  
Felt once the grace of God to enter in,  
And drive them out that her destruction sought:  
Her soul was then to jesus love so wrought,  
As that with tears in true affect did prove  
The pleasing longing of the Spirits love.   

In grief she went all weeping to his grave,  
Longing to see him, or alive or dead:  
And would not cease until her love might have  
Her longed fruit on which her spirit fed:  
One blessed crumb of that sweet heavenly bread  
Of Angel's food, but of her Lord a sight;  
Whose heavenly presence proved her soul's delight.   

Midas did long for nothing else burr Gold,  
And he was kindly choked for his choice:  
Such longing love doth with too many hold,  
Which only do in worldly dross rejoice.  
But did they hearken to the heavenly voice,  
Their Diamonds should not so for dross be sold,  
And they would long for God, and not for gold.   

Zacheus, too long, longed for such dross,  
Till jesus came, his spirits further joy;  
And then he found his gain did yield but loss,  
While sin in conscience bred the souls annoy,  
And unto heaven the world was but a toy:  
He left it all and climbed up a tree,  
To show his longing, how but Christ to see.   

And well he longed that so his love received;  
Who sweetly saw, and kindly called him down:  
His stature low; but his love high conceived:  
Who so was graced by mercy's glories crown,  
As, having cause upon his sins to frown,  
Forgave the works that did deserve damnation,  
And filled his house with glory of salvation.   

A blessed longing of a blessed love.  
Would so all souls did love, and so did long:  
And in their longing might so sweetly prove  
The gracious ground of such a glorious song,  
As kills all sin, that doth the spirit wrong:  
And sing with Simeon at his saviours sight,  
Oh now my soul depart in peace delight.   

Oh blessed Simeon, blessed was thy love,  
And thy loves longing for thy Saviour so:  
Who wrought so sweetly for thy souls behove,  
As, from thy prayers would not let thee go,  
Till to thy love, he did his presence show:  
Which made thee sing, when sorrows all did cease;  
Lord, let thy Servant now depart, in peace.   

For I, according to thy word, have seen  
The glorious substance of my soul's salvation:  
Thy word, in whom my trust hath ever been,  
And now hath found my comforts confirmation,  
Thus did he make a joyful declaration  
Of that sweet sight of his sweet saviours face,  
That was the glory of his spirits grace.   

How many years, he all in prayer spent,  
For the beholding of his blessed love:  
What was the issue of his hopes event,  
And how his prayers did prevail above,  
That so his God did unto mercy move,  
As to his arms, to send his only Son,  
The Story doth all th'Apostles run.   

He was well called, good Simeon, for that grace,  
That God had given the spirit of his love:  
That love that longed, but in his saviours face,  
To see the blessing of his souls behove:  
And blessed prayer, that did truly prove,  
A blessed soul, that could not prayer cease,  
Till Christ his presence came to give it peace.   

So should all souls, their loves chief longing have,  
All souls I mean, of every Christian heart,  
That seek or hope, both heart and soul to save,  
From Hell, damnation, and supernal smart:  
This is the love, that in the living part,  
Of mercy's power, shall find that blessedness,  
That is the spirits only happiness.   

Nor can love look to limit out a time,  
But now, and then, and evermore attend:  
For he shall never to that comfort clime,  
That will not all his life in prayer spend,  
Until he see his Saviour in the end:  
In whose sweet face, doth all and only rest  
The heavenly joy, that makes the spirit blest.   

Blessed be the spirit, that so longs and loves  
As did Zacheus and good Simeon:  
And, from his faithful prayer never moves,  
Until he find his life to look upon:  
And, in such love is all so over gone,  
That, in such joy his heart and spirit dwells,  
As, having Christ, it cares for nothing else.   

Oh blessed Christ, the essence of all bliss,  
All blessed souls loves longings chief delight:  
What heart can think, how that soul blessed is,  
That ever hath his Sauiou●r in his sight?  
The sunny day that never hath a night.  
Oh that my spirit might so ever pray,  
That I might live to see that blessed day.   

The day that only springeth from on high,  
That high day light, wherein the heavens do live:  
The life that loves, but to behold that eye,  
Which doth the glory of all brightness give,  
And from th'enlightened, doth all darkness drive:  
Where Saints do see, and Angels know to be  
A brighter light, than Saints or Angels see.   

In this lights love, Oh, let me ever live,  
And let my soul have never other love,  
But, all the pleasures of the world to give,  
The smallest spark of such a joy to prove,  
And ever pray unto my God above,  
To grant my humble soul good Simeons' grace,  
In love to see my Saviour in the face.   

O face more fair, than fairness can contain:  
O eye more bright than brightness can declare:  
O light more pure, than passion can explain:  
O life more blest, then may with bliss compare:  
O heaven of heavens, where such perfections are,  
Let my soul live to love, to long, to be  
Ever in prayer, but to look on thee.   

But, oh unworthy eye of such a sight:  
And all unworthy heart of such a love:  
Unworthy love, to long for such a light:  
Unworthy longing such a life to prove:  
Unworthy life, so high a suit to move.  
Thus, all unworthy of so high a grace,  
How shall I see my Saviour in the face.   

All by the prayer of true penitence,  
Where faith in tears attendeth grace's time,  
My Soul doth hope in mercy's patience,  
My heart all cleansed from my sinful crime,  
To see the springing of Aurora's prime,  
In those bright beams of that sweet blessed Sun  
Of my dear God, in whom all bliss begun.   

And that my soul may such a blessing see,  
Let my heart pray, and praying never cease,  
Till heart and soul may both together be:  
Blest in thy sight all sorrows doth release:  
And with good Simeon then depart in peace.  
Oh then; but then, and only ever then,  
Blessed be my soul, sweet jesus say Amen.   
Gloria in excelsis Deo.   

What is love.  

MEn talk of love, that know not what it is.  
For could we know what love may be indeed,  
We would not have our minds so led amiss,  
With idle toys, that wanton humours feed:  
But, in the rules of higher reason read  
What love may be, so from the world concealed:  
Yet, all too plainly, to the world revealed.   

Some one doth feign, Love is a blinded God,  
His blindness, him more half a Devil shows.  
For Love, with blindness, never made abode:  
Which all the power of wit and reason knows:  
And from whose grace, the ground of knowledge grows:  
But such blind eyes, that can no better see,  
Shall never live to come, where love may be.   

Some only think it only is a thought,  
Bred in the eye, and buzzeth in the brain,  
And breaks the heart, until the mind be brought,  
To feed the senses, with a sortie vain,  
Till wits once gone, come never home again:  
And then too late, in mad conceit do prove,  
Fantastic wits are ever void of love.   

Some think it is a babe of beauties getting,  
Nursed up by Nature, and times only breeding:  
A pretty work, to set the wits a whetting,  
Upon a fancy of an humours feeding;  
Where reason finds but little sense in reeding.  
No, no: I see, children must go to School;  
Philosophy is not for every fool.   

And, some again think there is no such thing▪  
But in conceit, a kind of coined jest:  
Which only doth of idle humours spring,  
Like to a Bird within a Phoenix nest;  
Where never yet did any young one rest.  
But let such fools take heed of blasphemy:  
For love is high in his Divinity.   

But to be short, to learn to find him out,  
'tis not in beauties eyes, nor babies hearts:  
He must go beat another world about,  
And seek for love, but in those living parts  
Of reasons light, that is the life of Arts;  
That will perceive, though he can never see  
The perfect essence whereof love may be.   

It is too clear a brightness for man's eye:  
Too high a wisdom for his wits to find:  
Too deep a secret for his sense to try:  
And, all too heavenly, for his earthly mind▪  
It is a grace of such a glorious kind,  
As gives the soul, a secret power to know it.  
But gives no heart, nor spirit power to show it.   

It is of heaven and earth the highest beauty,  
The powerful hand of heavens and earth's creation▪  
The due commander of all spirits duty,  
The Deity of Angel's Adoration:  
The glorious substance of the soul's salvation:  
The light of Truth, that all perfection trieth,  
And life that gives the life that never dieth.   

It is the height of God, and hate of ill,  
Triumph of Truth, and falsehoods overthrow:  
The only worker of the highest will;  
And only knowledge, that doth knowledge know:  
And only ground where it doth only grow:  
It is in sum the substance of all bliss,  
Without whose blessing all thing nothing is.   

But in itself, itself, it all containeth:  
And from itself, but of itself it giveth:  
It nothing loseth, and it nothing gaineth,  
But in the glory of itself, it liveth:  
A joy, which soon away all sorrow driveth:  
The proved truth, of all perfections story,  
Our God incomprehensible in glory.   

Thus, is it not a Riddle to be read:  
And yet, a secret to be found in reading:  
But, when the heart joins issue with the head,  
In settled faith to seek the spirits feeding,  
While in the wounds that ever fresh are bleeding,  
In Christ his side, the faithful soul may see,  
In perfect life, what perfect love may be.   

No further seek, then for to find out love,  
Then in the lives of everliving bliss,  
Where careful conscience may in comfort prove,  
In sacred love, that heavenly substance is,  
That never guides the gracious mind amiss:  
But makes the soul, to find in life's behove,  
What thing indeed, end nothing else is love?   

Then make no doubt of either good or bad,  
If this or that, in substance, or in thought:  
And by what means, it may be sought or had:  
Whereof it is, and how it may be wrought:  
Let it suffice the word of truth hath taught,  
It is the grace, but of the living God,  
Before beginning, that with him abode.   

It brought forth power to work, wisdom to will,  
justice to judge, Mercy to execute,  
Virtue to plant, Charity to fill,  
Time to direct, Truth falsehood to confute,  
Pity to plead, in pemtences suit,  
Patience to bide, and peace to give the rest,  
To prove how love doth make the spirit blest.   

And this is God, and this same God is love.  
For God, and love in charity are one:  
And charity is that same God above,  
In whom doth live that only love alone,  
Without whose grace, true love is never none.  
Then seek no further, what is love to find?  
But only carry God within thy mind.   

Leave in the world to look for any love:  
For on the earth is little faith to find;  
And faithless hearts, in too much truth do prove  
Love doth not live, where care is so unkind:  
Men in their natures differ from their kind.  
Sin fills the world so full of secret evils:  
Men should be Gods to men, but they are devils.   

Christ loved to death, yet love did never die.  
For, love, by death, did work the death of death.  
Oh living love, oh heavenly Mystery,  
To great a glory, for this world beneath;  
The blessed breathing, of the highest breath,  
Blessed are they borne, that only find in thee,  
Oh blessed God, what blessed love: nay be.   

Let then the Poets leave their idle humours,  
That write of love where there is no such thing:  
And let the world not hearken to those rumours,  
That speak of love, or whence that life doth spring:  
Except it be in this our blessed king,  
And Lord of life, in whom our fowls may prove  
The only life of everliving love.   

Let wantoness weep, that laughing sought for love,  
Within the Gems of their mistaken joys:  
And turn with tears, that perfect path to prove,  
That leads the spirit, from the world's annoys,  
Unto that treasure, that admits no toys:  
But in the riches of the soul doth prove  
The heavenly life of blessed spirits love.   

And, let the wise (if any such there be,  
As God forbid, but there were many such,  
That in their souls by secret wisdom see,  
In the true trial of true virtues touch,  
The worth that faith can not affect too much)  
Confess, they find, in truths effects alone,  
That God is love, without whom there is none.   

Amid the sky, there is one only sun,  
Amid the air, one only Phoenix flies:  
One only Time, by which all hours do run:  
One only life, that lives and never dies:  
One only eye, that every thought descries:  
One only light, that shows one only love:  
One only love, and that is God above.   

To say yet further, what this love may be,  
It is a holy heavenly excellence,  
Above the power of any eye to see,  
Or wit to find by world's experience:  
It is the spirit of life's Quintessence:  
Whose rare effects, may partly be perceived:  
But to the full, can never be conceived.   

It is repentance sweet restorative,  
The Rosa solis, the sick soul reviveth,  
It is the faithful heart's preservative:  
It is the haven, where happy grace arriveth;  
It is the life, that death of power depriveth:  
It is in sum, the everlasting bliss,  
Where, God alone in all his glory is.   

It is a joy that never comes in jest:  
A comfort, that doth cut off every care;  
A rule, wherein the life of life doth rest,  
Where all the faithful find their happy fare,  
A good, that doth but only God declare.  
A line, that his right hand doth draw so even,  
As leads the soul, the high way unto heaven.   

If then henceforth you ask what thing is love:  
In light, in life, in grace, in God, go look it:  
And if in these you do not truly prove,  
How, in your hearts, you may for ever book it;  
Unhappy think yourselves, you have mistook it.  
For why the life that death hath over-trod,  
Is but the love of Grace: and that is God.   

All kind of love but this, is but mistaken:  
And all conceit but this, is misconceived:  
All kind of love but this must be forsaken:  
All trust, but in this truth may be deceived:  
All in this love, all truth may be perceived:  
All heart's belief, and all souls seal unto it,  
All what is good, this love doth only do it.   

What shall I say? but 'tis beyond my saying,  
To tell you all may of this love be said:  
And yet, that truth be free from all betraying,  
That hath no more, than what she knows, bewrayed,  
Let me but stay, but where as she hath stayed,  
And say but this as I have said before,  
That love is God, and I can say no more.   
Solus Amor Deus.   

Solus in toto laudandus Deus.  

OH blessed love, the life of blessedness,  
If ever thou didst ●elpe a sinner's heart,  
Behold my tears, and in thy holiness,  
Assist my spirit with thy sacred Art,  
That all the world may joy to hear me sing  
The holy praises of my heavenly King.   

Inspire me with that understanding power,  
Which may conceive, and by desert commend  
The top of truth on that triumphant Tower,  
Where graces dwell, and glories never end:  
Let some such Angel help me in devising,  
As speaks of praise in glories ever rising.   

Oh love, how gracious is that beauty held,  
That gives the world but shadows to behold!  
But, oh what glory mayst thou justly yield,  
Unto that life, which doth thy life unfold!  
And while all shadows fade, and fall away,  
Is ever bright, and never can decay.   

In nature's beauty, all the best can be  
Are shadowing colours to deceive the eye:  
But in this beauty, may our spirits see  
A light wherein we live, and cannot die;  
A light whereby we see that most avails us,  
The comfort of our faith, that never fails us.   

How bountiful is that fair hand accounted,  
That of his store, a little stint bestoweth!  
But, how in bounty hath that hand surmounted,  
That ever giving, ask over-goeth:  
And for no gift, shall in true grace be scanting,  
Doth give itself, to see no comfort wanting.   

How wise is he, that teacheth how to wield  
The world at will, by wicked wits devise!  
But wiser much that finds that wit beguiled,  
That never seeks the way to Paradise:  
Oh blessed love, none but thy Lord of light  
Doth give the soul that perfect heavenly light.   

How kind is he, that doth his friend relieve,  
In time of need, of worldly minds reputed?  
But he that helps the heart, that him doth grieve,  
To such a mind, what praise may be imputed!  
How kind is then our Christ, let his death try,  
Who hated sin, yet did for sinners die.   

How valiant is he held, that can subdue,  
By force of hand, the fury of his foe!  
But, in whose hand such valour ever grew,  
As gave both death and hell their overthrow?  
None but thy Lord my love, that God of light,  
Who makes all powers to tremble at his sight.   

How patient is that poor conceit esteemed,  
That can put up a wrong, or cross, or two?  
But, how more patient may our Christ be deemed,  
That bore all wrongs that all the world could do!  
Oh, peerless pattern of true patience power,  
That conquered death, in passions dying hour!   

How just is he, who as the Law doth bear,  
The likeliest truth his judgement doth pronounce!  
But, how more just, whom neither hope nor fear  
Could ever move to challenge or denounce!  
Sweet jesus Christ, who never Caesar wrongeth,  
And gives to God, that unto God belongeth.   

How gracious is that creature to be thought,  
That doth repent him of his wickedness!  
But, how more gracious, in whom God hath wrought  
The perfect height of Grace's holiness!  
It is thy life, my love, our Lord and God,  
Who by his Grace, all sin hath over-trod.   

How comfortable is esteemed that hand,  
That heals the sick, although not near to death!  
But, what more comfort in that power doth stand,  
Then to the dead can give a living breath!  
My love thou knowest that Lazarus can tell,  
When Mary's tears did please our master well.   

What should I in particulars proceed?  
When all and sum, that heaven and earth can show▪  
Are short to find how far he doth exceed  
The praise of praise, where highest praises go.  
But, worship him in whom all Graces live,  
Worthy more glory than the world can give.   

And since my God and everliving Lord,  
All in himself, all height of glory holdeth:  
And to the faithful only doth afford  
No more to know, them mercies care unfoldeth:  
Let my souls love but humbly fall before him,  
In admiration, wholly to adore him.   

For beauty, bounty, wisdom, valour, kindness,  
Grace, patience, comfort, justice, truth, perfection:  
In whom all these do live, what reasons blindness  
Can think to reach in praises due perfection?  
Where in the height, to have all glory sounded,  
Both heavens and earth, and Angels are confounded.   

And since far more then most that can be thought,  
lives in the light of his incomprehension:  
Which never sense, that ever proudly sought,  
But perished in the instant of intention:  
Ler my soul sing, when all hearts strings are broken,  
His praise is more, then can in praise be spoken.   
Gloria in excelsis Deo.   


When the Angels all are singing,  
All of glory ever springing,  
In the ground of high heavens graces,  
Where all virtues have their places:  
Oh that my poor soul were near them,  
With an humble heart to hear them.   

Then should faith in loves submission,  
joying but in mercy's blessing,  
Where that sins are in remission,  
Sing the joyful souls confessing,  
Of her comforts high commending,  
All in glory, never ending.   

But, ah wretched sinful creature,  
How should the corrupted nature  
Of this wicked heart of mine,  
Think upon that love divine,  
That doth tune the Angel's voices,  
While the host of heaven rejoices!   

No, the song of deadly sorrow,  
In the night, that hath no morrow,  
And their pains are never ended,  
That have heavenly powers offended,  
Is more fitting to the merit,  
Of my foul infected spirit.   

Yet while mercy is removing  
All the sorrows of the loving,  
How can faith be full of blindness?  
To despair of mercy's kindness,  
While the hand of heaven is giving,  
Comfort from the everliving.   

No, my soul be no more sorry:  
Look unto that life of glory,  
Which the grace of faith regardeth,  
And the tears of love rewardeth:  
Where the soul the comfort getteth,  
That the Angels music setteth.   

There when thou art well conducted,  
And by heavenly grace instructed,  
How the faithful thoughts to fashion  
Of a ravished lovers passion:  
Sing with saints, to Angels nighest,  
Halleluiah, in the highest.   
Gloria in excelsis Deo.