THE PASSIONS of the SPIRIT.  
LONDON Printed by Thomas Este, dwelling in Aldersgate-streete. 1599   

TO THE WORSHIPFUL and virtuous gentlewoman, Mris MARY HOUGHTON, wife to the worshipful Mr Peter Houghton Esquire, Alderman, and now one of the shrifes of London. 1594.  
IT is the general received opinion among most men that nothing is more odious in the sight of god & good men, than unthankfulness. And in deed, the trees & plants, & the earth itself, which for the rain and labour that is beestowed upon them, yield forth fruit, show themselves thankful. And therefore I was so bold, (right Worshipful) having received many favours at your hands, that I might not seem to have received them in vain by unthanfulnesse, to offer unto your worship's hands this little present Greater men may easily offer greater gifts. But if gifts may find acceptance according to the good hearts & minds of the giver, I fear not but this little gift, though small in view, shall be graciously accepted? both because the matter is precious, & it proceedeth from a mind as willing to show it thankful, as whosoever else that commends himself by a greater present. And so wishing unto your worshipful husband and yourself, all hearts content in this life, & everlasting happiness in the life to come, humbly take my leave.  
Your worships at command, Thomas Este.   

The passions of the spirit  


WHere shall I find  
that most mournful muse,  
That never heard  
of any thing but moan,  
And read the passion  
that her pen doth use,  
When she and sorrow  
sadly sits alone,  
To tell the world  
more than the world can tell  
What fits in deed  
most fitly figure hell?   

Let me not think  
once of the smallest thought,  
Nor speak of less  
than of the greatest grief,  
Where every sense  
with sorrows over wrought,  
lives but in death  
despairing of relief,  
While thus the heart  
with torments torn asunder,  
May of the world  
be called the woeful wonder.   

The day like nights,  
all darkened by distress,  
Pleasure become  
a subject full of pain,  
The spirit overpress  
with heaviness,  
While helpless horror  
vexeth every vain:  
Death shakes his dart,  
grief hath my grave prepared:  
Yet to more sorrow,  
is my spirit spared.   

The Owly eyes  
that not endure the light,  
The night ravens song  
that sounds of nought but death,  
The Cockatrice  
that killeth with her sight,  
The poisoned air  
that chokes the sweetest breath,  
Thunder and earthquakes  
all together met,  
These tell a little  
how my life is set.   

Where words dissolved  
to sighs, sighs into tears,  
And every tear  
to torments of the mind,  
The minds distress,  
into those deadly fears,  
That find more death  
than death itself can find.  
Death to that life,  
that living doth descry,  
A little more  
yet of my misery.   

Put all the woes  
of all the world together:  
Sorrow and death,  
sit down in all their pride,  
Let misery bring  
all her muses hither,  
With all the horror  
that the heart can bide.  
Then read the state  
but of my ruthful story,  
And say my grief  
hath gotten sorrows glory.   

For nature's sickness  
sometime may have ease,  
Fortune (though fickle)  
sometime is a friend,  
The mind's affliction  
patience may appease,  
And death is cause  
that many torments end:  
But ever sick, crossed,  
grieved, and living dying,  
Think on the spirit  
in this sorrow lying.   

To show the nature  
of my pain (alas,)  
pain hath no nature  
to descry my pain,  
But where that pain  
itself in pain doth pass.  
Think on vexation  
so in every vain,  
That hopeless, helpless,  
endless pains may tell,  
Save hell itself,  
but mine there is no hell.   

If sickness be a ground  
of deadly grief,  
Consuming cares  
have caught me by the heart:  
If want of comfort,  
hopeless of relief,  
Be further woe  
to way my inward smart:  
If friends unkindness,  
so my grief is grounded:  
If causeless wronged,  
so my heart is wounded.   

If love refused  
so read on my ruin,  
If truth disgraced,  
so my sorrow moved,  
If faith abused  
the ground my torments grew in,  
If virtue scorned  
so my death approved,  
If death delaying,  
so my heart perplexed,  
If living dying,  
so my spirit vexed:   

My infant's years  
misspent in childish toys,  
My riper age  
in rules of little reason,  
My better years  
in all mistaken joys,  
My present time  
(Oh most unhappy season,)  
In fruitless labours  
and in ruthless love,  
O what a horror  
hath my heart to prove!   

I sigh to see  
mine infancy misspent,  
I mourn to find  
my youthful life misled,  
I weep to feel  
my further discontent,  
I die to try,  
my love is living dead,  
I sigh, I mourn,  
I weep, I living die,  
And yet must live  
to show more misery.   

The hunted Hart  
sometime doth leave the hound:  
My heart (alas)  
is never out of chase.  
The lime-hounds lease  
sometimes is yet unbound:  
My hands are hopeless  
of so high a grace.  
Summer restores  
what winter doth deprive:  
But my heart withered  
never can revive.   

I can not figure  
sorrow in conceit,  
Sorrow exceeds  
all figures of her sense:  
But on my woe  
when sorrows all may wait,  
To see a note  
exceed their excellence,  
Let me conclude  
to see how I am wounded,  
Sorrow herself  
is in herself confounded.   

But whereof grows  
the passion of this pain,  
That thus perplexeth  
every inward part?  
Whence is the humour  
of this hateful vain,  
So damps the spirit,  
and consumes the heart?  
Oh let my soul  
with bitter tears confess,  
It is the ground  
of all unhappiness.   

If lack of wealth,  
I am the note of need:  
If lack of friends,  
no faith on earth remains:  
If lack of health,  
see how my heart it bleeds:  
If lack of pleasure,  
look upon my pains:  
If lack of wealth,  
of friends, of health or pleasure,  
Say then my sorrows  
must be out of measure.   

Measure? no measure  
measure can my thought,  
But that one thought  
that is beyond all measure:  
Which knowing how  
my sorrows have been wrought,  
Can bring my heart  
into her highest pleasure,  
Which either must  
my sorrows cut of quite,  
Or never let me think  
upon delight.   

There is a lack  
that tells me of a life,  
There is a loss  
that tells me of a love:  
Between them both  
a state of such a strife,  
As makes my spirit  
such a passion prove:  
That lack of th'one  
and thothers loss (Alas)  
Makes me the wofullst wretch  
that ever was.   

My dearest love  
that dearest bought my love,  
My only life  
by whom I only live.  
Was ever faith  
did such affection prove?  
Or ever grace  
did such a glory give?  
But such a lack  
and such a loss aye me,  
Must needs the sorrow  
of all sorrows be.   

My love is fair  
and fairer than the sun,  
Which hath his light  
but from his fairest love,  
Oh fairest love  
whose light is never done,  
and fairest light  
doth such a love approve.  
But such love lost  
and such a life obscured,  
Can there a greater  
sorrow be endured?   

He came from high  
to live with me below:  
He gave me life  
and showed me greatest love.  
Unworthy I,  
so high a worth to know,  
Left my chief bless  
a base choice to prove.  
I saw his wonders,  
yet did I not believe him,  
And for his goodness,  
with my sins did grieve him.   

I saw him faultless,  
yet I did offend him:  
I saw him wronged  
and yet did not excuse him:  
I saw his foes,  
yet sought not to defend him:  
I had his blessings,  
yet I did abuse him.  
But was it mine  
or any others deed?  
Whose ere it was  
it makes my heart to bleed.   

To see the feet  
that traveled for our good,  
To see the hands  
that broke the lively bread,  
To see the head  
whereon our honour stood,  
To see the fruit  
where on our spirits fed:  
These feet, hands bored,  
and his head all bleeding,  
Who doth not die  
with such a sorrow reading?   

He plaest all rest.  
yet had no resting place:  
He healed each pain,  
yet lived in sore distress:  
Deserved all good,  
yet driven to great disgrace:  
Gave all heart's joy,  
himself in heaviness:  
Suffered them live,  
by whom himself was slain:  
Lord who can live▪  
to see such love again?   

A Virgin's child,  
by virtuous power conceived,  
A harmless man,  
that lived for all men's good,  
A faithful friend  
that never faith deceived,  
A heavenly fruit  
for heart especial food,  
A spirit all  
of excellence divine,  
Such is the essence  
of this love of mine.   

Whose Mansion, heaven,  
yet lay within a manger:  
Who gave all food,  
yet sucked a virgin's breast:  
Who could have killed,  
yet fled a threatened danger.  
who sought our quiet  
by his own unrest:  
who died for them,  
which highly did offend him,  
And lives for them  
which can not comprehend him.   

Who came no further  
than his father sent him,  
Who did fulfil  
but what he did command him,  
Who prayed for them  
that proudly did torment him,  
For telling truth  
to what they did demand him,  
Who did all good  
that humbly did entreat him,  
And bore their blows  
that did unkindly beat him.   

A sweet physician  
for the body crazed,  
A heavenly medison  
for the mind diseased,  
A present comfort  
for the wits amazed,  
A joyful spirit  
for the soul displeased.  
The body, mind,  
wit and spirits joy,  
What is the world  
without him but annoy?   

He knew the sickness  
that our souls infected,  
And that his blood  
must only be our cure,  
When so our faith  
his sacred love affected,  
that for our lives  
he would a death endure,  
He knew his passion,  
yet his patience bore it:  
Oh how my soul  
doth sorrow to declare it!   

He healed the sick,  
gave sight unto the blind,  
Speech to the dumb,  
and made the lame to go:  
Unto his love  
he never was unkind,  
He loved his friend  
and he forgave his foe.  
And last his death  
for our love not refused,  
What soul could live  
to see such love misused?   

To note his words  
what wisdom they contain,  
To note his wisdom  
of all worth the wonder,  
To note his works  
what glory they do gain,  
To note his worth,  
world, heaven, and earth, come under.  
To note the glory  
that his Angels give him,  
Fie that the world  
to such disgrace should drive him.   

Unseen he came,  
he might be seen unto us:  
Unwelcome seemed,  
that came for all our wealth  
He came to die,  
that he might comfort do us,  
We slew the subject  
of our spirits health.  
The subject? no,  
the king of all our glory:  
Weep heart to death,  
to tell this doleful story.   

A Lion, where his force  
should be affected,  
And yet a Lamb  
in mildness of his love:  
As true as Turtle,  
to his love elected.  
Sure as mount Zion  
that can never move.  
So mild a strength,  
and so fast truth to prove,  
What soul can live,  
and lack so sweet a love?   

He preached, he prayed,  
he fasted, and he wept,  
The sweet creator  
for his sinful creature:  
The careful watch  
full warily he kept,  
That broke the neck  
even of their foulest nature.  
And when he did  
to happy state restore us,  
Shall we not weep  
that he may not abhor us▪   

To hate a love  
must argue loathsome nature,  
To wrong a friend  
must prove too foul a deed,  
To kill thyself  
will show a cursed creature,  
To slay the soul  
no more damnation need.  
Then, spoil the fruit  
whereon the spirit feedeth,  
O what a hell  
within the soul it breedeth!   

He thought no ill  
but only did all good,  
He gave all right  
and yet all wrong received.  
The fiends temptation,  
strongly he withstood,  
Yet let himself  
by sinners be deceived.  
And see at last  
when he was woe-be-gone him,  
The traitorous world  
did tyrannize upon him.   

His faultless members  
nailed on the cross,  
His holy head  
was crowned all with thorns,  
His garments given  
by lots to gain our loss,  
His power derided  
all with scoffs and scorns,  
His body wounded  
and his spirit vexed:  
To think on this,  
what soul is not perplexed?   

Poor Peter wept  
when he his name denied,  
And Mary Magdalen  
wept for her offence:  
His mother wept  
when she his death espied,  
But yet no tears  
could stand for his defence.  
But if these wept  
to see his woeful case:  
Why die not I  
to think of his disgrace?   

Happy was he  
that suffered death so nigh him:  
That at his end  
repentance might behold him:  
Twice happy life  
that did in love so try him,  
As to his faith  
such favour did unsould him,  
As craving comfort  
but in mercy's eyes,  
That self same day  
did live in Paradise.  
Would I had been  
ordained to such a death,  
To die with him,  
to live with him for ever,  
And from the air,  
but of this blessed breath,  
To suck the life,  
whose love might fail me never,  
And drink of that sweet spring  
that never wasteth,  
And feed of that life's bread  
that ever lasteth.   

Oh would my soul  
were made a sen of tears,  
Mine eyes might wake,  
and never more be sleeping▪  
My heart may bear  
the pains all pleasure wears,  
So I might see him once  
yet in my weeping.  
When joyful voice  
this song might never cease,  
My saviours sight  
hath set my soul in peace.   

Should I esteem  
of any worldly toy,  
That might beehould  
the height of such a treasure?  
Can I be judas  
to my chiefest joy,  
To gain possession  
of a graceless pleasure?  
No: could my soul  
in comfort once conceive him,  
I hope his mercy  
would not let me leave him.   

Blest was the fish  
that but the figure swallowed  
Of my sweet jesus  
but in jonas name:  
More blessed tomb  
by that sweet body hallowed,  
From whence the ground  
of all our glory came?  
Might not my soul  
be sooner in a wish,  
Would I were such a tomb  
or such a fish.   

But jonas left the sea  
and came to land,  
And jesus from the earth  
to heaven ascended:  
Why should I then  
upon more wishes stand,  
But cry for mercy  
where I have offended?  
And say my soul  
unworthy is the place,  
Ever to see  
my Saviour in the face.   

Yet let me not despair  
of my desire,  
Although even hell  
do answer my desert.  
Where humble hope,  
that pity doth aspire:  
Proves penitency,  
the pacyfiing part.  
Where mercy sweet,  
that sees my soul's behaviour,  
May grant me grace,  
to see and serve my Saviour.   

Whom till I see,  
in sorrows endless anguish,  
All discontent  
with all that I can see,  
Resolved in soul  
in sorrows lake to languish,  
where no conceit  
but discontent may be,  
I will sit down  
till after this world's hell,  
My saviours sight  
may only make me well.    

Canto. 2.  

But shall I so  
my secret grief give over,  
With hope to see  
the glory of my sight?  
Or can my soul  
her sacred health recover,  
While no desert  
doth look upon delight?  
No, no: my heart  
is too too full of grief,  
For ever thinking  
to receive relief.   

The Sun is down  
the glory of the day,  
The springe is past,  
the sweetness of the year,  
The harvest in,  
whereon my hope did stay,  
And withering winter  
gives but chilling cheer,  
And what such death  
Can grief, or sorrow give,  
As see his death  
whereby the soul doth live?   

Me thinks I see,  
and seeing sigh to see,  
How in his passion  
patience plays her part:  
And in his death  
what life he gives to me,  
In my loves sorrow  
to relieve my heart.  
But what a care  
doth this conclusion try,  
The head must off,  
or else the body die?   

He was my head,  
my hope, my heart, my health,  
The special jewel  
of my spirits joy,  
The trusty treasure  
of my highest wealth,  
The only pleasure  
kept me from annoy:  
He was, and is,  
and evermore shallbe,  
In life or death,  
the life of life to me.   

And let me see  
how sweetly yet he looks  
Even while the tears  
are trickling down his face:  
And for my life  
how well his death he brooks,  
While my desert  
was cause of his disgrace.  
And let me wish  
yet while his death I see,  
I could have died  
for him that died for me.   

Had I but seen  
him as his servants did,  
At sea, at land,  
in city, and in field,  
Though in himself  
he had the glory hid,  
That in his grace  
the height of glory held:  
Then might my sorrow  
somewhat be appeased,  
That once my soul  
had in his sight been pleased.   

But not to see him  
till I see him die,  
And that my deed  
was causer of his death,  
How can I cease  
to weep, to howl, and cry,  
To see the gasping  
of that glorious breath,  
That purest love  
unto the soul approved,  
And is the blessing  
of the soul beloved?   

Shall I not wash  
his body with my tears,  
And save the blood  
that issues from his side,  
That keeps my heart  
from all infernal fears,  
Unto my soul  
by my firm faith applied?  
Shall I not strive  
with joseph for the course,  
And make his tomb  
in my souls true remorse?   

Shall I not curse  
those hateful hellish fiends,  
That led the world  
to work such wickedness?  
And hate all them  
that have not been his friends,  
But follow on  
that work of wretchedness?  
Cut off the head  
that first hands on him laid,  
And help to hang  
the dog that him betrayed.   

Am I not one  
of that unhappy brood,  
The Pelican  
doth figure in her nest,  
When I must live  
but by his only blood,  
In whose sweet love  
my life doth only rest?  
O wretched bird!  
but I more wretched creature,  
To figure such a bird  
in such a nature.   

Did God himself  
ordain it should be so,  
To save my life  
my Saviour so should die?  
His will be done:  
yet let me weep for woe,  
To be the subject  
of his misery.  
That though he came   

to mend that was amiss,  
He should be so  
the author of my bliss.   

Shall I not drive  
the watchman from the grave,  
And watch the rising  
of the son renowned?  
Or go myself  
alive into the grave,  
To kiss the body  
where it lies entombed?  
What shall I do?  
or what shall I approve,  
For my soul's health  
that so my soul did love?   

Oh. Love the ground  
of love, Oh lively love,  
Why do I live  
that did not die with thee,  
When in my heart  
I do such horror prove,  
As lets my care  
no thought of comfort see,  
How my poor soul  
might once such service do thee,  
To give me hope  
how I am come unto thee?   

No: I have run  
The way of wickedness,  
Forgetting that  
my faith should follow most:  
I did not think  
upon thy holiness,  
Nor by my sin  
what sweetness I have lost,  
Oh sin! so sin  
hath compassed me about,  
That (Lord) I know not  
where to find thee out.   

If in the heaven,  
it is too high a place,  
For wicked heart  
to hope to climb so high:  
If in the world,  
the earth is all to base  
To entertain  
thy glorious majesty:  
If in the world,  
unworthy I to read  
So sweet a sense  
to stand my soul in stead:   

If in my heart,  
sin saith thou art not there:  
If in my soul,  
it is too foul infected:  
If in my hope,  
it is too full of fear,  
And fearful love  
hath never faith elected.  
In soul, nor body,  
hope, nor sear, (ay me)  
Where should I seek  
where my soul's love may be?   

Alas the day  
that ever I was borne,  
To see how sin  
hath bard me from my bliss,  
And that my soul  
is so in torments torn,  
To know my love  
and come not where he is.  
Yet, if that ever heavens  
heard creatures cry,  
Lord, look a little  
on my misery.   

Let mercy plead  
in true repentance cause,  
Where humble prayer,  
may heavenly pity move:  
That though my life  
have broken sacred laws,  
My heart's contrition  
yet may comfort prove:  
That till my soul  
may my sweet Saviour see,  
Mercy may cast  
one loveing look on me.   

And while I sit  
with Mary at the grave,  
As full of grief  
as ever love may live,  
My wounded heart  
some spark of hope may have,  
Of such relief  
as glorious hand may give:  
To make me seel  
though sin hath death deserved,  
In mercy's love  
is my soul's life preserved.   

Which sacred truth  
until my soul doth taste,  
To slake the sorrow  
of this heart of mine,  
My weary life  
in woeful thoughts must waste,  
While soul and body  
humbly I resine,  
Unto those glorious  
holy hands of his,  
Who is the hope  
of my eternal bliss.    

Canto. 3.  

But can I leave  
to think upon the thing,  
That I can never  
put out of my thought?  
Or can I cease  
of his sweet love to sing,  
Who by his blood  
his creatures comfort brought?  
Or can I live  
to think that he should die,  
In whom the hope  
of all my life doth lie?   

No▪ Let me think  
upon his life and death,  
And after death,  
his ever life again.  
He breathed our life,  
and giving up his breath,  
Reviude our souls,  
that in our sins were slain.  
His life so good,  
as never death deserved,  
And by his death,  
our ever lives preserved.   

Did he not wash  
his poor Apostles feet?  
Came he not riding  
on a silly Ass?  
Did he not heal  
the cripples in the street,  
And fed a world  
where little victual was?  
Did not his love  
most true affection try,  
To die for us  
that we might never die?   

Was never infant  
show'd such humbleness:  
Was never man  
did speak as this man did:  
Was never lover  
show'd such faithfulness:  
Was never true man  
such a torture bid:  
Was never state  
contained such a story:  
Was never Angel  
worthy such a glory.   

O glorious glory,  
all in glory glorius!  
Angels rejoiced  
at his incarnation.  
O powerful virtue,  
of all power victorius  
The true redemption  
of his best creation!  
O glorious life  
that made the devils wonder,  
And glorious death  
that trod the devils under!   

Thus in his birth,  
his life, and death, all glory  
He did receive:  
who was himself the same,  
The stately substance  
of that sacred story,  
From whence the ground  
of highest glory came.  
When highest power,  
to highest glory raised,  
And all the host  
of heaven with glory praised.   

Was ever such  
ingratitude approved,  
Since heaven and earth  
for man, and man was made  
For only God,  
who held him his beloved,  
Till graceless sin  
did make his glory fade:  
That he, whom Angels  
with such reverence used,  
Should be by men  
refused and abused?   

O lively Image  
of the father's love!  
O lovely Image  
of the father's life!  
O pure conceit  
that doth this concord prove,  
That all agreement  
breeds no thought of strife!  
But that the Son  
in state of all the story,  
Is found the brightness  
of the Father's glory.   

Can ever such  
a glory be refused,  
By those that were  
in duty to adore it?  
Or could so great  
a glory be refused,  
When Angels tremble,  
when they stand before it?  
O man, woman,  
to wound thy soul so sore,  
To lose the glory  
so for evermore!   

Behold the heavens  
what sorrow they did show,  
And how the earth  
her dolour did descry.  
The Sun was dark,  
and in the earth be low,  
The buried bodies  
showed their agony.  
The temple rend,  
the heavens with anger moved,  
To see the death  
of the divine beloved.   

And yet thou man  
full little dost regard  
What thou hadst done  
unto thy dearest love.  
Thou mad'st more reckoning  
of the world's reward,  
Then of the blessing  
of thy souls behoove.  
But (wretched man)  
descend into thy thought  
And with this sorrow  
wear thyself to nought.   

Yet some there were,  
too small a some were they,  
That joyed to see the some  
of all their joy:  
They watched the night,  
and walked in the day,  
And were not choked  
with the world's annoy:  
But followed on  
their heavenly love alone:  
Would God in heaven  
that I were such a one.   

But ay me wretch,  
all wretched as I am,  
Unworthy all  
to follow such a friend:  
In sweet remembrance  
of whose sweetest name,  
The joys beegin  
that never makes an end.  
Let me but weep  
and sorrow, till I see  
How mercies love  
will cast on look on me.   

And let me hear  
but what my Saviour saith,  
He once did die  
that I might ever live:  
And that my soul  
by her assured faith,  
May feel the comfort  
that his grace doth give:  
That for his love  
who sorrows here so sore,  
Shall joy in heaven,  
and never sorrow more.    

Canto. 4.  

OH joy above all joys.  
that ever were!  
Can I conceive  
but half thine excellence,  
Or how to hope  
to give attendance there,  
Where thou dost keep  
thy royal residence,  
And on my knees  
thy holy name adore:  
Were my soul well,  
she should desire no more:   

To see the day  
that from an high is springing,  
To guide our feet  
into the way of peace,  
To hear the Virgins  
playing, Angels singing,  
The Psalms of glory  
that shall never cease.  
To hear the sound  
of such a heavenly choir,  
Would it not joy  
the soul to see and hear?   

To see the Saints  
and Martyrs in their places,  
By highest grace  
with heavenly glory crowned:  
To see the kisses.  
and the sweet embrace  
Of blessed souls,  
by constant saith renowned,  
To see the ground  
of all these sweet agreeing  
Were not these sights  
all sweetly worth the seeing?   

The Diamond, Ruby,  
Saphir, and such like  
Of precious gems  
that are the worldlings joys,  
And greatest princes  
for their crowns do seek,  
To heavenly treasuers  
are but trifling toys,  
Wherewith the holy city  
all is paved,  
And all the walls  
are round about ingraved:  
Nor he that sits  
on the supernal throne,  
In majesty  
most glorious to behold,  
And holds the sceptre  
of the world alone,  
Hath not his garment  
of embroidered gold:  
But he is clothed  
in truth and righteousness,  
The heavenly garments  
of true holiness.   

Oh could my soul  
out of some angels wing  
By humble suit  
obtain one only pen:  
Might wright in honour  
of my glorious king,  
The joy of Angels  
and the life of men.  
That all the world  
might fall upon their faces,  
To hear the glory  
of his heavenly graces.   

But since I see  
his wonder worth is such,  
As doth exceed,  
the reach of human sense,  
And all the earth  
unworthy is to touch  
The smallest title  
of his excellence:  
Let me refer  
unto some angels glory  
The happy writing  
of this heavenly story.   

Where this sweet King  
that on the white horse rideth,  
Upon the wings  
of the celestial wind,  
Near whose sweet air  
no blasting breath abideth,  
Nor stands the tree,  
that he doth fruitless find,  
Doth make all tremble  
where his glory goeth,  
Yea, where his mildness  
most his mercy showeth.   

Where heavenly love  
is cause of holy life,  
And holy life increaseth  
heavenly love:  
Where peace established  
without fear of strife,  
Doth prove the blessing  
of the souls behave:  
Where thirst, nor hunger,  
grief, nor sorrow dwelleth,  
But peace in joy,  
And joy in peace excelleth.   

Oh joyful fear  
on virtuous love ●ll founded!  
O virtuous love,  
in mercy's glory graced!  
O gracious love,  
on faith in mercy grounded!  
Oh faithful love,  
in heavenly favour placed!  
Oh settled love,  
that cannot be removed!  
Oh glorious love,  
of glory so beloved!   

Where virgins joy,  
in their virginity,  
The virtuous spouse  
in undefiled bed,  
And true divines  
in true divinity,  
The gracious members  
in their glorious head.  
The sinner's joy,  
to escape damnation:  
And faithful souls.  
in their salvation.   

Where sick men joy,  
to see their sweetest health,  
The prisoners joy  
to see their liberty,  
The poor rejoice  
to see their sweetest wealth,  
The virtuous  
to adore the deity:  
And I unworthy  
most of all to see,  
The eyes of mercy  
cast one look on me.    

Canto. 5.  

BUT can my heart  
thus leave her holy love,  
Or seance to sing  
of this her highest sweet?  
Hath Patience  
no more passions left to prove?  
Hath fancy laboured out  
both hands and feet?  
Or hath Invention  
strained her vain so sore,  
That wit nor will  
hath power to write no more?   

No, heavens forbidden,  
that ever faithful heart  
Should have a weary thought  
of doing well:  
But that the soul  
may summon every part  
Of every sense,  
where any thought may dwell,  
That may discharge  
the duty of this care,  
To pen his praise,  
that is without compare.   

But since no eye  
can look on him and live,  
Nor heart can live,  
but looking on his love:  
Beehould the glory,  
that his grace doth give,  
In all his works  
that doth such wonders prove.  
Than all the world  
may find their wits to weak,  
But of the smallest  
of his praise to speak.   

Behold the earth  
how sweetly she brings forth  
Her trees, her flowers,  
her herbs, and every grass  
Of sundry natures,  
of most secret worth:  
And how each branch  
doth others beauty pass:  
Both beasts, and birds,  
with fishes, worms, and flies,  
How each their high creator  
glorifies.   

The Lion's strength  
doth make him stand as king:  
The Unicorn  
doth kill the poison's power:  
The roaring Bull  
doth make the woods to ring:  
The Tiger doth  
the cruel wolf devour:  
The Elephant,  
the weighty burden bears,  
And ravening Wolves,  
are good yet for their heirs.   

To see the grayhound course  
the Hart in chase,  
While little Dormouse  
sleepeth out her time.  
The Lambs and Rabits  
sweetly run at base,  
Whilst highest trees  
the little Squirrel clime.  
The crawling Worms  
out creeping in the showers,  
And how the Snail  
do climb the lofty towers.   

To see the Whale  
make furrows in the seas,  
While suddenly  
the Dolphin strikes her dead:  
Which having found  
the depth of his disease,  
Upon the shore  
doth make his dying bed.  
Where heavens thus work  
for weaker hearts beehove,  
Doth not this grace,  
a work of glory prove?   

But since that all,  
Sky, Earth, or Sea contains,  
Was made for man,  
and man was only made  
For only God,  
who only glory gains,  
And that one glory  
that can never fade:  
Shall man forget  
to give all glory due,  
Unto his God  
from whom all glory grew?   

But let me come  
a little higher yet,  
To Sun and Moon  
and every Star of light:  
To see how each  
do in this order sit,  
Where every one  
doth keep his course aright:  
And all to guide  
these darkened eyes of ours,  
Give these not glory  
to the higher powers?   

No, let not man  
show himself so ungrateful,  
Unto his God,  
that all in love did make him,  
By thancklesse thoughts  
to make his spirit hateful,  
Unto his king  
that never will forsake him.  
But let his soul  
to God all glory give,  
In whom, doth all love,  
life, and glory live.   

And let me wretch,  
(unworthy most of all  
To lift mine eyes  
unto his lovely seat,)  
Before the feet  
but of his mercy fall,  
And of his mercy  
but the leave entreat:  
That with his servants  
I may sit, and sing  
An ALLELVIAH  
to my heavenly King.    

Canto. 6.  

COme all the world,  
and call your wits together,  
Borrow some pens,  
out of the angels wings:  
Entreat the heavens  
to send their Muses hither  
To help, your souls  
to write of sacred things.  
Profane conceits,  
must all be cast away:  
The night is past,  
and you must take the day.   

Speak not of sin,  
it beareth no part here:  
But writ of grace  
and whence her glory grew:  
Think of the love,  
that to the life is dear,  
And, of the life,  
to whom all love is due.  
And then sit down  
in glory all to sing,  
All to the glory  
of our glorious King.   

First, make your grounds  
of faithful holiness:  
Then, your divisions  
of divine desires:  
Let all your rests  
be hopes of happiness,  
Which mercies Music  
in the soul requires:  
Let all your sharps  
be fears of faithful hearts,  
And all your flats  
the death of your deserts.   

Yet rise and fall,  
as hope and fear directs,  
The nature of each note,  
in space or line:  
And let your voices  
carry such effects,  
As may approve  
your passions are divine.  
Then let your consorts  
all in one agree,  
To God alone,  
all only glory be.   

Then let the ditty  
be the dearest thought,  
That may revive  
the dying heart of love,  
That only mercy  
in the soul hath wrought,  
The happy comfort  
of the heavens to prove.  
Then let your sounds  
unto the heavens ascend,  
And all your closes,  
all in glory end.   

Glory to him,  
that sitteth on the throne,  
With all the host  
of all the heavens attended:  
Who all things made,  
and governs all alone,  
Vanquished his foes,  
and all his flock defended,  
And by his power  
his chosen souls preserveth:  
So, sing his praise  
that so all praise deserveth.   

And whilst all souls  
are to their glory singing,  
Let me poor wretch  
not wholly hold my peace:  
But, let my tears,  
from mercy glory springing,  
Keep time to that sweet song  
may never seance.  
That while my soul  
doth thus my God adore:  
I may yet sing AMEN,  
although no more.   
Gloria in excelsis Deo.  
Amen.    

A Prayer.  

O Heavenly God, o father dear  
cast down thy tender eye:  
Upon a wretch that prostrate here  
before thy throne doth lie.  
O pour thy precious oil of grace  
into my wounded heart,  
O let the drops of mercy suage,  
the rigour of my smart.   

My fainted soul oppressed sore,  
with careful clog of sin:  
In humble suit submits itself,  
thy mercy Lord to win.  
Grant mercy then O saviour sweet  
to me most woeful thrall:  
whose mournful cry to thee o Lord  
doth still for mercy call.   

Thy blessed will I have despised,  
upon a stubborn mind:  
And to the sway of worldly things  
myself I have inclined.  
forgetting heaven & heavenly powers  
where God & saints doth dwell:  
My life had like to tread the path,  
that leads the way to hell.   

But now my god & lodestar bright  
I will no more do so:  
To think upon my former life,  
my heart doth bleed for woe.  
Alack I sigh, alack I sob,  
alack I do repent:  
That ever my licentious will,  
so wickedly was bend.   

Sith now therefore with mournful plaints  
that I thy mercy crave:  
O Lord for thy great mercy's sake,  
let me thy mercy have.  
Restore to life my wicked soul,  
which else is like to die:  
So shall my voice unto thy name,  
sing praise eternally.   

Now blessed be the Father first,  
than blessed be the Son:  
And blessed be the holy Ghost,  
by whom all things are done.  
Bless me O blessed Trinity,  
with thy eternal grace:  
That after death, my soul may have  
in heaven a dwelling place.   
FINIS.   

A Prayer.  

WIth heavy heart I call to thee,  
O Lord give ear unto my plaint  
In my distress consider me,  
& mark how that my soul doth faint  
Forlorn with care because that I,  
so oft offend thy majesty.   

My due desert doth breed despair  
& hell I shall have for my hire,  
Unless thou wilt thy wrath forbear:  
to punish me in thy just ire.  
But sith thy mercy passeth all,  
For mercy Lord I cry and call.   

And sith thou paidst that bloody prize,  
the father's wrath to pacify:  
In thy great power & strength arise  
forgive my sins O Lord I cry,  
lest that my soul be brought to nought  
which once thou hast so dereli bought   

Forgive thy people all their crime,  
whose aid on thee doth still depend  
And with thy hand in this our time  
Our noble Queen O lord defend:  
And that she may her foes deface,  
power upon her thy heavenvly grace.   
Amen.  
FINIS.   

MIEVI. X. VAULT. MOURIR. IN. VERTV. QVE. VIURE. EN. HONCTE.  
LONDON Printed by Thomas Este, dwelling in Aldersgate-streete. 1599