STEPS TO THE TEMPLE. Sacred Poems, With other Delights of the MUSES. By RICHARD CRASHAW, sometimes of Pembroke Hall, and late Fellow of S. Peter's Coll. in Cambridge.  
Printed and Published according to Order.  
LONDON, Printed by T.W. for Humphrey Moseley, and are to be sold at his shop at the Prince's Arms in St. Paul's Churchyard. 1646   

The Preface to the Reader.  
Learned Reader,  
THe Author's friend, will not usurp much upon thy eye: This is only for those, whom the name of our Divine Poet hath not yet seized into admiration, I dare undertake, that what Jamblicus (in vita Pythagorae) affirmeth of his Master, at his Contemplations, these Poems can, viz. They shall lift thee Reader, some yards above the ground: and, as in Pythagoras' School, every temper was first tuned into a height by several proportions of Music; and spiritualised for one of his weighty Lectures; S● mayst thou take a Poem hence, and tune thy soul by it, into a heavenly pitch; and thus refined and borne up upon the wings of meditation. In these Poems thou mayst talk freely of God, and of that other state.  
Here's Herbert's second, but equal, who hath retrieved Poetry of late, and returned it up to its Primitive use; Let it bound back to heaven gates, whence it came. Think ye, St. Augustine would have stained his graver Learning with a book of Poetry, had he fancied their dearest end to be the vanity of Love-Sonnets, and Epithalamiums? No, no, he thought with this, our Poet, that every foot in a high-born verse, might help to measure the soul into that better world: Divine Poetry; I dare hold it, in position against Suarez on the subject, to be the Language of the Angels; it is the Quintessence of Fantasy and discourse centred in Heaven; 'tis the very Out-going of the soul; 'tis what alone our Author is able to tell you, and that in his own verse.  
It were profane but to mention here in the Preface those under-headed Poets, Retainers to seven shares and a half; Madrigal fellows, whose only business in verse, is to rhyme a poor sixpenny soul, a Subburd sinner into hell;— May such arrogant pretenders to Poetry vanish, with their prodigious issue of tumorous heats and flashes of their adulterate brains, and for ever after, may this our Poet fill up the better room of man, Oh! when the general arraignment of Poets shall be, to give an account of their higher souls, with what a triumphant brow, shall our divine Poet sit above, and look down upon poor Homer, Virgil, Horace, Claudian? etc. who had amongst them the ill luck to talk out a great part of their gallant Genius upon Bees, Dung, frogs, and Gnats, etc. and not as himself here, upon Scriptures, divine Graces, Martyrs and Angels.  
Reader, we style his Sacred Poems, Steps to the Temple, and aptly, for in the Temple of God, under his wing, he led his life in St. Mary's Church near St. Peter's College: There be lodged under Tertullian's roof of Angels: There he made his nest more gladly than David's Swallow near the house of God: where like a primitive Saint, he offered more prayers in the night, than others usually offer in the day; There, he penned these Poems, Steps for happy souls to climb heaven by.  
And those other of his pieces entitled, The Delights of the Muses, (though of a more humane mixture) are as sweet as they are innocent.  
The praises that follow are but few of many that might be conferred on him, he was excellent in five Languages (besides his Mother tongue) vid. Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, the two last whereof he had little help in they were of his own acquisition.  
Amongst his other accomplishments in Academic (as well pious as harmless arts) he made his skill in Poetry Music, Drawing, Limming, graving, (exercises of his curious invention and sudden fancy) to be but his subservient recreations for vacant hours, not the grand business of his soul.  
To the former Qualifications I might add that which would crown them all, his rare moderation in diet (almost Lessian temperance) he never created a Muse out of distempers, nor with our Canary scribblers) cast any strange mists of surfeits before the Intellectual beams of his mind or memory, the latter of which, he was so much a master of, that he had there under lock and key in readiness, the richest treasures of the best Greek and Latin Poets, some of which Authors he had more at his command and by heart, than others that only read their works, to retain little, and understand less.  
Enough Reader, I intent not a volume of praises, larger than his book, nor need I longer transport thee to think over his vast perfections, I will conclude all that I have impartially writ of this Learned young Gent. (now dead to us) as he himself doth, with the last line of his Poem upon Bishop Andrews Picture before his Sermons Verte paginas.  
— Look on his following leaves, and see him breath.   

The Author's Motto.  
Live Jesus, Live, and let it be  
My life to die, for love of thee.   

REader, there was a sudden mistake ('tis too late to recover it) thou wilt quickly find it out, and I hope as soon pass it over, some of the humane Poems are misplaced amongst the Divine.   

The Weeper.  

1  
Hail Sister Springs,  
Parents of Silver-forded rills!  
Ever bubbling things!  
Thawing Crystal ● Snowy Hills!  
Still spending, never spent; I mean  
Thy fair Eyes sweet Magdalene.   

2  
Heavens thy fair Eyes be,  
Heavens of ever-falling stars,  
'tis seedtime still with thee  
And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares  
Promise the earth; to countershine  
What ever makes Heaven's forehead fine.   

3  
But we are deceived all,  
Stars they are indeed too true,  
For they but seem to fall  
As Heavens other spangles do:  
It is not for our Earth and us,  
To shine in things so precious.   

4  
Upwards thou dost weep,  
Heaven's bosom drinks the gentle stream.  
Where th' milky rivers meet,  
Thine Crawls above and is the Cream.  
Heaven, of such fair floods as this,  
Heaven the Crystal Ocean is.   

5  
Every morn from hence,  
A brisk Cherub something sips  
Whose soft influence  
Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips.  
Then to his Music, and his song  
Tastes of this breakfast all day long.   

●  
When some new bright guest  
Takes up among the stars a room,  
And Heaven will make a feast,  
Angels with their Bottles come;  
And draw from these full Eyes of thine,  
Their Master's water, their own Wine.   

7  
The dew no more will weep,  
The Primroses pale cheek to deck,  
The dew no more will sleep,  
Nuzzeled in the Lilies neck.  
Much rather would it tremble here,  
And leave them both to be thy Tear.   

8  
Not the soft Gold which  
Steals from the Amber-weeping Tree,  
Makes sorrow half so Rich,  
As the drops distilled from thee.  
Sorrow's best jewels lie in these  
Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the Keys.   

9  
When sorrow would be seen  
In her brightest Majesty,  
(For she ●s a Queen)  
Then is she dressed by none but thee.  
Then, and only than she wears  
Her richest Pearls, I mean thy Tea●es.   

10  
Not in the Evenings Eyes  
When they red with weeping are,  
For the Sun that dies,  
Si●s sorrow with a face so fair.  
Nowhere but here did ever meet  
Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.   

11  
Sadness all the while  
She sits in such a Throne as this,  
Can do nought but smile,  
Nor believes she sadness is  
Gladness itself would be more glad  
To be made so sweetly sad.   

12  
There is no need at all  
That the Balsame-sweating bough  
So coily should let fall,  
His medicinable Tears; for now  
Nature hath learned t' extract a dew,  
More sovereign and sweet from you.   

13  
Yet let the poor drops weep,  
Weeping is the case of woe,  
Softly let them creep  
Sad that they are vanquished so,  
They, though to others no relief  
May Balsam be for their own grief.   

14  
Golden though he be,  
Golden Tagus murmurs though,  
Might he flow from thee  
Content and quiet would he go,  
Richer far does he esteem  
Thy silver, than his golden stream.   

15  
Well does the May that lies  
Smiling in thy cheeks, confess,  
The April in thine eyes,  
Mutual sweetness they express.  
No April e'er lent softer showers,  
Nor May returned fairer flowers.   

16  
Thus dost thou melt the year  
Into a weeping motion,  
Each minute waiteth here;  
Takes his tear and gets him gone;  
By thine eyes tinct ennobled thus  
Time lays him up: he's precious.   

17  
Time as by thee he passes,  
Makes thy ever-watry eyes  
His Hourglasses.  
By them his steps he rectifies.  
The sands he used no longer please,  
For his own sands he'll use thy seas.   

18  
Does thy song lull the Air?  
Thy tears just Cadence still keeps time.  
Does thy sweet breathed Prayer  
Up in clouds of Incense climb?  
Still at each sigh, that is each stop:  
A bead, that is a tear doth drop.   

19  
Does the Night arise?  
Still thy tears do fall, and fall.  
Does night lose her eyes?  
Still the fountain weeps for all.  
Let night or day do what they will  
Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.   

20  
Not, so long she lived,  
Will thy tomb report of thee  
But so long she grieved,  
Thus must we date thy memory.  
Others by Days, by Months, by Years  
Measure their Ages, Thou by Tears.   

21  
Say watery Brothers  
Ye simpering sons of those fair eyes,  
Your fertile Mothers.  
What hath our world that can entice  
You to be borne? what is't can borrow  
You from her eyes swollen wombs of sorrow.   

22  
Whither away so fast?  
O whither? for the sluttish Earth  
Your sweetness cannot taste  
Nor does the dust deserve your Birth.  
Whither hast ye then? o say  
Why ye trip so fast away?   

23  
We go not to seek  
The darlings of Aurora's bed,  
The Roses modest cheek  
Nor the Violets humble head.  
No such thing; we go to meet  
A worthier object, Our Lords feet.    

The Tear.  

1.  
WHat bright soft thing is this?  
Sweet Mary thy fair Eyes expense?  
A moist spark it is,  
A watery Diamond; from whence  
The very Term, I think, was found  
The water of a Diamond.   

2  
O 'tis not a Tear,  
'Tis a star about to drop  
From thine eye its sphere;  
The Sun will stoop and take it up.  
Proud will his sister be to wear  
This thine eyes jewel in her Eare.   

3  
O 'tis a Tear,  
Too true a Tear; for no sad eyen,  
How sad so ere  
Rain so true a Tear as thine;  
Each Drop leaving a place so dear,  
Weeps for itself, is its own Tear.   

4  
Such a Pearl as this is,  
(Slipped from Aurora's dewy Breast)  
The Rose buds sweet lip kisses;  
And such the Rose its self when vexed  
With ungentle flames, does shed,  
Sweeting in too warm a Bed.   

5  
Such the Maiden Gem  
By the wanton Spring put on,  
Peeps from her Parent stem,  
And blushes on the watery Sun:  
This watery Blossom of thy Eyes  
Ripe, will make the richer Wine.   

6  
Fair Drop, why quakest thou so?  
'Cause thou straight must lay thy Head  
In the Dust? o no▪  
The Dust shall never be thy Bed▪  
A pillow for thee will I bring,  
Stuffed with Down of Angel's wing.   

7  
Thus carried up on high,  
(For to Heaven thou must go)  
Sweetly shalt thou lie,  
And in soft slumbers bathe thy woe;  
Till the singing Orbs awake thee,  
And one of their bright Chorus make thee.   

8  
There thyself shalt be  
An eye, but not a weeping one,  
Yet I doubt of thee,  
Whither th'hadst rather there have shone  
An eye of Heaven; or still shine here  
In th'Heaven of Mary's eye, a Tear.    

Divine Epigrams. On the water of our Lord's Baptism.  

EAch blessed drop, on each blessed limb,  
Is washed itself, in washing him:  
'tis a Gem while it stays here,  
While it falls hence 'tis a Tear.   

Act. 8 On the baptised Aethiopian.  
LEt it no longer be a forlorn hope  
To wash an Aethiope:  
He's washed, His gloomy skin a peaceful shade  
For his white soul is made:  
And now, I doubt not, the Eternal Dove,  
A black-faced house will love.   

On the miracle of multiplied loaves.  
SEe here an easy Feast that knows no wound,  
That under Hunger's Teeth will needs be sound:  
A subtle Harvest of unbounded bread,  
What would ye more? Here food itself is fed.   

Upon the Sepulchre of our Lord.  
HEre, where our Lord once laid his Head,  
Now the Grave lies buried.   

The Widow's Mites.  
TWo Mites, two drops, (yet all her house and land)  
Falls from a steady Heart, though trembling hand:  
The others wanton wealth foams high, and brave,  
The other cast away, she only gave.   

Luk. 15. On the Prodigal.  
TEll me bright Boy, tell me my golden Lad,  
Whither away so frolic? why so glad?  
What all thy Wealth in counsel? all thy state?  
Are Husks so dear? troth 'tis a mighty rate.   

On the still surviving marks of our Saviour's wounds.  
WHat ever story of their cruelty,  
Or Nail, or Thorn, or Spear have writ in Thee,  
Are in another sense  
Still legible;  
Sweet is the difference:  
Once I did spell.  
Every red letter  
A wound of thine,  
Now, (what is better)  
Balsam for mine.   

Act. 5. The sick implore St. Peter's shadow.  
Under thy shadow may I lurk a while,  
Death's busy search I'll easily beguile:  
Thy shadow Peter, must show me the Sun,  
My light's thy shadow's shadow, or 'tis done.   

Mar. 7. The dumb healed, and the people enjoined silence.  
CHrist bids the dumb tongue speak, it speaks, the sound  
He charges to be quiet, it runs round,  
If in the first he used his fingers Touch:  
His hands whole strength here, could not be too much.   

Mat. 28. Come see the place where the Lord lay.  
SHow me himself, himself (bright Sir) O show  
Which way my poor Tears to himself may go,  
Were it enough to show the place, and say,  
Look, Mary, here see, where thy Lord once lay,  
Then could I show these arms of mine, and say  
Look, Mary, here see, where thy Lord once lay.   

To Pontius washing his hands.  
THy hands are washed, but o the waters spilt,  
That laboured to have washed thy guilt:  
The flood, if any can that can suffice,  
Must have its Fountain in thine Eyes.   

To the Infant Martyrs.  
Go smiling souls, your new built Cages break,  
In Heaven you'll learn to sing ere here to speak,  
Nor let the milky fonts that bathe your thirst,  
Be your delay;  
The place that calls you hence, is at the worst  
Milk all the way.   

On the Miracle of Loaves.  
NOw Lord, or never, they'll believe on thee,  
Thou to their Teeth hast proved thy Deity.   

Mark 4. Why are ye afraid, O ye of little faith?  

AS if the storm meant him;  
Or, 'cause Heaven's face is dim,  
His needs a cloud.  
Was ever froward wind  
That could be so unkind,  
Or wave so proud?  
The Wind had need be angry, and the Water black,  
That to the mighty Neptune's self dare threaten wrack▪   

There is no storm but this  
Of your own Cowardice  
That braves you out;  
You are the storm that mocks  
Yourselves; you are the Rocks  
Of your own doubt:  
Besides this fear of danger, there's no danger here,  
And he that here fears Danger, does deserve his Fear.    

On the Blessed Virgins bashfulness.  
THat on her lap she casts her humble Eye,  
'Tis the sweet pride of her Humility.  
The fair star is well fixed, for where, o where  
Could she have fixed it on a fairer Sphere?  
'Tis Heaven 'tis Heaven she sees, Heaven's God there lies,  
She can see heaven, and ne'er lift up her eyes:  
This new Guest to her Eyes new Laws hath given,  
'Twas once look up, 'tis now look down to Heaven.   

Upon Lazarus his Tears.  
RIch Lazarus! richer in those Gems, thy Tears.  
Then Dives in the Robes he wears:  
He scorns them now, but o they'll suit full well  
With th' Purple he must wear in Hell.   

Two went up into the Temple to pray.  

TWo went to pray? o rather say  
One went to brag, th'other to pray:   

One stands up close and treads on high,  
Where th'other dares not send his eye.   

One nearer to God's Altar trod,  
The other to the Altars God.    

Upon the Ass that bore our Saviour.  
HAth only Anger an Omnipotence  
In Eloquence?  
Within the lips of Love and joy doth dwell  
No miracle?  
Why else had baalam's Ass a tongue to chide  
His Master's pride?  
And thou (Heaven-burthened Beast) hast ne'er a word  
To praise thy Lord?  
That he should find a Tongue and vocal Thunder,  
Was a great wonder.  
But o me thinks 'tis a far greater one  
That thou findest none.   

Matthew 8. I am not worthy that thou shouldst come under my roof.  
THy God was making haste into thy roof,  
Thy humble faith and fear keeps him aloof:  
he'll be thy Guest, because he may not be,  
he'll come— into thy house? no, into thee.   

Upon the Powder Day.  
HOw fit our well-ra●k'd Feasts do follow,  
All misch●efe comes after All Hallow.   

I am the Door.  
ANd nowth'art set wide open, The Speare's sad Art,  
Lo! hath unlocked thee at the very Heart:  
He to himself (I fear the worst)  
And h●s own hope  
Hath shut these Doors of Heaven, that durst  
Thus set them open.   

Matthew. 10. The blind cured by the word of our Saviour.  

THou speakest the word (thy word's a Law)  
Thou spak'st and stre●ght the blind man saw.   

To speak and make the bl●nd man see,  
Was never man Lord spak● l●ke Thee.   

To speak thus, was to speak (say I)  
Not to his Ear, but to his Eye.    

Matthew. 27. And he answered them nothing.  
O Mighty Nothing! unto thee,  
Nothing, we owe all things that be.  
God spoke once when he all things made,  
He saved all when he Nothing said.  
The world was made of Nothing then;  
'Tis made by Nothing now again.   

To our Lord, upon the Water made Wine.  
THou water turn'st to Wine (fair friend of Life)  
Thy foe to cross the sweet Arts of thy Reign,  
Distils from thence the Tears of wrath and strife,  
And so turns wine to Water back again.   

Matthew. 22. Neither durst any man from that Day ask him any more Questions.  
Midst all the dark and knotty Snares,  
Black wit or malice can or dares,  
Thy glorious wisdom breaks the Nets,  
And treads with uncontrolled steps.  
Thy quelled foes are not only now  
Thy triumphs, but thy Trophies t●o:  
They, both at once thy Conquests be,  
And thy Conquests memory.  
Stony amazement makes them stand  
Waiting on thy victorious hand,  
Like statues fixed to the fame  
Of thy renown, and their own shame.  
As if they only meant to breath,  
To be the L●fe of their own Death.  
'Twas time to hold their Peace when they,  
Had ne'er another word to say:  
Yet is their silence unto thee,  
The full sound of thy victory.  
Their silence speaks aloud, and is.  
Thy well pronounced Panegyris.  
While they speak nothing, they speak all  
Their share, in thy Memorial.  
While they speak nothing, they proclaim  
Thee, with the shrillest Trump of fame.  
To hold their peace is all the ways,  
These wretches have to speak thy praise.   

Upon our Saviour's Tomb wherein never man was laid.  
HOw Life and Death in Thee  
Agree?  
Thou hadst a virgin Womb  
And Tomb.  
A joseph did betrothe  
Them both.   

It is better to go into Heaven with one eye, etc.  
ONe Eye? a thousand rather, and a Thousand more  
To fix those full-faced Glories, o he's poor  
Of Eyes that has but Argus' store,  
Yet if thou'lt fill one poor Eye, with thy Heaven and Thee,  
O grant (sweet Goodness) that one Eye may be  
All, and every whit of me.   

Luk. 11. Upon the dumb Devil cast out, and the slanderous jews put to silence.  
TWo Devils at one blow thou hast laid flat,  
A speaking Devil this, a dumb one that.  
Was't thy full victories fairer increase,  
That th'one spoke, or that th'other held his peace?   

Luke 10. And a certain Priest coming that way looked on him and passed by.  
Why dost Thou wound my wounds, o Thou that passest by  
Handling & turning them with an unwounded eye?  
The calm that cools thine eye does shipwreck mine, for o!  
Unmoved to see one wretched, is to make him so.   

Luke 11. Blessed be the paps which Thou hast sucked.  
SVppose he had been Tabled at thy Teats,  
Thy hunger feels not what he eats:  
he'll have his Teat e'er long (a bloody one)  
The Mother then must suck the Son.   

To Pontius washing his blood-stained hands.  
●S murder no sin? or a sin so cheap,  
That thou needest heap  
● Rape upon't? till thy Adulterous touch  
Taught her these sullied cheeks this blubbered face,  
She was a Nymph, the meadows knew none such,  
Of honest Parentage of unstained Race,  
The Daughter of a fair and well-famed Fountain  
As ever Silver-tipt, the side of shady mountain.  
See how she weeps, and weeps, that she appears  
Nothing but Tears;  
Each drop's a Tear that weeps for her own waist;  
Hark how at every Touch she does complain her:  
Hark how she bids her frighted Drops make haste,  
And with sad murmurs, chides the Hands that slain her.  
Leave, leave, for shame, or else (Good judge) decree,  
What water shall wash this, when this hath washed thee.   

Matthew 23. Ye build the Sepulchers of the Prophets.  
THou trim'st a Prophet's Tomb, and dost bequeath  
The life thou took'st from him unto his Death.  
Vain man! the stones that on his Tomb do lie,  
Keep but the score of them that made him die.   

Upon the Infant Martyrs.  
TO see both blended in one flood.  
The Mother's Milk, the children's blood,  
Makes me doubt if Heaven will gather,  
Roses hence, or Lilies rather.   

Joh. 16. Verily I say unto you, ye shall weep and lament.  
WElcome my Grief, my joy; how deare's  
To me my Legacy of Tears!  
I'll weep, and weep, and will therefore  
Weep, 'cause I can weep no more●  
Thou, thou (Dear Lord) even thou alone,  
Giv'st joy, even when thou givest none.   

Joh. 15. Upon our Lords last comfortable discourse with his Disciples.  
ALL Hybla's honey, all that sweetness can  
Flows in thy Song (o fair, o dying Swan!)  
Yet is the joy I take in't small or none;  
It is too sweet to be a long-lived one.   

Luke 16. Dives ask a drop.  
A Drop, one drop, how sweetly one fair drop  
Would tremble on my pearle-tipt finger's top?  
My wealth is gone, o go it where it will,  
Spare this one jewel; I'll be Dives still.   

Mark 12. (Give to Caesar—) (And to God—)  
ALL we have is God's, and yet  
Caesar challenges a debt,  
Nor hath God a thinner share,  
What ever Caesar's payments are;  
All is God's; and yet 'tis true  
All we have is Caesar's too;  
All is Caesar's; and what odds  
So long as Caesar's self is Gods?   

But now they have seen, and hated.  
Seen? and yet hated thee? they did not see,  
They saw Thee not, that saw and hated thee:  
No, no, they saw the not, o Life, o Love,  
Who saw aught in thee, that their hate could move.   

Upon the Thorns taken down from our Lord's head bloody.  
knowst thou this Soldier? 'tis a much changed plant, which yet  
Thyself didst set,  
'Tis changed indeed, did Autumn ere such beauties bring  
To shame his Spring?  
O! who so hard an husbandman could ever find  
A soil so kind?  
Is not the soil a kind one (think ye) that returns  
Roses for Thornes?   

Luc. 7. She began to wash his feet with tears and wipe them with the hairs of her head.  
Here eyes flood licks his feets fair sta●ne,  
Her hair's flame licks up that again.  
This flame thus quenched hath brighter beams:  
This flood thus stained fairer streams.   

On St. Peter cutting of Malchus his ear.  
WEll Peter dost thou wield thy active sword,  
Well for thyself (I mean) not for thy Lord.  
To strike at ears, is to take heed there be  
No witness Peter of thy perjury.   

Joh. 3. But men loved darkness rather then Light.  
THe world's light shines, shine as it will,  
The world will love its Darkness still:  
I doubt though when the World's in Hell,  
It will not love its Darkness half so well.   

Act. 21. I am ready not only to be bound but to die.  
COme death, come bands, nor do you shrink, my ears,  
At those hard words man's cowardice calls fears.  
Save those of fear, no other bands fear I;  
Nor other death than this; the fear to die.   

On St. Peter casting away his Nets at our Saviour's call.  
THou hast the art on't Peter; and canst tell  
To cast thy Nets on all occasions well.  
When Christ calls, and thy Nets would have thee st●●  
To cast them well's to cast them quite away.    

Our Lord in his Circumcision to his Father.  
TO thee these first fruits of my growing death  
(For what else is my life?) ●o I bequeath.  
Taste this, and as thou lik'st this lesser flood  
Expect a Sea, my heart shall make it good.  
Thy wrath that wades here now, e'er long shall swim  
The floodgate shall be set wide open for him.  
Then let him drink, and drink, and do his worst,  
To drown the wantonness of his wild thirst.  
No'ws but the Nonage of my pains, my fears  
Are yet both in their hopes, not come to years.  
The day of my dark woes is yet but morn,  
My tears but tender and my death newborn.  
Yet may these unfledged griefs give fate some guess,  
These Cradle-torments have their towardness.  
These purple buds of blooming death may be,  
Erst the full stature of a fatal tree.  
And till my riper woes to age are come,  
This knife may be the spear's Praeludium.   

On the wounds of our crucified Lord.  

O These wakeful wounds of thine!  
Are they Mouths? or are they eyes?  
Be they Mouths, or be they eyen,  
Each bleeding part some one supplies.   

Lo! a mouth, whose full-bloomed lips  
At two dear a rate are roses.  
Lo! a bloodshot eye! that weeps  
And many a cruel tear discloses.   

O thou that on this foot hast laid  
Many a kiss, and many a Tear,  
Now thou shalt have all repaid,  
Whatsoever thy charges were.   

This foot hath got a Mouth and lips,  
To pay the sweet sum of thy kisses:  
To pay thy Tears, an Eye that weeps  
In stead of Tears Such Gems as this is.   

The difference only this appears,  
(Nor can the change offend)  
The debt is paid in Ruby-Teares,  
Which thou in Pearls didst lend.    

On our crucified Lord Naked, and bloody.  
Th' have left thee naked Lord, O that they had;  
This Garment too I would they had denied.  
Thee w●th thyself they have too richly clad,  
Opening the purple wardrobe of thy side.  
O never could be found Garments too good  
For thee to wear, but these, of thine own blood.   

Easter day.  

RIse, Heir of fresh Eternity,  
From thy V●rgin Tomb:  
Rise mighty man of wonders, and thy world with thee  
Thy Tomb, the universal East,  
Nature's new womb,  
Thy Tomb, fair Immortalities' perfumed Nest,   

Of all the Glories Make Noon gay  
This is the Morn.  
This rock buds forth the fountain of the streams of Day  
In joys white Annals live this hour,  
When life was borne,  
No cloud scowl on his radiant lids no tempest lower.   

Life, by this light's Nativity  
All creatures have.  
Death only by this Day's just Doom is forced to Die;  
Nor is Death forced; for may he lie  
Throned in thy Grave;  
Death will on this condition be content to Dy.    

On the bleeding wounds of our crucified Lord.  

IEsu, no more, it is full tide  
From thy hands and from thy feet,  
From thy head, and from thy side,  
All thy Purple Rivers meet.   

Thy restless feet they cannot go.  
For us and our eternal good  
As they are wont; what though?  
They swim, alas! in their own flood.   

Thy hand to give thou canst not lift;  
Yet will thy hand still giving be;  
It gives, but o itself's the Gift,  
It drops though bound, though bound 'tis free.   

But o thy side! thy deep digged side  
That hath a double Nilus going,  
Nor ever was the Pharian t●de  
Half so fruitful, half so flowing.   

What need thy fair head bear a part  
In Tears? as if thine eyes had none?  
What need they help to drown thine heart,  
That strives in Torrents of its own?   

Watered by the showers they bring,  
The thorns that thy blessed brows encloses  
(A cruel and a costly spring)  
Conceive proud hopes of proving Roses.   

Not a hair but pays his River  
To this Red Sea of thy blood,  
Their little channels can deliver  
Something to the general flood.   

But while I speak, whither are run  
All the Rivers named before?  
I counted wrong; there is but one,  
But o that one is one all'ore.   

Raine-swolne Rivers may rise proud  
Threatening all to overflow,  
But when indeed all's overflowed  
They themselves are drowned too.   

This thy Blood's deluge (a dire chance  
Dear Lord to thee) to us is found  
A deluge of deliverance,  
A deluge lest we should be drowned.   

Near was't thou in a sense so sadly true,  
The well of living Waters, Lord, till now.    

Samson to his Dalilah.  
COuld not once blinding me, cruel, suffice?  
When first I looked on thee, I lost mine eyes.   

Psalm 23.  
HAppy me! o happy sheep!  
Whom my God vouchsafes to keep;  
Even my God, even he it is  
That points me to these ways of bliss;  
One whose pastures cheerful spring,  
All the year doth sit and sing,  
And rejoicing smiles to see  
Their green backs were his livery▪  
Pleasure sings my soul to rest,  
Plenty wears me at her breast,  
Whose sweet temper teaches me  
Nor wanton, nor in want to be.  
At my feet the blubb'ring Mountain  
Weeping, melts into a Fountain,  
Whose soft silver-sweating streams  
Make high Noon forget his beams:  
When my wayward breath is flying,  
He calls home my soul from dying,  
Strokes and tames my rabid Grief,  
And does woe me into life:  
When my simple weakness strays,  
(Tangled in forbidden ways)  
He (my Shepherd) is my Guide,  
he's before me, on my side,  
And behind me, he beguiles  
Craft in all her knotty wiles:  
He expounds the giddy wonder  
Of my weary steps, and under  
Spreads a Path clear as the Day,  
Where no churlish rub says nay  
To my joy-conducted Feet,  
Whilst they Gladly go to meet  
Grace and peace, to meet new lays  
Tuned to my great Shepherd's praise.  
Come now all ye terrors, sally  
Muster forth into the valley,  
Where triumphant darkness hovers  
With a sable wing, that covers  
Brooding Horror. Come thou Death,  
Let the damps of thy dull Breath  
Overshadow even the shade,  
And make darkness self afraid;  
There my feet, even there shall find  
Way for a resolved mind.  
Still my Shepherd, still my God  
Thou art with me, Still thy rod,  
And thy staff, whose influence  
Gives direction, gives defence.  
At the whisper of thy Word  
Crowned abundance spreads my Board:  
While I feast, my foes do feed  
Their rank malice not their need,  
So that with the selfsame bread  
They are starved, and I am fed.  
How my head in ointment swims!  
How my cup orelooks her Brims!  
So, even so still may I move  
By the Line of thy dear Love;  
Still may thy sweet mercy spread  
A shady Arm above my head,  
About my Paths, so shall I find  
The fair Centre of my mind  
Thy Temple, and those lovely walls  
Bright ever with a beam that falls  
Fresh from the pure glance of thine eye,  
Lighting to Eternity.  
There I'll dwell for ever, there  
Will I find a purer air  
To feed my Life with, there I'll sup  
Balm and Nectar in my Cup,  
And thence my ripe soul will I breathe  
Warm into the Arms of Death.   

Psalm 137.  

ON the proud banks of great Euphrates flood,  
There we sat, and there we wept:  
Our Harps that now no Music understood,  
Nodding on the Willows slept,  
While unhappy captived we  
Lovely Zion thought on thee.   

They, they that snatched us from our Country's breast  
Would have a Song carved to their Ears  
In Hebrew numbers, than (o cruel jest!)  
When Harps and hearts were drowned in Tears:  
Come, they cried, come sing and play  
On of Zions songs to day.   

Sing? play? to whom (ah) shall we sing or play,  
If not jerusalem to thee?  
Ah thee jerusalem! ah sooner may  
This hand forget the mastery  
Of Music's dainty touch, than I  
The Music of thy memory.   

Which when I lose, o may at once my Tongue  
Lose this same busy speaking art  
Vnpearcht, her vocal Arteries unstrung,  
No more acquainted with my Heart,  
On my dry palate's roof to rest  
A withered Leaf, an idle Guest▪   

No, no, thy good, Zion, alone must crown  
The head of all my hope-nurst joys.  
But Edom cruel thou! thou cried'st ddowne, down  
Sink Zion, down and never rise,  
Her falling thou didst urge and thrust,  
And haste to dash her into dust.   

Dost laugh? proud Babel's Daughter! do, laugh on,  
Till thy ruin teach thee Tears,  
Even such as these, laugh, till a venging throng  
Of woes, too late do rouse thy fears.  
Laugh, till thy children's bleeding bones  
Weep precious Tears upon the stones.    

A Hymn of the Nativity, sung by the Shepherds.  

Chorus. COme we Shepherds who have seen  
Days King deposed by Night's Queen.  
Come lift we up our lofty song,  
To wake the Sun that sleeps too long.   

He in this our general joy,  
Slept, and dreamt of no such thing  
While we found out the fair-eyed Boy,  
And kissed the Cradle of our King;  
Tell him he rises now too late,  
To show us aught worth looking at.   

Tell him we now can show him more  
Than he e'er showed to mortal sight,  
Then he himself e'er saw before,  
Which to be seen needs not his light:  
Tell him Tityrus where thoust been,  
Tell him Thyrsis what thoust seen.   Tytirus. 
Gloomy Night embraced the place  
Where the noble Infant lay:  
The Babe looked up, and showed his face,  
In spite of Darkness it was Day.  
It was thy Day, Sweet, and did r●se,  
Not from the East, but from thy eyes,  Thyrsis. 
Winter chid the world, and sent  
The angry North to wage his wars:  
The North forgot his fierce intent,  
And lest perfumes, in stead of scars:  
By those sweet Eyes persuasive Powers,  
Where he meant frosts, he scattered Flowers.  B●th. 
We saw thee in thy Balmy Nest,  
Bright Dawne of our Eternal Day;  
We saw thine Eyes-break from the East,  
And chase the trembling shades away:  
We saw thee (and we blest the sight)  
We saw thee by thine own sweet Light.  Tityrus. 
I saw the curled drops, soft and slow  
Come hover o'er the places head,  
Offering their whitest sheets of snow,  
To furnish the fair Infants Bed.  
Forbear (said I) be not too bold,  
Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold.  Thyrsis. 
I saw th'officious Angels bring,  
The down that their soft breasts did strew,  
For well they now can spare their wings,  
When Heaven itself lies here below.  
Fair Youth (said I) be not too rough,  
Thy Down though soft's not soft enough.  Tityrus. 
The Babe no sooner began to seek,  
Where to lay his lovely head,  
But straight his eyes advised his Cheek,  
'Twixt Mother's Breasts to go to bed.  
Sweet choice (said I) no way but so,  
Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow.  All. 
Welcome to our wondering sight  
Eternity shut in a span!  
Summer in Winter! Day in Night!  

Chorus. Heaven in Earth! and God in Man!  
Great little one, whose glorious Birth,  
Lifts Earth to Heaven, stoops heaven to earth▪   

Welcome, though not to Gold, nor Silk,  
To more than Caesar's Birthright is.  
Two sister-Seas of virgin's Milk,  
With many a rarely-tempered kiss,  
That breathes at once both Maid and Mother,  
Warmes in the one, cools in the other.   

She sings thy Tears asleep, and dips  
Her Kisses in thy weeping Eye,  
She spreads the red leaves of thy Lips,  
That in their Buds yet blushing lie.  
She against those Mother-Diamonds tries  
The points of her young Eagles Eyes.   

Welcome, (though not to those gay flies  
Guilded i'th' Beams of Earthly Kings  
Slippery souls in smiling eyes)  
But to poor Shepherds, simple things,  
That use no varnish, no oiled Arts,  
But lift clean hands full of clear hearts.   

Yet when young April's husband showers,  
Shall bless the fruitful Maia's Bed,  
we'll bring the firstborn of her flowers,  
To kiss thy feet, and crown thy head.  
To thee (Dread Lamb) whose Love must keep  
The Shepherds, while they feed their sheep.   

To thee meek Majesty, soft King  
Of simple Graces, and sweet Loves,  
Each of us his Lamb will bring,  
Each his pair of silver Doves.  
At last, in fire of thy fair Eyes,  
we'll burn, our own best sacrifice.    

Upon the Death of a Gentleman.  
Faithless and fond Mortality,  
Who will ever credit thee?  
Fond and faithless thing! that thus,  
In our best hopes beguilest us.  
What a reckoning hast thou made,  
Of the hopes in him we laid?  
For Life by volumes lengthened,  
A Line or two, to speak him dead.  
For the Laurel in his verse,  
The sullen Cypress o'er his Hearse.  
For a silver-crowned Head,  
A dirty pillow in Death's Bed.  
For so dear, so deep a trust,  
Sad requital, thus much dust!  
Now though the blow that snatched him hence,  
Stopped the Mouth of Eloquence,  
Though she be dumb ere since his Death,  
Not used to speak but in his Breath,  
Yet if at least she not denies,  
The sad language of our eyes,  
We are contented: for then this  
Language none more fluent is.  
Nothing speaks our Grief so well  
As to speak Nothing, Come then tell  
Thy mind in Tears who e'er Thou be,  
That ow'st a Name to misery.  
Eyes are vocal, Tears have Tongues,  
And there be words not made with lungs;  
Sententious showers, o let them fall,  
Their cadence is Rhetorical.  
Here's a Theme will drink th'expense,  
Of all thy watery Eloquence,  
Weep then, only be expressed  
Thus much, He's Dead, and weep the rest.   

Upon the Death of Mr. Herrys.  
A Plant of noble stem, forward and fair,  
As ever whispered to the Morning Aire  
Thrived in these haphy Grounds, the Earth's just pride,  
Whose rising Glories made such haste to hide  
His head in Clouds, as if in him alone  
Impatient Nature had taught motion  
To start from Time, and cheerfully to fly  
Before, and seize upon Maturity.  
Thus grew this gracious plant, in whose sweet shade  
The Sun himself oft wished to sit, and made  
The Morning Muse's perch like Birds, and sing  
Among his Branches: yea, and vowed to bring  
His own delicious Phoenix from the blessed  
Arabia, there to build her Virgin nest,  
To hatch herself in, amongst his leaves the Day  
Fresh from the Rosy East rejoiced to play.  
To them she gave the first and fairest Beam  
That waited on her Birth▪ she gave to them  
The purest Pearls, that wept her Evening Death,  
The balmy Zephyrus got so sweet a Breath  
By often kissing them, and now begun  
Glad Time to ripen expectation.  
The timourous Maiden-blossoms on each Bough,  
Peeped forth from their first blushes: so that now  
A Thousand ruddy hopes smiled in each Bud,  
And flattered every greedy eye that stood  
Fixed in Delight, as if already there  
Those rare fruits dangled, whence the Golden Year  
His crown expected, when (o Fate, ● Time  
That seldom lettest a blushing youthful Prime  
Hide his hot Beams in shade of silver Age;  
So rare is hoary virtue) the dire rage  
Of a mad storm these bloomy joys all tore,  
Ravished the Maiden Blossoms, and down bore  
The trunk. Yet in this Ground his precious Root  
Still lives, which when weak Time shall be poured out  
Into Eternity, and circular joys  
Dance in an endless round, again shall rise  
The fair son of an ever-youthfull Spring,  
To be a shade for Angels while they sing,  
Mean while who e'er thou art that basest here,  
O do thou water it with one kind Tear.   

Upon the Death of the most desired Mr. Herrys.  
DEath, what dost? o hold thy Blow,  
What thou dost, thou dost not know.  
Death thou must not here be cruel,  
This is Nature's choicest jewel.  
This is he in whose rare frame,  
Nature laboured for a Name,  
And meant to leave his precious feature,  
The pattern of a perfect Creature.  
joy of Goodness, Love of Art,  
Virtue wears him next her heart.  
Him the Muse's love to follow,  
Him they call their vice- Apollo.  
Apollo golden though thou be,  
thouart not fairer than is he.  
Nor more lovely lift'st thy head,  
Blushing from thine Eastern Bed.  
The Glories of thy Youth ne'er knew,  
Brighter hopes than he can show.  
Why then should it e'er be seen,  
That his should fade, while thine is Green▪  
And wilt Thou, (o cruel boast!)  
Put poor Nature to such cost?  
O 'twill undo our common Mother,  
To be at charge of such another.  
What? think we to no other end,  
Gracious Heavens do use to send  
Earth her best perfection,  
But to vanish and be gone?  
Therefore only give to day,  
To morrow to be snatched away?  
I've seen indeed the hopeful bud,  
Of a ruddy Rose that stood  
Blushing, to behold the Ray  
Of the new-saluted Day;  
(His tender top not fully spread)  
The sweet dash of a shower now shed,  
Invited him no more to hide.  
Within himself the purple pride  
Of his forward flower, when ●o  
While he sweetly began to show  
His swelling Glories, Auster spied him,  
Cruel Auster thither hied him,  
And with the rush of one rude blast,  
Shamed not spitefully to waste  
All his leaves, so fresh, so sweet,  
And lay them trembling at his feet.  
I've seen the Morning's lovely Ray,  
Hover o'er the newborn Day:  
With rosy wings so richly Bright,  
As if he scorned to think of Night,  
When a ruddy storm whose scowl,  
Made Heavens radiant face look foul▪  
Called for an untimely Night,  
To blot the newly blossomed Light.  
But were the Roses blush so rare,  
Were the Morning's smile so fair  
As is he, nor cloud, nor wind  
But would be courteous, would be kind.  
Spare him Death, o spare him then,  
Spare the sweetest among men.  
Let not pity with her Tears,  
Keep such distance from thine Ears,  
But o thou wilt not, canst not spare,  
Haste hath never time to hear.  
Therefore if he needs must go,  
And the Fates will have it so,  
Softly may he be possessed,  
Of his monumental rest.  
Safe, thou dark home of the dead,  
Safe o hide his loved head.  
For Pities sake o hide him quite,  
From his Mother Nature's sight:  
Lest for Grief his loss may move,  
All her Births abortive prove,   

Another.  
IF ever Pity were acquainted  
With stern Death, if e'er he fainted,  
Or forgot the cruel vigour,  
Of an Adamantine rigour,  
Here, o here we should have known it,  
Here or no where he'd have shown it.  
For he whose precious memory,  
Baths in Tears of every eye▪  
He to whom our sorrow brings,  
All the streams of all her springs▪  
Was so rich in Grace and Nature,  
In all the gifts that bless a Creature.  
The fresh hopes of his lovely Youth,  
Flourished in so fair a growth.  
So sweet the Temple was, that shrined  
The Sacred sweetness of his mind.  
That could the Fates know to relent?  
Could they know what mercy meant;  
Or had ever learned to bear,  
The soft tincture of a Tear:  
Tears would now have flowed so deep,  
As might have taught Grief how to weep.  
Now all their steely operation,  
Would quite have lost the cruel fashion.  
Sickness would have gladly been,  
Sick himself to have saved him:  
And his Fever wished to prove  
Burning, only in his Love.  
Him when wrath itself had seen,  
Wrath its self had lost his spleen.  
Grim Destruction here amazed,  
In stead of striking would have gazed.  
Even the Iron-pointed pen,  
That notes the Tragic Dooms of men  
Wet with tears stilled from the eyes,  
Of the flinty Destinies;  
Would have learned a softer style,  
And have been ashamed to spoil  
His lives sweet stoty, by the haste,  
Of a cruel stop ill placed.  
In the dark volume of our fate,  
Whence each leaf of Life hath date,  
Where in sad particulars,  
The total sum of Man appears.  
And the short clause of mortal Breath,  
Bound in the period of Death,  
In all the Book if any where  
Such a term as this, spare here  
Could have been found 'twould have been read,  
Writ in white Letters o'er his head:  
Or close unto his name annexed,  
The fair gloss of a fairer Text.  
In brief, if any one were free,  
He was that one, and only he.  
But he, alas! even he is dead  
And our hopes fair harvest spread  
In the dust. Pity now spend  
All the tears that grief can lend.  
Sad mortality may hide,  
In his ashes all her pride;  
With this inscription o'er his head  
All hope of never dying, here lies dead   

His Epitaph.  
PAssenger who e'er thou art,  
Stay a while, and let thy Heart  
Take acquaintance of this stone,  
Before thou passest further on.  
This stone will tell thee that beneath,  
Is entombed the Crime of Death;  
The ripe endowments of whose mind,  
Left his Years so much behind,  
That numbering of his virtuous praise,  
Death lost the reckoning of his Days;  
And believing what they told,  
Imagined him exceeding old.  
In him perfection did set forth,  
The strength of her united worth.  
Him his wisdom's pregnant growth  
Made so reverend, even in Youth,  
That in the Centre of his Breast  
(Sweet as is the Phoenix nest)  
Every reconciled Grace,  
Had their General meeting place  
In him Goodness joyed to see  
Learning, learn Humility.  
The splendour of his Birth and Blood,  
Was but the Gloss of his own Good:  
The flourish of his sober Youth,  
Was the Pride of Naked Truth.  
In composure of his face,  
Lived a fair, but manly Grace.  
His Mouth was Rhetorics best mould,  
His Tongue the Touchstone of her Gold.  
What word so ere his Breath kept warm,  
Was no word now but a charm.  
For all persuasive Graces thence  
Sucked their sweetest Influence.  
His virtue that within had root,  
Could not choose but shine without.  
And th'heart-bred lustre of his worth,  
At each corner peeping forth,  
Pointed him out in all his ways,  
Circled round in his own Rays:  
That to his sweetness, all men's eyes  
Were vowed Love's flaming Sacrifice.  
Him while fresh and fragrant Time  
Cherished in his Golden Prime;  
ere Hebe's hand had overlaid  
His smooth cheeks, with a downy shade:  
The rush of Death's unruly wave,  
Swept him off into his Grave.  
Enough, now (if thou canst) pass on,  
For now (alas) not in this stone  
(Passenger who e'er thou art)  
Is he entombed, but in thy Heart.   

An Epitaph Upon Husband and Wife, which died, and were buried together.  
TO these, Whom Death again did wed,  
This Grave's the second Marriagebed.  
For though the hand of Fate could force,  
'Twixt Soul and body a Divorce:  
It could not sever Man and Wife,  
Because they both lived but one Life.  
Peace, good Reader, do not weep;  
Peace, the Lovers are asleep:  
They (sweet Turtles) folded lie,  
In the last knot that love could tie.  
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,  
Till this stormy night be gone.  
And th' eternal morrow dawn,  
Then the Curtains will be drawn,  
And they waken with that Light,  
Whose day shall never sleep in Night.   

An Epitaph. Upon Doctor Brooke.  
A Brook whose stream so great, so good,  
Was loved was honoured as a flood:  
Whose Banks the Muses dwelled upon,  
More than their own Helicon;  
Here at length, hath gladly found  
A quiet passage under ground;  
Mean while his loved banks now dry,  
The Muses with their tears supply.   

Upon Mr. Staninough's Death.  
Dear relics of a dislodged soul, whose lack  
Makes many a mourning Paper put on black;  
O stay a while ere thou draw in thy Head,  
And wind thyself up close in thy cold Bed:  
Stay but a little while, until I call  
A summons, worthy of thy Funeral.  
Come then youth, Beauty, and Blood, all ye soft powers,  
Whose silken flatteryes swell a few fond house's.  
Into a false Eternity, come man,  
(Hyperbolized nothing!) know thy span.  
Take thine own measure here, down, down, and bow  
Before thyself in thy Idea, thou  
Huge emptiness contract thy bulk, and shrink  
All thy wild Circle to a point! o sink  
Lower, and lower yet; till thy small size,  
Call Heaven to look on thee with narrow eyes▪  
Lesser and lesser yet, till thou begin  
To show a face, fit to confess thy kin  
Thy neighbourhood to nothing! here put on  
Thyself in this unfeigned reflection;  
Here gallant Ladies, this unpartial glass  
(Through all your painting) shows you your own face.  
These Death-scaled Lips are they dare give the lie,  
To the proud hopes of poor Mortality.  
These curtained windows, this selfe-prisoned eye,  
Out-stares the Lids of large-looked Tyranny.  
This posture is the brave one: this that lies  
Thus low stands up (me thinks) thus, and defies  
The world— All daring Dust and Ashes, only you  
Of all interpreters read nature true.   

Upon the Duke of York his Birth A Panegyricke.  

BRittaine, the mighty Ocean's lovely Bride,  
Now stretch thyself (fair Isle) and grow, spread wide  
Thy bosom and make room; Thou art oppressed  
With thine own Glories: and art strangely blest  
Beyond thyself: for lo! the Gods, the Gods  
Come fast upon thee, and those glorious odds,  
Swell thy full glories to a pitch so high,  
As sits above thy best capacity.  
Are they not odds? and glorious? that to thee  
Those mighty Genii throng, which well might be  
Each one an Age's labour, that thy days  
Are guilded with the Union of those Rays,  
Whose each divided Beam would be a Sun,  
To glad the Sphere of any Nation.  
O if for these thou meanest to find a seat,  
thoust need o Britain to be truly Great.  
And so thou art, their presence makes thee so,  
They are thy Greatness; Gods where ere they go  
Bring their Heaven with them, their great footsteps place  
An everlasting smile upon the face,  
Of the glad Earth they tread on, while with thee  
Those Beams that ampliate Mortality,  
And teach it to expatiate, and swell  
To Majesty, and fullness deign to dwell.  
Thou by thyself mayst sit, (blessed Isle) and see  
How thy Great Mother Nature dotes on thee:  
Thee therefore from the rest apart she hurled,  
And seemed to make an Isle, but made a world.  
Great Charles! thou sweet Dawne of a glorious day,  
Centre of those thy Grandsires, shall I say  
Henry and james, or Mars and Phoebus rather?  
If this were Wisdoms God, that Wars stern father,  
'Tis but the same is said, Henry and james  
Are Mars and Phoebus under divers Names.  
O thou full mixture of those mighty souls,  
Whose vast intelligences tuned the Poles  
Of Peace and War; Thou for whose manly brow  
Both Laurels twine into one wreath, and woo  
To be thy Garland: see (sweet Prince) o see  
Thou and the lovely hopes that smile in thee  
Are ta'en out and transcribed by thy Great Mother,  
See, see thy real shadow, see thy Brother,  
Thy little self in less, read in these Eyes  
The beams that dance in those full stars of thine.  
From the same snowy Alabaster Rock  
These hands and thine were hewn, these Cherrimock  
The Coral of thy lips. Thou art of all  
This well-wrought Copy the fair Principal.   

justly, Great Nature, may'st thou brag and tell  
How even thoust drawn this faithful Parallel,  
And matched thy Masterpiece: o then go on  
Make such another sweet comparison.  
See'st thou that Mary there? o teach her Mother  
To show her to herself in such another:  
Fellow this wonder too, nor let her shine  
Alone, light such another star, and twine  
Their Rosy Beams, so that the Morn for one  
Venus, may have a Constellation.   

So have I seen (to dress their Mistress May)  
Two silken sister flowers consult, and lay  
Their bashful cheeks together, newly they  
Peeped from their buds, showed like the Gardens eyes  
Scarce waked: like was the Crimson of their joys,  
Like were the Pearled they wept, so like that one  
Seemed but the others kind reflection.  
But stay, what glimpse was that? why blushed the day▪  
Why ran the started air trembling away?  
Who's this that comes circled in rays, that scorn  
Acquaintance with the Sun? what second Morn  
At midday opes a presence which Heavens eye  
Stands off and points at? is't some Deity  
Stepped from her Throne of stars deigns to be seeney  
Is it some Deity? or is't our Queen?  
'Tis she, 'tis she: her awful Beauties chase  
The Day's abashed Glories, and in face  
Of Noon wear their own Sunshine, o thou bright  
Mistress of wonders! Cynthia's is the Night,  
But thou at Noon dost shine, and art all Day,  
(Nor does the Sun deny't) our Cynthia,  
Illustrious sweetness! In thy faithful womb,  
That ' Nest of Heroes, all our hopes find room.  
Thou art the Mother Phoenix, and thy Breast  
chaste as that Virgin honour of the East,  
But much more fruitful is; nor does, as she,  
Deny to mighty Love a Deity▪  
Then let the Eastern world brag and be proud  
Of one coy Phoenix, while we have a brood  
A brood of Phoenixes; while we have Brother  
And Sister Phoenixes, and still the Mother;  
And may we long; long may'st thou live, t'increase  
The house and family of Phoenixes.  
Nor may the light that gives their Eyelids light,  
ere prove the dismal Morning of thy Night:  
ne'er may a Birth of thine be bought so dear,  
To make his costly cradle of thy Beer.  
O mayst thou thus make all the year thine own,  
And see such Names of joy sit white upon  
The brow of every Month; and when that's done  
Mayest in a son of his find every son  
Repeated, and that son still in another,  
And so in each child often prove a Mother:  
Long mayest thou laden with such clusters lean  
Upon thy Royal Elm (fair Vine) and when  
The Heavens will stay no longer, may thy glory  
And Name dwell sweet in some eternal story.  
Pardon (bright excellence) an untuned string,  
That in thy Ears thus keeps a murmuring  
O speak a lowly Muses pardon; speak  
Her pardon or her sentence; only break  
Thy silence; speak; and she shall take from thence  
Numbers, and sweetness, and an influence  
Confessing thee: or (if too long I stay)  
O speak thou and my Pipe hath nought to say:  
For see Apollo all this while stands mute,  
Expecting by thy voice to tune his Lute.  
But Gods are gracious: and their Altars, make  
Precious their offerings that their Altars take.  
Give then this rural wreath fire from thine eyes.  
This rural wreath dares be thy sacrifice.    

Upon Ford's two Tragedies Loves Sacrifice and The Broken Heart.  
THou cheatest us Ford, mak'st one seem two by Art.  
What is Love's Sacrifice, but the broken Heart?   

On a foul Morning, being then to take a journey.  
WHere art thou Sol, while thus the blindfold Day  
Staggers out of the East, loses her way  
Stumbling on Night? Rouse thee Illustrious Youth,  
And let no dull mists choke the Lights fair growth.  
Point here thy Beams; o glance on yonder flocks,  
And make their fleeces Golden as thy locks.  
Unfold thy fair front, and there shall appear  
Full glory, flaming in her own free sphere.  
Gladness shall clothe the Earth, we will in stile  
The face of things, an universal smile.  
Say to the Sullen Morn, thou comest to court her;  
And wilt command proud Zephyrus to sport her  
With wanton gales: his balmy breath shall lick  
The tender drops which tremble on her cheek;  
Which rarifyed, and in a gentle rain  
On those delicious banks distilled again  
Shall rise in a sweet Harvest; which discloses  
To every blushing Bed of newborn Roses.  
he'll fan her bright locks teaching them to flow,  
And frisk in curled Maeanders: He will throw  
A fragrant Breath sucked from the spicy nest  
O'th' preticus Phoenix, warm upon her Breast.  
He with a dainty and soft hand, will trim  
And brush her Azure Mantle, which shall swim  
In silken Volumes, wheresoever she'll tread,  
Bright clouds like Golden fleeces shall be spread.  
Rise then (fair blue-eyed Maid) rise and discover  
Thy silver brow, and meet thy Golden lover.  
See how he runs, with what a hasty flight  
Into thy Bosom, bathed with liquid Light.  
Fly, fly profane fogs, far hence fly away,  
Taint not the pure streams of the springing Day,  
With your dull influence, it is for you,  
To sit and scowl upon Night's heavy brow;  
Not on the fresh cheeks of the virgin Morn,  
Where nought but smiles, and ruddy joys are worn.  
Fly then, and do not think with her to stay;  
Let it suffice, she'll wear no mask to day.   

Upon the fair Ethiopian sent to a Gentlewoman.  
LO here the fair Chariclia! in whom strove  
So false a Fortune, and so true a Love.  
Now after all her toils by Sea and Land,  
O may she but arrive at your white hand.  
Her hopes are crowned, only she fears that than,  
She shall appear true Ethiopian.   

On Marriage.  
I Would be married, but I'd have no Wife,  
I would be married to a single Life.   

To the Morning. Satisfaction for sleep.  
WHat succour can I hope the Muse will send  
Whose drowsiness hath wronged the Muse's friend?  
What hope Aurora to propitiate thee,  
Unless the Muse sing my Apology?  
O in that morning of my shame! when I  
Lay folded up in sleeps captivity;  
How at the sight didst Thou draw back thine Eyes,  
Into thy modest veil? how didst thou rise  
Twice died in thine own blushes, and didst run  
To draw the Curtains, and awake the Sun?  
Who rowzing his illustrious tresses came,  
And seeing the loathed object, hid for shame  
His head in thy fair Bosom, and still hides  
Me from his Patronage; I pray, he chides:  
And pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take  
My own Apollo, try if I can make  
His Lethe be my Helicon: and see  
If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on me.  
Hence 'tis my humble fancy finds no wings,  
No nimble raptures, starts to Heaven and brings  
Enthusiasticke flames, such as can give  
Marrow to my plump Genius, make it live  
Dressed in the glorious madness of a Muse,  
Whose feet can walk the milky way, and choose  
Her starry Throne; whose holy heats can warm  
The Grave, and hold up an exalted arm  
To lift me from my lazy Urn, to climb  
Upon the stooped shoulders of old Time;  
And trace Eternity— But all is dead,  
All these delicious hopes are buried,  
In the deep wrinkles of his angry brow,  
Where mercy cannot find them: but o thou  
Bright Lady of the Morn, pity doth lie  
So warm in thy soft Breast it cannot die.  
Have mercy then, and when he next shall rise  
O meet the angry God, invade his Eyes,  
And stroke his radiant Cheeks; one timely kiss  
Will kill his anger, and rev●ve my bliss.  
So to the treasure of thy pearly dew,  
Thrice will I pay three Tears, to show how true  
My grief is; so my wakeful lay shall knock  
At th' Oriental Gates; and duly mock  
The early Larks shrill Orisons to be  
An Anthem at the Day's Nativity.  
And the same rosie-fingerd hand of thine,  
That shuts Night's dying eyes, shall open mine.  
But thou, faint God of sleep, forget that I  
Was ever known to be thy votery.  
No more my pillow shall thine Altar be,  
Nor will I offer any more to thee  
Myself a melting sacrifice; I'm borne  
Again a f●esh Child of the Buxom Morn,  
Heir of the Sun's first Beams; why threat'st thou so●  
Why dost thou shake thy leaden Sceptre? go,  
Bestow thy Poppy upon wakeful woe,  
Sickness, and sorrow, whose pale lids ne'er know  
Thy downy finger, dwell upon their Eyes,  
Shut in their Tears; Shut out their miseries   

Loves Horoscope.  

LOve, brave virtues younger Brother,  
Erst hath made my Heart a Mother,  
She consults the conscious Spheres,  
To calculate her young sons years.  
She asks if sad, or saving powers,  
Gave Omen to his infant hours,  
She asks each star that then stood by,  
If poor Love shall live or die.   

Ah my Heart, is that the way?  
Are these the Beams that rule thy Day?  
Thou knowst a Face in whose each look,  
Beauty lays open loves Fortune-booke,  
On whose fair revolutions wait  
The obsequious motions of Love's fate,  
Ah my Hear●, her eyes and she,  
Have taught thee new Astrology.  
How e'er Loves native hours were set,  
What ever starry Synod met,  
'Tis in the mercy of her eye,  
If poor Love shall live or die,   

If those sharp Rays putting on  
Points of Death bid Love be gone  
(Though the Heavens in counsel sat,  
To crown an uncontrolled Fa●e,  
Though their best Aspects twined upon  
The kindest Constellation,  
Cast amorous glances on h●s Birth,  
And whispered the confederate Earth  
To pave his paths with all the good  
That warms the Bed of youth and blood  
Love has no plea against her eye  
Beauty frowns, and Love must die.   

But if her milder influence move;  
And gild the hopes of humble Love:  
(Though heavens inauspicious eye  
Lay black on love's Nativitye;  
Though every Diamond in Ioves crown  
Fixed his forehead to a frown,)  
Her Eye a strong appeal can give,  
Beauty smiles and love shall live.   

O if Love shall live, o where  
But in her Eye, or in her Ear,  
In her Breast, or in her Breath,  
Shall I hide poor Love from Death?  
For in the life ought else can give,  
Love shall die although he live.   

Or if Love shall die, o where,  
But in her Eye, or in her Ear,  
In her Breath, or in her Breast,  
Shall I Build his funeral Nest?  
While Love shall thus entombed lie,  
Love shall live, although he die.    

Sospetto d' Herode. Libro Primo.  
Argomento.  
Casting the times with their strong signs,  
Death's Master his own death divines.  
Struggling for help, his best hope is  
Hero'ds suspicion may heal his.  
Therefore he (ends a fiend to wake,  
The sleeping Tyrant's fond mistake;  
Who fears (in vain) that he whose Birth  
Means Heaven, should meddle with his Earth.  

1  
Muse, now the servant of soft Loves no more,  
Hate is thy Theme, and Herod, whose unblessed  
Hand (o what dares not jealous Greatness?) tore  
A thousand sweet Babes from their Mother's Breast:  
The Blooms of Martyrdom. O be a Door  
Of language to my infant Lips, ye best  
Of Confessors: whose Throats answering his swords,  
Gave forth your Blood for breath, spoke souls for words.   

2  
Great Anthony! Spain's well-beseeming pride,  
Thou mighty branch of Emperors and Kings.  
The Beauties of whose dawn what eye may bide,  
Which With the Sun himself weighs equal wings.  
Map of Heroic worth! whom far and wide  
To the believing world Fame boldly sings:  
Deign thou to wear this humble Wreath that bows,  
To be the sacred Honour of thy Brows.   

3.  
Nor needs my Muse a blush, or these bright Flowers  
Other then what their own blessed beauties bring.  
They were the smiling sons of those sweet Bowers,  
That drink the dew of Life, whose deathless spring,  
Nor Sirian flame, nor Borean frost deflowers:  
From whence Heav'n-labouring Bees with busy wing,  
Suck hidden sweets, which well digested proves  
Immortal Honey for the Hive of Loves.   

4.  
Thou, whose strong hand with so transcendent worth,  
Holds high the rain of fair Parthenope,  
That neither Rome, nor Athens can bring forth  
A Name in noble deeds Rival to thee!  
Thy Fame's full noise, makes proud the patient Earth,  
far more than matter for my Muse and me.  
The Tyrrhene Seas, and shores sound all the same,  
And in their murmurs keep thy mighty Name.   

5.  
Below the Bottom of the great Abyss,  
There where one Centre reconciles all things;  
The world's profound Heart pants; There placed is  
Mischiefs old Master, close about him clings  
A curled knot of embracing Snakes, that kiss  
His correspondent cheeks: these loathsome strings  
Hold the perverse Prince in eternal Ties  
Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies,   

6.  
The judge of Torments, and the King of Tears:  
He fills a burnished Throne of quenchless fire:  
And for his old fair Robes of Light, he wears  
A gloomy Mantle of dark flames, the Tire  
That crownes his hated head on high appears;  
Where seven tall Horns (his Empire's pride) aspire.  
And to make up Hell's Majesty, each Horn  
seven crested Hydra's horribly adorn.   

7.  
His Eyes, the sullen dens of Death and Night,  
Star●le the dull Air with a dismal red:  
Such his fell glances as the fatal Light  
Of staring Comets, that look Kingdoms dead.  
From his black nostrils, and blue lips, in spite  
Of Hells own stink, a worse stench is spread.  
His breath Hell's lightning is: and each deep groan  
Disdains to think that Heaven Thunders alone.   

8.  
His flaming Eyes dire exhalation,  
Unto a dreadful pile gives fiery Breath;  
Whose unconsumed consumption preys upon  
The never-dying Life, of a long Death.  
In this sad House of slow Destruction,  
(His shop of flames) he fries himself, beneath  
A mass of woes, his Teeth for Torment gnash,  
While his steel sides found with his Tails strong lash.   

9  
Three Rigorous Virgins waiting still behind,  
Assist the Throne of th' Iron-Sceptred King.  
With whips of Thorns and knotty vipers twined  
They rouse him, when his rank Thoughts need a sting,  
Their locks are beds of uncombed snakes that wind  
About their shady brows in wanton Rings.  
Thus reigns the wrathful King, and while he reigns  
His Sceptre and himself both he disdains.   

10  
Disdainful wretch! how hath one bold sin cost  
Thee all the Beauties of thy once bright Eyes?  
How hath one black Eclipse cancelled, and crossed  
The glories that did gild thee in thy Rise?  
Proud Morning of a perverse Day! how lost  
Art thou unto thyself, thou too selfe-wise  
Narcissus? foolish Phaeton? who for all  
Thy high-aymed hopes, gaind'st but a flaming fall   

11  
From Death's sad shades, to the Life-breathing Air,  
This mortal Enemy to mankind's good,  
Lifts his malignant Eyes, wasted with care,  
To be come beautiful in humane blood.  
Where jordan melts his Crystal, to make fair  
The fields of Palestine, with so pure a flood,  
There does he fix his Eyes: and there detect  
New matter, to make good his great suspect.   

12  
He calls to mind th' old quarrel, and what spark  
Set the contending Sons of Heaven on fire:  
Oft in his deep thought he revolves the dark  
Sibyl's divining leaves: he does inquire  
Into th'old Prophecies, trembling to mark  
How many present prodigies conspire,  
To crown their past predictions, both he lays  
Together, in his ponderous mind both weighs.   

13.  
Heaven's Golden-winged Herald, late he saw  
To a poor Galilean virgin sent:  
How low the Bright Youth bowed, and with what awe  
Immortal flowers to her fair hand present.  
He saw th'old Hebrews womb, neglect the Law  
Of Age and barenness, and her Babe prevent  
His Birth, by his Devotion, who began  
Betimes to be a Saint, before a Man.   

14.  
He saw rich Nectar thaws, release the rigour  
Of th' Icy North, from frost-bount Atlas' hands  
His Adamantine fetters fall: green vigour  
Gladding the Scythian Rocks, and Libyan sands.  
He saw a vernal smile, sweetly disfigure  
Winter's sad face, and through the flowery lands  
Of fair Engaddi hony-sweating Fountains  
With Manna, Milk, and Balm, new broach the Mountains.   

15.  
He saw how in that blessed Day-bearing Night,  
The Heav'n-rebuked shades made haste away;  
How bright a Dawne of Angels with new Light  
Amazed the midnight world, and made a Day  
Of which the Morning knew not: Mad with spite  
He marked how the poor Shepherds ran to pay  
Their simple Tribute to the Babe, whose Birth  
Was the great business both of Heaven and Earth.   

16.  
He saw a threefold Sun, with rich increase,  
Make proud the Ruby portals of the East.  
He saw the Temple sacred to sweet Peace,  
Adore her Prince's Birth, flat on her Breast.  
He saw the falling Idols, all confess  
A coming Deity. He saw the Nest  
Of poisonous and unnatural loves, Earth-nurst;  
Touched with the world's true Antidote to burst.   

17.  
He saw Heaven blossom with a newborn light,  
On wh●ch, as on a glorious stranger gazed  
The Golden eyes of Night: whose Beam made bright  
The way to bethlehem, and as boldly blazed,  
(Nor asked leave of the Sun) by Day as Night.  
By whom (as heavens illustrious Handmaid) raised  
Three Kings (or what is more) three Wise men went  
Westward to find the world's true Orient.   

18.  
Struck with these great concurrences of things,  
Symptoms so deadly, unto Death and him;  
Feign would he have forgot what fatal strings,  
Eternally bind each rebellious limb.  
He shook himself, and spread his spacious wings:  
Which like two Bosomed sails embrace the dim  
Air, with a dismal shade, but all in vain,  
Of sturdy Adamant is his strong chain.   

19  
While thus heavens highest counsels, by the low  
Foot steps of their Effects, he traced too well,  
He tossed his troubled eyes, Embers that glow  
Now with new Rage, and wax too hot for Hell.  
With his foul claws he fenced his furrowed Brow,  
And gave a ghastly shriek, whose horrid yell  
Ran trembling through the hollow vaults of N●ght,  
The while his twisted Tail he gnawed for spite.   

20.  
Yet on the other side, fain would he start  
Above his fears, and think it cannot be.  
He studies Scripture, strives to sound the heart,  
And feel the pulse of every Prophecy.  
He knows (but knows not how, or by what Art)  
The Heaven expecting Ages, hope to see  
A mighty Babe, whose pure, unspotted Birth,  
From a chaste Virgin womb, should bless the Earth.   

21.  
But these vast Mysteries his senses smother,  
And Reason (for what's Faith to him?) devour.  
How she that is a maid should prove a Mother,  
Yet keep inviolate her virgin flower;  
How Gods eternal Son should be man's Brother,  
Poseth his proudest Intellectual power.  
How a pure Spirit should incarnate be,  
And life itself, wear Death's frail Livery.   

22.  
That the Great Angell-blinding light should shrink  
His blaze, to shine in a poor Shepherd's eye.  
That the unmeasured God so low should sink,  
As Prisoner in a few poor Rags to lie.  
That from his Mother's Breast he milk should drink,  
Who feeds with Nectar heavens fair family.  
That a vile Manger his low Bed should prove,  
Who in a Throne of stars Thunders above.   

23.  
That he whom the Sun serves, should fainely peep  
Through clouds of Infant flesh: that he the old  
Eternal Word should be a Child, and weep.  
That he who made the fire, should fear the cold;  
That heavens high Majesty h●s Court should keep  
In a clay-cottage, by each blast controlled.  
That Glories self should serve our Griefs, & fears:  
And free Eternity, submit to years.   

24.  
And further, that the Laws eternal Giver,  
Should bleed in his own laws obedience:  
And to the circumcising Knife deliver  
Himself, the forfeit of his slaves offence.  
That the unblemished Lamb, blessed for ever,  
Should take the mark of sin, and pain of sense.  
These are the knotty Riddles, whose dark doubt  
Entangles his lost Thoughts, past getting out.   

25.  
While new Thoughts boiled in his enraged Breast,  
His gloomy Bosom's darkest Character,  
Was in his shady forehead seen expressed.  
The forehead's shade in Gr●efes expression there,  
Is what in sign of joy among the b●est  
The faces lightning, or a smile is here.  
Those stings of care that his strong Heart oppressed,  
A desperate, Oh me, drew from his deep Breast.   

26.  
Oh me! (thus bellowed he) oh mee ● what great,  
Portents before mine eyes their Powers advance?  
And serves my purer sight, only to beat  
Down my proud Thought, and leave it in a Trance?  
Frown I; and can great Nature keep her seat?  
And the gay stars lead on their Golden dance?  
Can his attempts above st●ll prosperous be,  
Auspicious still, in spite of Hell and me?   

27.  
He has my Heaven (what would he more?) whose bright  
And radiant Sceptre this bold hand should bear.  
And for the never-fading fields of Light.  
My fair Inheritance, he confines me here,  
To this dark House of shades, horror, and Night,  
To draw a long-lived Death, where all my cheer  
Is the solemnity my sorrow wears,  
That Mankind's Torment waits upon my Tears.   

28.  
Dark, dusky Man, he needs would single forth,  
To make the partner of his own pure ●ay:  
And should we Powers of Heaven, Spirits of worth  
Bow our bright Heads, before a King of clay?  
It shall not be, said I, and climbed the North,  
Where never wing of Angel yet made way  
What though I m●st my blow? yet I struck high,  
And to dare something, is some victory.   

29.  
Is he not satisfied? means he to wrest  
Hell from me too, and sack my Territories?  
Vile humane Nature means he not t'invest  
(O my despite!) with his divinest Glories?  
And rising with rich spoils upon his Breast,  
With his fair Triumphs fill all ●uture stories?  
Must the bright arms of Heaven, rebuke these eyes?  
Mock me, and dazzle my dark Mysteries?   

30.  
Art thou not Lucifer? he to whom the droves  
Of stars, that gild the Morn in charge were given?  
The nimblest of the lightning-winged Loves?  
The fairest, and the firstborn smile of Heaven?  
Look in what Pomp the Mistress Planet moves  
reverently circled by the lesser seven,  
Such, and so rich, the flames that from thine eyes,  
O pressed the common-people of the skies.   

31.  
Ah wretch! what boots thee to cast back thy eyes,  
Where dawning hope no beam of comfort shows?  
While the reflection of thy forepast joys,  
Renders thee double to thy present woes.  
Rather make up to thy new miseries,  
And meet the mischief that upon thee grows.  
If Hell must mourn, Heaven sure shall sympathise  
What force cannot effect, fraud shall devise.   

32.  
And yet whose force fear I? have I so lost  
Myself? my strength too with my innocence?  
Come try who dares, Heaven, Earth, what ere dost boast,  
A borrowed being, make thy bold defence.  
Come thy Creator too, what though it cost  
Me yet a second fall? we'd try our strengths.  
Heaven saw us struggle once, as brave a sight  
Earth now should see, and tremble at the sight.   

33.  
Thus spoke th'impatient Prince, and made a pause,  
His foul Hags raised their heads, & clapped their hands.  
And all the Powers of Hell in full applause  
Flourished their Snakes, and tossed their flaming brands.  
We (said the horrid sisters) wait thy laws,  
Th'obsequious handmaids of thy high commands.  
Be it thy part, Hell's mighty Lord, to lay  
On us thy dread commands, ours to obey.   

34.  
What thy Allecto, what these hands can do,  
Thou mad'st bold proof upon the brow of Heaven,  
Nor shouldst thou bate in pride, because that now,  
To these thy sooty Kingdoms thou art driven.  
Let heavens Lord chide above louder than thou  
In language of his Thunder, thou art even▪  
With him below: here thou art Lord alone  
Boundless and absolute: Hell is thine own.   

35.  
If usual wit, and strength will do no good,  
Virtues of stones, nor herbs: use stronger charms,  
Anger, and love, best hooks of humane blood.  
If all fa●le we'll put on our proudest Arms,  
And pouring on heavens face the Seas huge flood  
Quench his curled fires, we'll wake w●th our Alarms  
Ru●ne, where e'er she sleeps at Nature's feet;  
And crush the world till his wide corners meet.   

36.  
Replied the proud King, O my Crown's Defence?  
Stay of my strong hopes, you of whose brave worth,  
The frighted stars took faint experience,  
When against the Thunder's mouth we marched forth:  
Still you are prodigal of your Love's expense  
In our great projects, both against Heaven and Earth.  
I thank you all, but one must single out,  
Cruelty, she alone shall cure my doubt.   

37.  
Fourth of the cursed knot of Hags is she,  
Or rather all the other three in one;  
Hell's shop of slaughter she does oversee,  
And still assist the Execution.  
But chiefly there does she delight to be,  
Where Hells capacious Cauldron is set on:  
And while the black souls boil in their own gore,  
To hold them down, and look that none seethe o'er.   

38.  
Thrice howled the Caves of Night, and thrice the sound,  
Thundering upon the banks of those black lakes  
Rung, through the hollow vaults of Hell profound:  
At last her listening Ears the noise o'ertakes,  
She lifts her sooty lamps, and looking round  
A general h●sse, from the whole Tire of snakes  
Rebounding, through Hell's inmost Caverns came,  
In answer to her formidable Name.   

39  
Mongst all the Palaces in Hell's command,  
No one so merciless as this of hers.  
The Adamantine Doors, for ever stand  
Impenetrable, both to prayers and Tears,  
The walls inexorable steel, no hand  
Of Time, or Teeth of hungry Ruin fears.  
Their ugly ornaments are the bloody stains,  
Of ragged limbs, torn sculls, & dashed our Brains.   

40.  
There has the purple Vengeance a proud seat,  
Whose ever-brandisht Sword is sheathed in blood.  
About her Hate, Wrath, War, and slaughter sweat;  
Bathing their hot limbs in life's precious flood.  
There rude impetuous Rage does storm, and fret:  
And there, as Master of this murdering brood,  
Swinging a huge Sith stands impartial Death,  
With endless business almost out of Breath.   

41.  
For Hangings and for Curtains, all along  
The walls, (abominable ornaments!)  
Are tools of wrath, anvils of Torments hung;  
Fell Executioners of foul intents,  
Nails, hammers, hatchets sharp, and halters strong,  
Swords, Spears, with all the fatal Instruments  
Of sin, and Death, twice dipped in the dire stains  
Of Brothers mutual blood, and Father's brains.   

42.  
The Tables furnished with a cursed Feast,  
Which Harpies, with lean Famine feed upon,  
Vnfilled for ever. Here among the rest,  
Inhuman Erisi-●thon too makes one;  
Tantalus, Atreus, Progne, here are guests:  
Wolvish Ly●aon here a place hath won.  
The cup they drink in is Medusa's scull,  
Which mixed with gall & blood they quaff brim full.   

43.  
The foul Queens most abhorred Maids of Honour  
Medea, jezabel, many a meager Witch  
With Circe, Scylla, stand to wait upon her.  
But her best huswives are the Parcaes, which  
Still work for her, and have their wages from her.  
They prick a bleeding heart at every stitch.  
Her cruel clothes of costly threads they wove,  
Which shortcut lives of murdered Infants leave.   

44.  
The house is hearsed about with a black wood,  
Which nods with many a heavy headed tree.  
Each flowers a pregnant poison, tried and good,  
Each herb a Plague. The winds sighs timed-bee  
By a black Fount, which weeps into a flood.  
Through the thick shades obscurely might you see  
Minotaures, Cyclopses, with a dark drove  
Of Dragons, Hydra's, Sphinxes, fill the Grove.   

45.  
Here Diomed's Horses, Phereus' dogs appear,  
With the fierce Lions of Therodamas.  
Eusiris has his bloody Altar here,  
Here Sylla his severest prison has.  
The Lestrigonians hear their Table rear;  
Here strong Procrustes plants his Bed of Brass.  
Here cruel Scyron boasts his bloody rocks,  
And hateful Schinis his so feared Oaks.   

46.  
What ever Schemes of Blood, fantastic frames  
Of Death Mezentius, or Geryon drew;  
Phalaris, Ochus, Ezelinus, names  
Mighty in mischief, with dread Nero too,  
Here are they all, Here all the swords or flames  
Assyrian Tyrants, or Egyptian knew.  
Such was the House, so furnished was the Hall,  
Whence the fourth Fury, answered Pluto's call.   

47.  
Scarce to this Monster could the shady King,  
The horrid sum of his intentions tell;  
But she (swift as the momentary wing  
Of lightning, or the words he spoke) left Hell.  
She rose, and with her to our world did bring,  
Pale proof of her fell presence, Th'air too well  
With a changed countenance witnessed the sight,  
And poor fowls intercepted in their flight.   

48.  
Heaven saw her rise, and saw Hell in the sight.  
The field's fair Eyes saw her, and saw no more,  
But shut their flowery lids for ever Night,  
And Winter strew her way; yea, such a sore  
Is she to Nature, that a general fright,  
An universal palsy spreading o'er  
The face of things, from her dire eyes had run,  
Had not her thick Snakes hid them from the Sun.   

49.  
Now had the Night's companion from her den,  
Where all the busy day she close doth lie,  
With her soft wing wiped from the brows of men  
Day's sweat, and by a gentle Tyranny,  
And sweet oppression, kindly cheating them  
Of all their cares, tamed the rebellious eye  
Of sorrow, with a soft and downy hand,  
Sealing all breasts in a Lethaean band.   

50.  
When the Erinnys her black pinions spread,  
And came to Bethlem, where the cruel King  
Had now retired himself, and borrowed  
His Breast a while from care's unquiet sting.  
Such as at Thebes dire feast she showed her head,  
Her sulphur-breathed Torches brandishing,  
Such to the frighted Palace now she comes,  
And with soft feet searches the silent rooms.   

51  
By Herod— now was borne  
The Sceptre, which of old great David swayed.  
Whose right by David's image so long worn,  
Himself a stranger to, his own had made.  
And from the head of judah's house quite torn  
The Crown, for which upon their necks he laid.  
A sad yoke, under which they sighed in vain,  
And looking on their lost state sighed again.   

52  
Up, through the spacious Palace passed she,  
To where the King's proudly-reposed head  
(If any can be soft to Tyranny  
And selfe-tormenting sin) had a soft bed.  
She thinks not fit such he her face should see,  
As it is seen by Hell; and seen with dread.  
To change her faces style she doth devise,  
And in a pale Ghost's shape to spare his Eyes.   

53  
Herself a while she lays a side, and makes  
Ready to personate a mortal part.  
joseph the King's dead Brother's shape she takes,  
What he by Nature was, is she by Art.  
She comes tothth' King and with her cold hand slakes  
His Spirits, the Sparks of Life, and chills his heart,  
Life's forge; feigned is her voice, and false too, be she said  
Her words, sleepest thou fond man? sleepest thou?   

54  
So sleeps a Pilot, whose poor Bark is pressed  
With many a merciless o'er mastering wave;  
For whom (as dead) the wrathful winds contest,  
Which of them deep'st shall dig her watery Grave.  
Why dost thou let thy brave soul lie suppressed,  
In Deathlike slumbers; while thy dangers crave  
A waking eye and hand? look up and see  
The fates ripe, in their great conspiracy.   

55  
knowst thou not how of th' Hebrews royal stem  
(That old dry stock) a despaired branch is sprung  
A most strange Babe! who here concealed by them  
In a neglected stable lies, among  
Beasts and base straw: Already is the stream  
Quite turned th' ingrateful Rebels this their young  
Master (with voice free as the Trump of Fame)  
Their new King, and thy Successor proclaim   

56  
What busy motions, what wild Engines stand  
On tiptoe in their giddy Brains? th' have fire  
Already in their Bosoms; and their hand  
Already reaches at a sword: They hire  
Poisons to speed thee; yet through all the Land  
What one comes to reveal what they conspire?  
Go now, make much of these; wage still their wars  
And bring home on thy Breast more thankless scars▪   

57  
Why did I spend my life, and spill my Blood,  
That thy firm hand for ever might sustain  
A well-poised Sceptre? does it now seem good  
Thy Brother's blood be-spilt like spent in vain?  
Against thy own sons and Brothers thou hast stood  
In Arms, when lesser cause was to complain:  
And now cross Fates a watch about thee keep,  
Canst thou be careless now? now canst thou sleep?   

58.  
Where art thou man? what cowardly mistake  
Of thy great self, hath stolen King Herod from thee?  
O call thyself home to thyself, wake, wake,  
And fence the hanging sword Heaven throws upon thee.  
Redeem a worthy wrath, rouse thee, and shake  
Thyself into a shape that may become thee.  
Be Herod, and thou shalt not miss from me  
Immortal stings to thy great thoughts, and thee.   

59  
So said, her richest, which to her wrist  
For a beseeming bracelet she had tied  
(A special Worm it was as ever kissed  
The foamy lips of Cerberus) she applied  
To the King's Heart, the Snake no sooner hist,  
But virtue heard it, and away she hied,  
Dire flames diffuse themselves through every vein,  
This done, Home to her Hell she hied amain.   

60.  
He wakes, and with him (ne'er to sleep) new fears:  
His Sweat-bedewed Bed had now betrayed him,  
To a vast field of thorns, ten thousand Spears  
All pointed in his heart seemed to invade him:  
So mighty were th'amazing Characters  
With which his feeling Dream had thus dismayed him,  
He his own fancy-framed foes defies:  
In rage, My arms, give me my arms, he cries.   

61.  
As when a Pile of food-preparing fire,  
The breath of artificial lungs embraves,  
The Caldron-prisoned waters straight conspire,  
And beat the hot Brass with rebellious waves:  
He murmurs, and rebukes their bold desire;  
Th'impatient liquor, frets, and foams, and raves;  
Till his overflowing pride suppress the flame,  
Whence all his high spirits, and hot courage came.   

62.  
So boyles the fired Herod's blood-swolne breast,  
Not to be slakt but by a Sea of blood.  
His faithless Crown he feels loose on his Crest,  
Which on false Tyrant's head ne'er firmly stood.  
The worm of jealous envy and unrest,  
To which his gnawed heart is the growing food  
Makes him impatient of the lingering light.  
Hate the sweet peace of all-composing Night.   

63.  
A Thousand Prophecies that talk strange things,  
Had sown of old these doubts in his deep breast.  
And now of late came tributary Kings,  
Bringing him nothing but new fears from th'East,  
More deep suspicions, and more deadly stings.  
With which his feav'rous cares their cold increased.  
And now his dream (Hell's firebrand) still more bright,  
Showed him his fears, and killed him with the sight.   

64.  
No sooner therefore shall the Morning see  
(Night hangs yet heavy on the lids of Day)  
But all his Counselors must summoned be,  
To meet their troubled Lord: without delay  
Heralds and Messengers immediately  
Are sent about, who posting every way  
To th'heads and Officers of every band;  
Declare who sends, and what is his command.   

65.  
Why art thou troubled Herod? what vain fear  
Thy blood-revolving Breast to rage doth move?  
Heaven's King, who doffs himself weak flesh to wear,  
Comes not to rule in wrath, but serve in love.  
Nor would he this thy feared Crown from thee Tear,  
But give thee a better with himself above.  
Poor jealousy! why should he wish to pray  
Upon thy Crown, who gives his own away?   

66  
Make to thy reason man; and mock thy doubts,  
Look how below thy fears their causes are;  
Thou art a Soldier Herod; send thy Scouts  
See how he's furnished for so feared a war.  
What armour does he wear? A few thin clouts.  
His Trumpets? tender cries, his men to dare  
So much? rude Shepherds. What his steeds? alas  
Poor Beasts! a slow Ox, and a simple Ass.   
Il fine del libro primo.   

On a prayer book sent to Mrs. M. R.  

Lo here a little volume, but large book,  
(Fear it not, sweet,  
It is not hypocrite)  
Much larger in itself then in its look.   

It is in one rich handful, heaven and all  
Heavens royal Hosts encamped, thus small;  
To prove that true schools use to tell,  
A thousand Angels in one point can dwell.   

It is loves great Artillery,  
Which here contracts itself and comes to lie  
Close couched in your white bosom, and from thence  
As from a snowy fortress of defence  
Against the ghostly foe to take your part:  
And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.   

It is the Armoury of light,  
Let constant use but keep it bright,  
You'll find it yields  
To holy hand, and humble hearts,  
More swords and shields  
Then sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.   

Only be sure,  
The hands be pure,  
That hold these weapons and the eyes  
Those of turtles, chaste, and true,  
Wakeful, and wise  
Here is a friend shall fight for you,  
Hold but this book before your heart,  
Let prayer alone to play his part.   

But o', the heart  
That studies this high art,  
Must be a sure house keeper,  
And yet no sleeper.   

Dear soul be strong,  
Mercy will come ere long,  
And bring her bosom full of blessings,  
Flowers of never fading graces;  
To make immortal dress.  
For worthy souls whose wise embraces  
Store up themselves for him, who is alone  
The spouse of Virgins, and the Virgin's son.   

But if the noble Bridegroom when he comes  
Shall find the wand'ring heart from home,  
Leaving her chaste abode,  
To gad abroad:   

Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies  
To take her pleasures, and to play  
And keep the devil's holy day.  
To dance in the Sunshine of some smiling  
but beguiling.  
Sphere of sweet, and sugared lies,  
Some slippery pair,  
Of false perhaps as fair  
Flattering but forswearing eyes   

Doubtless some other heart  
Will get the start,  
And stepping in before,  
Will take possession of the sacred store  
Of hidden sweets, and holy joys,  
Words which are not heard with ears,  
(These tumultous shops of noise)  
Effeactuall whispers whose st●●l voice,  
The soul itself more feels than hears.   

Amorous Languishments, Luminous trances,  
Sights which are not seen with eyes,  
Spiritual and soul piercing glances.  
Whose pure and subtle lightning, ●lies  
Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire;  
And melts it down in sweet desire:  
Yet doth not stay  
To ask the windows leave, to pass that way.   

Delicious deaths, soft exhalations  
Of soul dear, and divine annihilations.  
A thousand unknown rites  
Of joys, and rarifyed delights.   

An hundred thousand loves and graces,  
And many a mystic thing,  
Which the divine embraces  
Of the dear spouse of spirits with them will bring.  
For which it is no shame,  
That dull mortality must not know a name.   

Of all this hidden store  
Of blessing, and ten thousand more;  
If when he come  
He find the heart from home,  
Doubtless he will unload  
Himself some other where,  
And pour abroad  
His precious sweets,  
On the fair soul whom first he meets.   

O fair! o fortunate! o rich! o dear!  
O happy and thrice happy she  
Dear silver breasted dove  
Who ere she be,  
Whose early Love  
With winged vows,  
Makes haste to meet her morning spouse:  
And close with his immortal kisses.  
Happy soul who never misses,  
To improve that precious hour:  
And every day,  
Seize her sweet prey;  
All fresh and fragrant as he rises,  
Dropping with a balmy shower  
A delicious dew of spices.   

O let that happy soul hold fast  
Her heavenly armful, she shall taste  
At once, ten thousand paradises  
She shall have power,  
To rifle and deflower,  
The rich and ros●all spring of those rare sweets,  
Which with a swelling bosom there she meets,  
Boundless and infinite—  
— bottomless treasures,  
Of pure inebriating pleasures,  
Happy soul she shall discover,  
What joy, what bliss,  
How many heavens at once it is,  
To have a God become her lover.    

On Mr. G. Herbert's book entitled the Temple of Sacred Poem, sent to a Gentlewoman.  
KNow you fair, on what you look;  
Divinest love lies in this book:  
Expecting fire from your eyes,  
To kindle this his sacrifice.  
When your hands untie these strings,  
Think you have an Angel by th' wings.  
One that gladly will be nigh,  
To wait upon each morning fie.  
To flutter in the balmy air,  
Of your well presumed prayer.  
These white plumes of his heel lend you,  
Which every day to heaven will send you:  
To take acquaintance of the sphere,  
And all the smooth faced kindred there.  
And though Herbert's name do owe  
These devotions, fairest; know  
That while I lay them on the shrine  
Of your white hand, they are mine.   

In memory of the Virtuous and Learned Lady Madre de Teresa that sought an early Martyrdom.  

LOve thou art absolute, sole Lord  
Of life and death— To prove the word,  
We need to go to none of all  
Those thy old soldiers, stout and tall  
Ripe and full, grown, that could reach down,  
With strong arms their triumphant crown:  
Such as could with lusty breath,  
Speak loud unto the face of death  
Their great Lords glorious name, to none  
Of those whose large breasts built a throne  
For love their Lord, glorious and great,  
we'll see him take a private seat,  
And make his mansion in the mild  
And milky soul of a soft child.   

Scarce had she learned to lisp a name  
Of Martyr, yet she thinks it shame  
Life should so long play with that breath,  
Which spent can buy so brave a death.   

She never undertook to know,  
What death with love should have to do.  
Nor hath she ere yet understood.  
Why to show love she should shed blood,  
Yet though she cannot tell you why,  
She can love and she can die.  
Scarce had she blood enough, to make  
A guilty sword blush for her sake;  
Yet has she a heart dares hope to prove,  
How much less strong is death than love.   

Be love but there, let poor six years,  
Be posed with the maturest fears  
Man trembles at, we strait shall find  
Love knows no nonage, nor the mind.  
'tis love, not years, or Limbs, that can  
Make the martyr or the man.  
Love touched her heart, and lo it beats  
High, and burns with such brave heats:  
Such thirst to die, as dare drink up,  
A thousand cooled deaths in one cup.  
Good reason for she breathes all fire,  
Her weak breast heaves with strong desire,  
Of what she may with fruitless wishes  
Seek for, amongst her mother's kisses.   

Since 'tis not to be had at home,  
she'll travel to a martyrdom.  
No home for her confesses she,  
But where she may A martyr be.  
she'll to the Moors, and trade with them,  
For this unvalued Diadem,  
She offers them her dearest breath,  
With Christ's name ●nt, in change for death.  
she'll bargain with them, and will give  
Them God, and teach them how to live  
In him, or if they this deny,  
For him she'll teach them how to die.  
So shall she leave amongst them sown,  
Her Lords blood, or at lest her own.  
Farewell then all the world, adieu,  
Teresa is no more for you:  
Farewell all pleasures, sports and joys,  
Never till now esteemed toys.  
Farewell what ever dear may be,  
Mother's arms, or father's knee.  
Farewell house, and farewell home:  
she's for the Moors and Martyrdom.   

Sweet not so fast, Lo thy fair spouse,  
Whom thou seekest with so swift vows  
Calls thee back, and bi●s thee como,  
T'embrace a milder Martyrdom.   

Blessed powers forbid thy tender life,  
Should bleed upon a barbarous knife.  
Or some base hand have power to race,  
Thy Breasts chaste cabinet; and uncase  
A soul kept there so sweet. O no,  
Wise heaven will never have it so.  
Thou art Love's victim, and must die  
A death more mystical and high.  
Into Love's hand thou shalt let fall,  
A still surviving funeral.   

His is the dart must make the death  
Whose stroke shall taste thy hallowed breath▪  
A dart thrice dipped in that rich Hame,  
Which writes thy spouses' radiant name▪  
Upon the roof of heaven where ay  
It shines, and with a sovereign ray,  
Beats bright upon the burning faces  
Of souls, which in that names sweet graces,  
Find everlasting smiles. So rare,  
So spiritual, pure and fair,  
Must be the immortal instrument,  
Upon whose choice point shall be spent,  
A life so loved, and that there be  
Fit executioners for thee.  
The fairest, and the first borne Loves of fire,  
Blest Seraphims shall leave their choir,  
And turn Love's soldiers upon thee,  
To exercise their Archery.   

O how oft shalt thou complain  
Of a sweet and subtle pain?  
Of intolerable joys?  
Of a death in which who dies  
Loves his death, and dies again,  
And would for ever so be slain!  
And lives and dies, and knows not why  
To live, but that he still may die.   

How kindly will thy gentle heart,  
Kiss the sweetly— killing dart:  
And close in his embraces keep,  
Those delicious wounds that weep  
Balsam, to heal themselves with—  
— thus  
When these thy deaths so numerous,  
Shall all at last die into one,  
And melt thy souls sweet mansion:  
Like a soft lump of Incense, hasted  
By too hot a fire, and wasted,  
Into perfuming clouds. So fast  
Shalt thou exhale to heaven at last,  
In a disolving sigh, and then  
O what! ask not the tongues of men,  
Angels cannot tell, suffice,  
Thyself that feel thine own full joys.  
And hold them fast for ever there,  
So soon as thou shalt first appear.  
The moon of maiden stars; thy white  
Mistress attended by such bright  
Souls as thy shining self, shall come,  
And in her first ranks make thee room.  
Where mongst her snowy family,  
Immortal welcomes wait on thee.  
O what delight when she shall stand,  
And teach thy Lips heaven, w●th her hand,  
On which thou now mayst to thy wishes,  
Heap up thy consecrated kisses.  
What joy shall seize thy soul when she  
Bending her blessed eyes, on thee  
Those second smiles of heaven shall dart,  
Her mild rays, through thy melting heart:   

Angels thy old friends there shall greet thee,  
Glad at their own home now to meet thee.  
All thy good works which went before,  
And waited for thee at the door:  
Shall own thee there: and all in one  
Wove a Constellation  
Of Crowns, with which the King thy spouse,  
Shall build up thy triumphant brows.   

All thy old woes shall now smile on thee,  
And thy pains set bright upon thee.  
All thy sorrows here shall shine,  
And thy sufferings be divine.  
Tears shall take comfort, and turn Gems.  
And wrongs repent to diadems.  
Even thy deaths shall live, and new  
Dross the soul, which late they slew.  
Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars,  
As keep account of the Lamb's wars   

Those rare works, where thou shalt leave wit,  
Loves noble history, with wit  
Taught thee by none but him, while here  
They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there.  
Each heavenly word, by whose hid flame  
Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same  
Shall flourish on thy brows; and be  
Both fire to us, and flame to thee:  
Whose light shall live bright, in thy face  
By glory, in our hearts by grace.   

Thou shalt look round about, and see  
Thousand of crowned souls, throng to be  
Themselves thy crown, sons of thy news:  
The Virgin births with which thy spouse  
Made fruitful thy fair soul; Go now  
And with them all about thee, bow  
To him, put on (heel say) put on  
My Rosy Love, that thy rich Zone,  
Sparkling with the sacred Hames,  
Of thousand souls whose happy names,  
Heaven keeps upon thy score thy bright  
Life, brought them first to kiss the light.   

That kindled them to stars, and so  
Thou with the Lamb thy Lord shall go.  
And where so ere he sits his white  
Steps, walk with him those ways of Light.  
Which who in death would live to see,  
Must learn in life to die like thee.    

An Apology for the precedent Hymn.  
THus have I back again to thy bright name  
Fair sea of holy fires transfused the flame  
I took from reading thee 'tis to thy wrong  
I know that in my weak and worthless song  
Thou here art set to shine, where thy full day  
Scarce dawns, o pardon, if I dare to say  
Thine own dear books are guilty, for from thence  
I learned to know that Love is eloquence  
That heavenly maxim gave me heart to try  
If what to other tongues is tuned so high.  
Thy praise might not speak English too, forbid  
(by all thy mysteries that there lie hid;)  
Forbid it mighty Love, let no fond hate  
Of names and words so far prejudicated  
Souls are not Spaniards too, one friendly flood  
Of Baptism, blends them all into one blood.  
Christ's Faith makes but one body of all souls,  
And loves that body's soul; no Law controls  
Our free traffic for heaven we may maintain,  
Peace sure with piety, though it dwell in Spain.  
What soul soever in any Language can  
Speak heaven like hers, is my soul's countryman.  
O 'tis not Spanish, but 'tis heaven she speaks,  
'Tis heaven that lies in ambush there, and breaks  
From thence into the wondering readers breast,  
Who finds his warm heart, hatched into a nest  
Of little Eagles, and young Loves, whose high  
Flights scorn the lazy dust, and things that die.  
There are enough whose draughts as deep as hell  
Drink up all Spain in Sack, let my soul swell  
With thee strong wine of Love, let others swim  
In puddles, we will pledge this Seraphim  
Bowls full of richer blood then blush of grape  
Was ever guilty of, change we our shape,  
My soul, some drink from men to beasts; o then,  
Drink we till we prove more, not less than men:  
And turn not beasts, but Angels. Let the King,  
Me ever into these his Cellars bring;  
Where flows such Wine as we can have of none  
But him, who trod the Winepress all alone:  
Wine of youth's Life, and the sweet deaths of Love,  
Wine of immortal mixture, which can prove  
Its tincture from the Rosy Nectar, wine  
That can exalt weak earth, and so refine  
Our dust, that in one draught, Mortality  
May drink itself up, and forget to die.   

On a Treatise of Charity.  
RIse then, immortal maid! Religion rise!  
Put on thyself in thine own looks: t' our eyes  
Be what thy beauties, not our blots, have made thee,  
Such as (ere our dark sins to dust betrayed thee)  
Heaven set thee down new dressed; when thy bright birth  
Shot thee like lightning, to th'astonished earth.  
From th' dawn of thy fair eyelids wipe away  
Dull mists and melancholy clouds: take day  
And thine own beams about thee: bring the best  
Of whatsoever perfumed thy Eastern west.  
Gird all thy glories to thee: then sit down,  
Open this book, fair Queen, and take thy crown.  
These learned leaves shall vindicate to thee  
Thy holiest, humblest, handmaid Charity.  
Sh'l dress thee like thyself, set thee on high  
Where thou shalt reach all hearts, command each eye▪  
Lo where I see thy offerings wake, and rise  
From the pale dust of that strange sacrifice  
Which they themselves were; each one putting on  
A majesty that may beseem thy throne.  
The holy youth of heaven, whose golden rings  
Girt round thy awful Altars, with bright wings  
Fanning thy fair locks (which the world believes  
As much as sees) shall with these sacred leaves  
Trick their tall plumes, and in that garb shall go  
If not more glorious, more conspicuous tho.  
— Be it enacted then  
By the fair laws of thy firm-pointed pen,  
God's services no longer shall put on  
A sluttishness, for pure religion:  
No longer shall our Churches frighted stones  
Lie scattered like the burnt and martyred bones  
Of dead Devotion; nor faint marbles weep  
In their sad ruins; nor Religion keep  
A melancholy mansion in those cold  
Vrns. Like God's Sanctuaries they looked of old:  
Now seem they Temples consecreate to none,  
Or to a new God Desolation.  
No more the hypocrite shall th' upright be  
Because he's stiff, and will confess no knee:  
While others bend their knee, no more shalt thou  
(Disdainful dust and ashes) bend thy brow;  
Nor on God's Altar cast two scorching eyes  
Baked in hot scorn, for a burnt sacrifice:  
But (for a Lamb) thy tame and tender heart  
New struck by love, still trembling on his dart;  
Or (for two Turtle doves) it shall suffice  
To bring a pair of meek and humble eyes.  
This shall from henceforth be the masculine theme  
Pulpits and pens shall sweat in; to ●edeem  
Virtue to action, that life-feeding flame  
That keeps Religion warm: not swell a name  
Of faith, a mountain word, made up of air,  
With those dear spoils that wont to dress the fair  
And fruitful Charity's full breasts (of old)  
Turning her out to tremble in the cold.  
What can the poor hope from us, when we be  
Uncharitable even to Charity.   

In Picturam Reverendissimi Episcopi, D. Andrews.  
HAec charta monstrat, Fama quem monstrat magis,  
Sed & ipsa nec dum fama quem monstrat satis,  
Ille, ille totam solus implevit Tubani,  
Tota ora solus domuit & famam quoque  
Fecit modestam: ment is igneae pater  
Agilique radio Lucis aelernae vigil,  
Per alta rerum pondera indomito Vagus  
Cucurrit Animo, quippe naturam ferox  
Exhausit ipsam mille Foelus Artibus,  
Et mille Linguis ipse se ingentes procul  
Variavit omnes fuitque toti simul  
Cognatus orbi: sic sacrum & solidum jubar  
Saturumque coelo pectus ad patrios Libens  
Porrexit ignes: hac eum (Lector) vides  
Haec (ecce) charta O utinam & audires quoque   

On the Assumption.  

Hark she is called, the parting hour is come,  
Take thy farewell poor world, heaven must go home.  
A piece of heavenly Light purer and brighter  
Than the chaste stars, whose choice Lamps come to light her.  
While through the crystal orbs clearer than they  
She climbs, and makes a far more milky way;  
she's called again, hark how th'immortal Dove  
Sighs to his silver mate: rise up my Love,  
Rise up my fair, my spotless one,  
The Winter's past, the rain is gone:  
The Spring is come, the Flowers appear,  
No sweets since thou art wanting here.   

Come away my Love,  
Come away my Dove  
cast off delay:  
The Court of Heaven is come,  
To wait upon thee home;  
Come away, come away.   

she's called again, and will she go;  
When heaven bids come, who can say no?  
Heaven calls her, and she must away,  
Heaven will not, and she cannot stay.  
Go then, go (glorious) on the golden wings  
Of the bright youth of Heaven, that sings  
Under so sweet a burden: go,  
Since thy great Son will have it so:  
And while thou goest, our song and we,  
Will as we may reach after thee.  
Hail holy Queen of humble hearts,  
We in thy praise will have our parts.  
And though thy dearest looks must now be light  
To none but the blessed heavens, whose bright  
Beholders lost in sweet delight;  
Feed for ever their fair sight  
With those divinest eyes, which we  
And our dark world no more shall see.  
Though, our poor joys are parted so,  
Yet shall our lips never let go  
Thy gracious name, but to the last,  
Our Loving song shall hold it fast.   

Thy sacred Name shall be  
Thyself to us, and we  
With holy cares will keep it by us,  
We to the last,  
Will hold it fast.  
And no Assumption shall deny us.  
All the sweetest showers,  
Of our fairest Flowers,  
Will we strew upon it:  
Though our sweetness cannot make  
It sweeter, they may take  
Themselves new sweetness from it.   

Marry, men and Angels sing,  
Maria Mother of our King.  
Live rarest Princess, and may the bright  
Crown of an incomparable Light  
Embrace thy radiant brows, o may the best  
Of everlasting joys bathe thy white breast.  
Live our chaste love, the holy mirth  
Of heaven, and humble pride of Earth:  
Live Crown of Women, Queen of men:  
Live Mistress of our Song, and when  
Our weak desires have done their best;  
Sweet Angels come, and sing the rest.    

Epitaphium in Dominum Herrisium.  

SIste te paulum (viator) ubi Longum Sisti  
Nescese erit, huc nempe properare te scias  
quocunque properas.  
Morae praetium erit  
Et Lacrimae,  
Si jacere hic scias  
Gulielmum  
Splendidae Herrisiorum familiae  
Splendorem maximum:  
Quem cum talem vixisse intelexeris,  
Et vixisse tantum;  
Discas licet  
In quantus spes possit  
Assurgere mortalitas,  
De quantis cadere.  
Quem Infantem, Essexia— vidit  
Quem juvenem, Cantabrigiae vidit  
Senem, ah infaelix utraque  
Quod non vidit.  
Qui  
Collegii Christi Alumnus,  
Aulae Pembrokianae socius,  
Vtrique, ingens amoris certamen fuit.  
Donec  
Dulciss. Lites elusit Deus,  
Eumque coelestis Collegii  
Cujus semper Alumnus fuit  
socium fecit;  
Qui & ipse Collegium fuit,  
In quo  
Musae omnes & gratiae,  
Nullibi magis sorores,  
Sub praeside religione  
In tenacissimum sodalitium coaluere.   

Quem Oratoriae Agnoucre.  
Quem Poetica Agnoucre.  
Quem Vtraque Agnoucre.  
Quem Christianum Agnoucre.  
Quem Poetam Agnoucre.  
Quem Oratorem Agnoucre.  
Quem Philosophum Agnoucre.  
Quem Omnes Agnoucre.   

Qui Fide Superavit.  
Qui Spe Superavit.  
Qui Charitate Superavit.  
Qui Humilitate Superavit.  
Qui Mundum Superavit.  
Qui Coelum Superavit.  
Qui Proximum Superavit.  
Qui Seipsum Superavit.   

Cujus  
Sub verna fron●e-senilis animus,  
Sub morum facilitate, severitas virtutis;  
Sub plurima indole, pauci anni;  
Sub majore modestia, maxima indolesadeo se occuluerunt  
ut vitam ejus  
Pulchram dixeris & pudicam dissimulationem:  
Imo vero & mortem,  
Ecce enim in ipso funere  
Dissimulari se passus est,  
Sub tantillo mar more tantum hospitem,  
Eo nimirum majore monumento  
quo minore tumulo.  
Eo ipso die occubuit quo Ecclesia  
Anglicana ad vesperas legit,  
Raptus est ne malitia mutaret Intellectun ejus;  
Scilicet Id Octobris, Anno S 1631.    

An Hymn for the Circumcision day of our Lord.  

RIse thou first and fairest morning,  
Rosy with a double red:  
With thine own blush thy cheeks adorning,  
And the dear drops this day were shed.   

All the purple pride of Laces,  
The crimson curtains of thy bed;  
Gild thee not with so sweet graces;  
Nor sets thee in so rich a red.   

Of all the fair cheeked flowers that fill thee,  
None so fair thy bosom strews;  
As this modest Maiden Lily,  
Our sins have shamed into a Rose.   

Bid the golden god the Sun,  
Burnished in his glorious beams:  
Put all his red eyed rubies on,  
These Rubies shall put out his eyes.   

Let him make poor the purple East,  
Rob the rich store her Cabinets keep,  
The pure birth of each sparkling nest,  
That flaming in their fair bed sleep.   

Let him embrace his own bright tresses,  
With a new morning made of gems;  
And wear in them his wealthy dresses,  
Another day of Diadems.   

When he hath done all he may,  
To make himself rich in his rise,  
All will be darkness, to the day  
That breaks from one of these fair eyes.   

And soon the sweet truth shall appear,  
Dear Babe ere many days be done:  
The Moon shall come to meet thee here,  
And leave the long adored Sun.   

Thy nobler beauty shall bereave him,  
Of all his Eastern Paramours:  
His Persian Lovers all shall leave him,  
And swear faith to thy sweeter powers.   

Nor while they leave him shall they lose the Sun,  
But in thy fairest eyes find two for one.    

On Hope, By way of Question and Answer, between A. Cowley, and R. Crashaw.  Cowley. 
HOpe, whose weak being ruined is  
Alike, If it succeed, and if it miss.  
Whom Ill, and Good doth equally confound,  
And both the horns of Fates dilemma wound.  
Vain shadow! that doth vanish quite  
Both at full noon, and perfect night.  
The Fates have not a possibility  
Of blessing thee.  
If things then from their ends we happy call,  
'Tis hope is the most hopeless thing of all.  Crashaw. 
Dear Hope! Earth's dowry, and Heaven's debt,  
The entity of things that are not yet.  
Subtlest, but surest being! Thou by whom  
Our Nothing hath a definition.  
Fair cloud of fi●e, both shade, and light,  
Our life in death, our day in night.  
Fates cannot find out a capacity  
Of hurting thee.  
From thee their thin dilemma with blunt horn  
Shrinks, like the sick Moon at the wholesome morn.  Cowley. 
Hope, thou bold taster of delight,  
Who, in stead of doing so, devour'st it quite.  
Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leav'st us poor,  
By clogging it with Legacies before.  
The joys, which we entire should wed,  
Come deflowered virgins to our bed.  
Good fortunes without gain imported be,  
So mighty Custome's paid to thee.  
For joy, like Wine kept close doth better taste:  
If it take air before, its spirits waste.  Crashaw. 
Thou art Love's Legacy under lock  
Of Faith: the steward of our growing stock.  
Our Crown-lands lie above, yet each meal brings  
A seemly portion for the Sons of Kings.  
Nor will the Virgin-joyes we wed  
Come less unbroken to our bed,  
Because that from the bridal check of Bliss,  
Thou thus stealest down a distant kiss,  
Hopes chaste kiss wrongs no more joys maidenhead,  
Then Spousal rites prejudge the marriagebed.  Cowley. 
Hope, Fortunes cheating Lottery,  
Where for one prise an hundred blanks there be.  
Fond Archer Hope, who tak'st thine aim so far,  
That still, or short, or wide thine arrows are.  
Thine empty cloud the eye, itself deceives  
With shapes that our own fancy gives:  
A cloud, which gilt, and painted now appears,  
But must drop presently in tears.  
When thy false beams o'er Reason's light prevail,  
By ignes fatus, not North stars we sail.  Crashaw. 
Fair Hope! our earlier Heaven! by thee  
Young Time is taster to Eternity.  
The generous wine with age grows stung, not sour;  
Nor need we kill thy fruit to smell thy flower.  
Thy golden head never hangs down,  
Till in the lap of Love's full noon  
It falls, and dies: oh no, it melts away  
As doth the dawn into the day:  
As lumps of Sugar lose themselves, and twine  
Their subtle essence with the soul of Wine.  Cowley. 
Brother of Fear! more gaily clad  
The merrier Fool o'th' two, yet quite as mad.  
Sire of Repentance! shield of fond desire,  
That blows the Chemics, and the Lover's fire,  
Still leading them insensibly on,  
With the strange witchcraft of Anon.  
By thee the one doth changing Nature through  
Her endless Labyrinths pursue,  
And th'other chaces woman, while she goes  
More ways, and turns, then hunted Nature knows.  Crashaw. 
Fortune alas above the world's law wars:  
Hope kicks the curled heads of conspiring stars.  
Her keel cuts not the waves, where our winds stir,  
And Fates whole Lottery is one blank to her.  
Her shafts, and she fly far above,  
And forage in the fields of light, and love.  
Sweet Hope! kind cheat! fair fallacy! by thee  
We are not where, or what we be,  
But what, and where we would be: thus art thou  
Our absent presence, and our future now.  Crashaw. 
Faith's Sister! Nurse of fair desire●  
Fears Antidote! a wise, and well stayed fire  
Tempered 'twixt cold despair, and torrid joy:  
Queen Regent in young Love's minority.  
Though the vexed Chemic vainly chases  
His fugitive gold through all her faces,  
And loves more fierce, more fruitless fires assay  
One face more fugitive than all they,  
True Hope's a glorious Huntress, and her chase  
The God of Nature in the field of Grace.   

THE DELIGHTS OF THE MUSES. OR, Other Poems written on several occasions. By Richard Crashaw, sometimes of Pembroke Hall, and late Fellow of St. P●ters College in Cambridge.  Mart. 
Dic mihi quid melius desidiosus agas.  
LONDON, Printed by T. W. for H. Moseley, at the Prince's Arms in S. Paul's Churchyard, 1646.   

Music's Duel.  
NOw Westward Sol had spent the richest Beams  
Of Noons high Glory, when hard by the streams  
Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,  
Under protection of an Oak; there sat  
A sweet Lutes-master: in whose gentle airs  
He lost the Day's heat, and his own hot cares.  
Close in the covert of the leaves there stood  
A Nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood:  
(The sweet inhabitant of each glad Tree,  
Their Muse, their Siren. harmless Siren she)  
There stood she listening, and did entertain  
The Music's soft report: and mould the same  
In her own murmurs, that what ever mood  
His curious fingers lent, her voice made good:  
The man perceived his Rival, and her Art,  
Disposed to give the lightfoot Lady sport  
Awakes his Lute, and ●gainst the fight to come  
Informs it, in a sweet Praeludium  
Of closer strains, and ere the war begin,  
He lightly skirmishes on every string  
Charged with a flying touch: and straightway she  
Carves out her dainty voice as readily,  
Into a thousand sweet distinguished Tones,  
And reckons up in soft divisions,  
Quick volumes of wild Notes; to let him know  
By that shrill taste, she could do something too.  
His nimble hands instinct than taught each string  
A capering cheerfulness; and made them sing  
To their own dance; now negligently rash  
He throws his Arm, and with a long drawn dash  
Blends all together; then distinctly trips  
From this to that; then quick returning skipps  
And snatches this again, and pauses there.  
She measures every measure, every where  
Meets art with art; sometimes as if in doubt  
Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out  
Trails her plain Ditty in one long-spun note,  
Through the sleek passage of her open throat:  
A clear unwrinckled song, then doth she point it  
With tender accents, and severely joint it  
By short diminutives, that being reared  
In controverting warbles evenly shared,  
With her sweet self she wrangles; He amazed  
That from so small a channel should be raised  
The torrent of a voice, whose melody  
Could melt into such sweet variety  
Strains higher yet; that tickled with rare art  
The tattling strings (each breathing in his part)  
Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling Base  
In surly groans disdains the Trebles Grace.  
The high-perched treble chirps at this, and chides,  
Until his finger (Moderator) hides  
And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all  
Hoarse, shrill, at once; as when the Trumpets call  
Hot Mars to th' Harvest of Death's field, and woe  
men's hearts into their hands; this lesson too  
She gives him back; her supple Breast thrills out  
Sharp Airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt  
Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill,  
And folds in waved notes with a trembling bill,  
The pliant Series of her slippery song.  
Then starts she suddenly into a Throng  
Of short thick sobs, whose thundering volleys float,  
And roll themselves over her lubric throat  
In panting murmurs, stilled out of her Breast  
That ever-bubling spring; the sugared Nest  
Of her delicious soul, that there does lie  
Bathing in streams of liquid Melody;  
Musics best seedplot, when in ripened Airs  
A Golden-headed-Harvest fairly rears  
His Honey-dropping scops, ploughed by her breath  
Which there reciprocally laboureth.  
In that sweet soil it seems a holy choir  
Founded to th' Name of great Apollo's lyre,  
Whose sylver-roofe rings with the sprightly notes  
Of sweet-lipped Angell-Imps, that swill their throats  
In cream of Morning Helicon, and then  
Prefer soft Anthems to the Ears of men.  
To woe them from their Beds, still murmuring  
That men can sleep while they their Matins sing:  
(Most divine service) whose so early● lay,  
Prevents the Eye-lidds of the blushing day.  
There might you hear her kindle her soft voice,  
In the close murmur of a sparkling noise.  
And lay the groundwork of her hopeful song,  
Still keeping in the forward stream, so long●  
Till a sweet whirlwind (striving to get o●t)  
Heaves her soft Bosom, wanders round about,  
And makes a pretty Earthquake in her Breast,  
Till the fledged Notes at length forsake their Nect;  
Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the Sky  
Winged with their own wild Echoes prattling fly.  
She opes the floodgate, and le's lose a Tide  
Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth rid●  
On the waved back of every swelling strain,  
Rising and falling in a pompous train.  
And while she thus discharges a shrill peal  
Of flashing Airs; she qualifies their zeal  
With the cool Epode of a grave Note,  
Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat  
Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse Bird;  
Her little soul is ravished: and so poured  
Into loose ecstasies, that she is placed  
Above herself, Music's Enthusiast  
Shame now and anger mixed a double stain  
In the Musician's face; yet once again  
(Mistress) I come; now reach a strain my Lu●e  
Above her mock, or be for ever mute.  
Or tune a song of victory to me,  
Or to thyself, sing thine own Obsequy;  
So said, his hands sprightly as fire he ●lings,  
And with a quavering coyness tastes the strings.  
The sweet-liped sisters musically frighted,  
Singing their fears are fearfully delighted.  
Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs  
Are fanned and frizzled, in the wanton airs  
Of his own breath: which married to his lyre  
Doth tune the Spbaeares, and make Heaven's self look higher  
From this to that, from that to this he flies  
Feels Music's pulse in all her Arteries,  
Caught in a net which the●e Apollo spreads,  
His fingers struggle with the vocal threads,  
Following those little rills, he sinks into  
A Sea of Helicon; his hand does go  
Those parts of sweetness which with Nectar drop,  
Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup.  
The humourous strings expound his learned touch,  
By various Glosses; now they seem to grudge,  
And murmur in a buzzing din, then jingle  
In shrill tongued accents: striving to be single●  
Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke  
Gives life to some new Grace; thus doth h'invoke  
Sweetness by all her Names; thus, bravely thus  
(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)  
The Lutes light Genius now does proudly rise,  
Heaved on the surges of swollen Rapsodyes.  
Whose flourish (Meteor-like) doth curl the air  
With flash of high-born fancies: here and there  
Dancing in lofty measures, and anon  
Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone:  
Whose trembling murmurs melting in wild airs  
Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares  
Because those precious mysteries that dwell,  
In music's ravished soul he dare not tell,  
But whisper to the world: thus do they vary  
Each string his Note, as if they meant to carry  
Their Master's blessed soul (snatched out at his Ears  
By a strong Ecstasy) through all the sphaeares  
Of Music's heaven; and seat it there on high  
In th' Empyraeum of pure Harmony.  
At length (after so long, so loud a strife  
Of all the strings, still breathing the best life  
Of blessed variety attending on  
His finger's fairest revolution  
In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall)  
A full-mouth Diapason swallows all.  
This done, he lists what she would say to this,  
And she although her Breathes late exercise  
Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat,  
Yet summons all her sweet powers for a Note  
Alas! in vain! for while (sweet soul) she tries  
To measure all those wild diversities  
Of chattering strings, by the small size of one  
Poor simple voice, raised in a Natural Tone;  
She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies▪  
She dies: and leaves her life the Victous prize,  
Falling upon his Lute; o fit to have  
(That lived so sweetly) dead, so sweet a Grave!   

Principi recèns natae omen maternae indolis.  
CResce, ô dulcibus imputanda Divis,  
O cresce, & propera, puella a Princeps,  
In matris propera a venire partes.  
Et cum par breve fulminum minorum,  
Illin● Carolus, & jucobus indè,  
In patris faciles subire famam,  
Ducent fata furoribus decoris;  
cum terror sacer, Anglicíque magnum  
Murmur nominis increpabit omnem  
Latè Bosperon, Ottomanicásque  
Non picto quatiet tremore Lunas;  
Te tunc altera, nec timenda paci,  
Poscent praelia. Tu potens pudici  
Vibratrix ocuci, pios in hostes  
Laté dulcia fata dissipabis.  
O cum flostenet ille, qui recenti  
Pressus sidere jam sub or a ludit,  
Olim fortior omne cuspidatos  
Evolvet latus aureum per ignes;  
Quíque imbellis adhuc, adultus olim,  
Puris expatiabitur genarum  
Campis imperiosior Cupido;  
O quam certa superbiore pennâ  
Ibunt spicula, melleaeque mor●es,  
Exultantibus hinc & indè turmis,  
Quoquò jusseris, impigrè volabunt!  
O quot corda calentium deorum  
De te vulnera delicata discent  
O quot pectora Principum magistris  
Fient molle negotium sagittis!  
Nam quae non poteris per arma ferri,  
Cui matris sinus atque utrumque sidus  
Magnorum patet officina Amorum?  
Hinc sumas licet, ô puella Princeps,  
Quantacunque opus est tibi pharetnâ.  
Centum sume Cupidines ab uno  
Matris lumine, Gratiásque ceutum,  
Et centum Veneres: adhuc manebunt  
Centum mille Cupidines; manebunt  
Ter centum Venerésque Gratiaeque  
Puro fonte superstites per aevum.   

Out of Virgil, In the praise of the Spring.  
ALL Trees, all levy Groves confess the Spring  
Their gentlest friend, then, than the lands begin  
To swell with forward pride, and seed desire  
To generation; Heavens Almighty Sire  
Melts on the Bosom of his Love, and powers  
Himself into her lap in fruitful showers.  
And by a soft insinuation, mixed  
With earth's la●ge Mass, doth cherish and assist  
Her weak conceptions; No loan shade, but rings  
With chatting Birds, delicious murmurings.  
Then Venus mild instinct (at set times) yields  
The Herds to kindly meetings, than the fields  
(Quick with warm Zephyr's lively breath) lay forth  
Their pregnant Bosoms in a fragrant Birth.  
Each body's plump and jucy, all things full  
Of supple moisture: no coy twig but will  
Trust his beloved bosom to the Sun  
(Grown lusty now;) No Vine so weak and young  
That fears the foul-mouthed Auster, or those storms  
That the Southwest-wind hurries in his Arms,  
But hasts her forward Blossoms, and lays out  
Freely lays out her leaves: Nor do I doubt  
But when the world first out of Chaos sprang  
So smiled the Days, and so the tenor ran  
Of their felicity. A spring was there,  
An everlasting spring, the jolly year  
Led round in his great circle; No winds Breath  
As then did smell of Winter, or of Death.  
When Lives sweet Light first shone on Beasts, and when  
From their hard Mother Earth, sprang hardy men,  
When Beasts took up their lodging in the Wood,  
Stars in their higher Chambers: never could  
The tender growth of things endure the sense  
Of such a change, but that the heavens Indulgence  
Kindly supplies sick Nature, and doth mould  
A sweetly tempered mean, nor hot nor cold.   

With a Picture sent to a Friend.  
I Paint so ill, my piece had need to be  
Painted again by some good Poesy.  
I write so ill, my slender Line is scarce  
So much as th'Picture of a well-limed verse:  
Yet may the love I send be true, though I  
Send nor true Picture, nor true Poesy.  
Both which away, I should not need to fear,  
My Love, or Feigned or painted should appear.   

In praise of Lessius his rule of health.  
Go now with some daring drug,  
Bait thy disease, and while they tug  
Thou to maintain their cruel strife,  
Spend the dear treasure of thy life:  
Go take physic, dote upon  
Some bigg-named composition,  
The oraculous doctors mystic bills,  
Certain hard words made into pills;  
And what at length shalt get by these?  
Only a costlyer disease.  
Go poor man think what shall be,  
Remedy against thy remedy.  
That which makes us have no need  
Of Physic that's Physic indeed.  
Hark hither, Reader, wouldst thou see  
Nature her own Physician be.  
Wouldst see a man all, his own wealth,  
His own Physic, his own health?  
A man whose sober soul can tell,  
How to wear her garments well?  
Her garments that upon her sit,  
As garments should do close and fit?  
A well clothed soul that's not oppressed,  
Nor choked with what she should be dressed?  
A soul shearhed in a crystal shrine,  
Through which all her bright features shine?  
As when a piece of wanton lawn,  
A thin aiereall veil is drawn  
O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide  
More sweetly shows the blush'ng bride.  
A soul whose intellectual beams  
No mists do mask no lazy steames?  
A happy soul that all the way,  
To heaven, hath a summer's day?  
Wouldst thou see a man whose well warmed blood,  
Baths him in a genuine flood?  
A man whose tuned humours be,  
A set of rarest harmony?  
Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks beguile  
Age, wouldst see December smile?  
Wouldst see a nest of Roses grow  
In a bed of reverend snow?  
Warm thoughts free spirits, flattering  
Winter's self into a spring?  
In sum, wouldst see a man that can  
Live to be old and still a man?   

The beginning of Helidorus.  
THe smiling Morn had newly waked the Day,  
And tipped the Mountains in a tender ray:  
When on a hill (whose high Imperious brow  
Looks down, and sees the humble Nile below  
Licke his proud feet, and hast into the seas  
Through the great mouth that's named from Hercules)  
A band of men, rough as the Arms thy wore  
Looked round, first to the sea, then to the shore.  
The shore that showed them what the sea denied,  
Hope of a prey. There to the main land tied  
A ship they saw, no men she had; yet pressed  
Appeared with other lading, for her breast  
Deep in the groaning waters wallowed  
Up to the third Ring; o'er the shore was spread  
Death's purple triumph, on the blushing ground  
Lives late forsaken houses all lay drowned  
In their own bloods dear deluge some new dead,  
Some panting in their yet warm ruins bled:  
While their affrighted souls, now winged for flight  
Lent them the last flash of her glimmering light.  
Those yet fresh streams which crawled every where  
Showed, that stern war had newly bathed him there:  
Nor did the face of this disaster show  
Marks of a fight alone, but feasting too,  
A miserable and a monstrous feast,  
Where hungry war had made himself a Guest:  
And coming late had eat up Guests and all,  
Who proved the feast to their own funeral, etc.   

Out of the Greek Cupid's Crier.  

LOve is lost, nor can his Mother  
Her little fugitive discover:  
She seeks, she sighs, but no where spies him;  
Love is lost; and thus she cries him.  
O yes! if any happy eye,  
This roving wanton shall descry:  
Let the finder surely know  
Mine is the wag; 'tis I that owe  
The winged wanderer, and that none  
May think his labour vainly gone,  
The glad descryer shall not miss,  
To taste the Nectar of a kiss  
From Venus' lips. But as for him  
That brings him to me, he shall swim  
In riper joys: more shall be his  
(Venus assures him) than a kiss;  
But lest your eye discerning slide  
These marks may be your judgements guide  
His skin as with a fiery blushing  
High-coloured is; His eyes still flushing  
With nimble flames, and though his mind  
Be ne'er so cursed, his Tongue is kind:  
For never were his words in aught  
Found the pure issue of his thought.  
The working Bees soft melting Gold,  
That which their waxen Mines enfold,  
Flow not so sweet as do the Tones  
Of his tuned accents; but if once  
His anger kindle, presently  
It boyles out into cruelty,  
And fraud: He makes poor mortals hurts  
The objects of his cruel sports.  
With dainty curls his froward face  
Is crowned about; But o what place,  
What farthest nook of lowest Hell  
Feels not the strength, the reaching spell  
Of his small hand? Yet not so small  
As 'tis powerful therewithal.  
Though bore his skin, his mind he covers,  
And like a saucy Bird he hovers  
With wanton wing, now here, now there,  
'Bout men and women, nor will spare  
Till at length he perching rest,  
In the closet of their breast.  
His weapon is a little Bow,  
Yet such a one as (jove knows how)  
ne'er suffered, yet his little Arrow,  
Of Heaven's highest Arches to fall narrow.  
The Gold that on his Quiver smiles,  
Deceives men's fears with flattering wiles.  
But o (too well my wounds can tell)  
With bitter shafts 'tis sauced too well.  
He is all cruel, cruel all;  
His Torch Imperious though but small  
Makes the Sun (of flames the fire)  
Worse than Sunburnt in his fire.  
Wheresoever you chance to find him  
Cease him, bring him, (but first bind him)  
Pity not him, but fear thyself  
Though thou see the crafty Else,  
Tell down his Silver-drops unto thee,  
They're counterfeit, and will undo thee.  
With baited smiles if he display  
His ●awning cheeks, look not that way  
If he offer sugared kisses,  
Start, and say, The Serpent hisses.  
Draw him, drag him, though he pray  
Woo, entreat, and crying say  
Prithee, sweet now let me go,  
Here's my Quiver Shafts and Bow,  
I'll give thee all, take all, take heed  
Lest his kindness make thee bleed.  
What e'er it be Love offers, still presume  
That though it shines, 'tis fire and will consume.   

HIgh mounted on an Ant Nanus the tall  
Was thrown alas, and got a deadly fall  
Under th'unruly Beasts proud feet he lies  
All torn; with much ado yet ere he dies,  
He strains these words; Base Envy, do, laugh on.  
Thus did I fall, and thus fell Phaethon.    

Upon Venus putting on Mars his Arms.  
WHat? Mars his sword? fair Cytherea say,  
Why art thou armed so desperately to day?  
Mars thou hast beaten naked, and o than  
What needest thou put on arms against poor men?   

Upon the same.  
PAllas saw Venus armed, and straight she cried,  
Come if thou dar'st, thus, thus let us be tried.  
Why fool! says Venus, thus provokest thou me,  
That being naked, thou knowst could conquer thee?   

In Senerissimae Reginae partum hyemalem.  
SErta, puer: (quis nunc flores non praebeat hortus?)  
●exe mihi facili pollice serta, puer.  
Quid tu nescio quos narras mihi, stulte, Decembres?  
Quid mihi cum nivibus? damihi serta, puer.  
Nix? & byems? non est nostras quid tale per oras;  
Non est: vel si sit, non tamen esse potest.  
Ver agitur: quaecunque trucem dat larva Decembrem,  
Quid fera cunque fremant frigora, ver agitur.  
Nónne vides quali se palmite regia vitis  
Prodit, & in sacris quae sedet uvajugis?  
Tam laetis quae bruma solet ridere racemis?  
Quas hyemis pingit purpura tanta genas?  
O Maria! O diuûm soboles, genitrixque Deorum!  
Siccine nostra tuus tempora ludus erunt?  
Siccine tu cum vere tuo nihil horrida brumae  
Sydera, nil madidos sola morare notos?  
Siccine sub medi● poterunt tua surgere brum●,  
Atque suas solùm lilia nosse nives?  
Ergò vel invitis nivibus, frendentibus Austris,  
Nostra novis poterunt regna tumere rosis?  
O bona turbatrix anni, quae limit noto  
Tempora sub signis non sinis ire suis  
O pia praedatrix hyemis, quae tristia mundi  
Murmura tam dulci sub ditione tenes!  
Perge precor nostris vim pulchram ferre Calendis:  
Perge precor menses sic numerare tuos.  
Perge intempestiva utque importuna videri;  
Inque uteri titulos sic rape cuncta tui.  
Sit nobis sit saepe hyemes sic cernere nostras  
Exhaeredatas floribus ire tuis.  
Saepe sit has vernas hyemes Maiosque Decembres,  
Has per te roseas saepe videre nives.  
Altera gens varium per sydera computet annum,  
Atque suos ducant per ●aga signa dies.  
Nos deceat nimiis tantum permittere nimbis?  
Tempora tam tetricas ferre Britanna vices?  
Quin nosirum tibi nos omnem donabimus annum:  
In partus omnem expende, Maria, tuos.  
Sit tuus ille uterus nostri bonus arbiter anni:  
Tempus & in titulos transeat omne tuos.  
Namquae alia indueret tam dulcia nomina mensis?  
Aut qua tam posset candidus ire toga?  
Hanc laurum Ianus sibi vertice vellet utroque,  
Hanc sibi vel tota Chloride Majus emet.  
Tota suam (vere expulso) respublica florum  
Reginam cuperent te, sobolemve tuam.  
O bona sors anni, cum cuncti ex ordine menses  
Hic mihi Carolides, hic Marianus erit!   

Upon Bishop Andrew's his Picture before his Sermons.  
THis reverend shadow cast that setting Sun,  
Whose glorious course through our Horrizon run,  
Left the dim face of this dull Hemisphaeare,  
All one great eye, all drowned in one great Tear.  
Whose fair illustrious soul, led his free thought  
Through Learning's Universe, and (vainly) sought  
Room for her spacious self, until at length  
She found the way home, with an holy strength  
Snathced herself hence, to Heaven: filled a bright place,  
Mongst those immortal fires, and on the face  
Of her great maker fixed her flaming eye,  
There still to read true pure divinity.  
And now that grave aspect hath deigned to shrink  
Into this less appearance; If you think,  
'tis but a dead face, art doth here bequeath:  
Look on the following leaves, and see him breath.   

Ad Reginam.  
ET verò jam tempus erat tibi, maxima Mater,  
Dulcibus his oculis accelerare diem:  
Tempus erat, ne qua tibi basia blanda vacarent;  
Sarcina ne collo sit minùs apta tuo.  
Scilicet ille tuus, timor & spes ille suorum,  
Quo primumes felix pignore facta parens,  
Ille ferox iras jam nunc meditatur & enses;  
jam patris magis est, jam magis ille suus.  
Indolis O stimulos! Vix dum illi transiit infans;  
jamque sibi impatiens arripit ille virum.  
Improbus ille suis adeò negat ire sub annis:  
jam nondum puer est, major & est puero,  
Si quis in aulaeis pictas animatus in iras  
Stat leo, quem docta cuspide lusit acus,  
Hostis (io!) est; neque enim ille alium dignabitur hostem;  
Nempe decet tantus non minor ira manus.  
Tunc hasta gravis adversum furit; hasta bacillum est:  
Mox falsum vero vulnere pectus hiat.  
Stat leo, ceu stupeat tali bene fixus ab hoste;  
Ceu quid in his oculis vel timeat vel amet,  
Tam torvum, tam dulce micane: nescire ●atetur  
Márs ne sub his oculis esset, an esset Amor.  
Quippe illîc Mars est. sed qui bene possit amari;  
Est & Amor certe, sed metuendus Amor:  
Talis Amor, talis Mars est ibi cernere; qualis  
Seu puer hic esset, sive vir ille deus.  
Hic tibi jam scitus succedit in oscula fratris,  
Res (ecce!) in lusus non operosa tuos.  
Basia jam veniant tua quatacunque caterva;  
jam quocunque tuus murmure ludat amor.  
En! Tibi materies tenera & tractabilis hic est:  
Hic ad blanditias est tibi cera satis.  
Salve infans, tot basiolis, molle argumentum,  
Maternis labiis dulce negotiolum,  
O salve! Nam te nato, puer aur●e, natus  
Et Carolo & Mariae Tertius est oculus.   

Out of Marshal.  

Four Teeth thou hadst that ranked in goodly state  
Kept thy Mouths Gate.   

The first blast of thy cough left two alone,  
The second, none.   

This last cough Aelia, caught out all thy fear,  
thoust left the third cough now no business here.    

Out of the Italian. A Song.  

To thy Lover  
Dear, discover  
That sweet blush of thine that shameth  
(When those Roses  
It discloses)  
All the flowers that Nature nameth.   

In free Air,  
Flow thy Hair;  
That no more Summer's best dresses,  
Be beholden  
For their Golden  
Locks, to Phoebus' flaming Tresses.   

O deliver  
Love his Quiver,  
From thy Eyes he shoots his Arrows,  
Where Apollo  
Cannot follow:  
Feathered with his Mother's Sparrows.   

O envy not  
(That we die not)  
Those dear lips whose door encloses  
All the Graces  
In their places,  
Brother Pearls, and sister Roses.   

From these treasures  
Of ripe pleasures  
One bright smile to cle●re the weather.  
Earth and Heaven  
Thus made even,  
Both will he good friends together.   

The air does woo thee;  
Winds cling to thee,  
Might a word once fly from out thee▪  
Storm and Thunder  
Would sit under,  
And keep silence round about Thee.   

But if Nature's  
Common Creatures,  
So dear Glories dare not borrow:  
Yet thy Beauty  
Owes a Duty,  
To my loving, lingering sorrow.   

When to end me  
Death shall send me  
All his Terrors to affright me:  
Thine eyes Graces,  
Gild their faces,  
And those Terrors shall delight me▪   

When my dying  
Life is flying;  
Those sweet Airs that often slew me;  
Shall revive me,  
Or reprieve me,  
And to many Deaths renew me.    

Out of the Italian.  

LOve now no fire hath left him,  
We two betwixt us have divided it.  
Your Eyes the Light hath r●st him.  
The heat commanding in my Heart doth sit,  
O! that poor Love be not for ever spoilt,  
Let my Heat to your Light be reconciled.   

So shall these flames, whose worth  
Now all obscured lies  
(Dressed in those Beams) start forth  
And dance before your eyes.   

Or else partake my flames  
(I care not whither)  
And so in mutual Names  
Of Love, burn both together.    

Out of the Italian.  
WOuld any one the true cause find  
How Love came naked, a Boy, and blind?  
'Tis this; listening one day too long,  
To th' Sirens in my Mistress Song,  
The ecstasy of a delight  
So much o're-mastring all his might,  
To that one Sense, made all else thrall,  
And so he lost his Clothes, eyes, heart and all.   

In faciem Augustiff. Regis à morbillis integram.  
MVsaredt; vocat alma parens Academia: Noster  
Enredit, ore suo noster Apollo redit.  
Vultus adhuc suus, & vultu sua purpura tantum  
Vivit, & admixtas pergit amare nives.  
Tune illas violare genas? tune illa profanis,  
Morbe ferox, tantas ire per or a notis?  
Tu Phoebi faciem tentas, vanissime? Nostra  
Ne Phoebe maculas novit habere suas.  
Ipsa sui vindex facies morbum indignatur;  
Ipsa sedet radiis ô bene tuta suis:  
Quippe illic deus est, coelûmque & sanctius astrum;  
Quippe sub his totus ridet Apollo genis.  
Quòd facie Rex tutus erat, quòd caetera tactus:  
Hinc hominem Rex est fassus, & inde deum.   

On the Frontispiece of Isaacsons Chronologie explained.  
IF with dictinctive Eye, and Mind, you look  
Upon the Front, you see more than one Book▪  
Creation is God's Book, wherein he writ  
Each Creature, as a Letter filling it.  
History is Creation's Book; which shows  
To what effects the Series of it goes.  
Chronologie's the Book of History, and bears  
The just account of Days, Months, and Years▪  
But Resurrection, in a Later Press,  
And New Edition, is the sum of these.  
The Language of these Books had all been one,  
Had not th' Aspiring Tower of Babylon  
Confused the Tongues, and in a distance hurled  
As far the speech, as men, o'th' new filled world.  
Set then your eyes in method, and behold  
Times emblem, Saturn; who, when store of Gold  
Coined the first age, Devoured that Birth, he feared;  
Till History, Time's eldest Child appeared;  
And Phoenixlike, in spite of Saturn's rage,  
Forced from her Ashes, Heirs in every age.  
From th' rising Sun, obtaining by just Suit,  
A Springs Engender, and an Autumn's Fruit.  
Who in those Volumes at her motion penned,  
Unto Creation's Alpha doth extend.  
Again ascend, and view Chronology,  
By Optic Skill pulling far History  
Nearer; whose Hand the piercing Eagles Eye  
Strengthens, to bring remotest Objects nigh.  
Under whose Feet, you see the Setting Sun,  
From the dark Gnomon, o'er her Volumes run,  
Drowned in eternal Night, never to rise;  
Till Resurrection, show it to the eyes  
Of Earth-worne men; and her shrill Trumpets sound  
Affright the Bones of Mortals from the ground.  
The Columns both are crowned with either Sphere,  
To show Chronology and History bear,  
No other Culmen; then the double Art,  
Astronomy, Geography, impart.   

Or Thus.  
LEt hoary Time's vast Bowels be the Grave  
To what his Bowels birth and being gave;  
Let Nature die, (Phoenixlike) from death  
Revived Nature take a second breath;  
If on Times right hand, s●t fai●e History;  
If, from the seed of empty Ruin, she  
Can raise so fair an Harvest: Let Her be  
ne'er so far distant, yet Chronologie  
(Sharp sighted as the Eagles eye, that can  
Outstare the broad-beamed Day's Meridian)  
Will have a Perspicil to find her out,  
And, through the Night of error and dark doubt▪  
Discern the Dawne of Truth's eternal ray,  
As when the rosy Morn buds into Day.  
Now that Time's Empire might be amply filled▪  
Babel's bold Artists strive (below) to build  
Ruin a Temple; on whose fruitful fall  
History rears her Pyramids more tall  
Than were th' Egyptian (by the life, the●e give,  
Th' Egyptian Pyramids themselves must live:)  
On these she lifts the World; and on their base  
Shows the two terms and limits of Time's race:  
That, the Creation is; the judgement, this;  
That, the World's Morning, this her Midnight is.   

An Epitaph Upon Mr. Ashton a conformable Citizen.  
THe modest front of this small floor  
Believe me, Reader can say more  
Than many a braver Marble can,  
Here lies a truly honest man.  
One whose Conscience was a thing,  
That troubled neither Church nor King.  
One of those few that in this Town,  
Honour all Preachers; hear their own.  
Sermons he heard, yet not so many  
As left no time to practise any.  
He heard them reverendly, and then  
His practice preached them o'er again.  
His Parlour-Sermons rather were.  
Those to the Eye, then to the Eare.  
His prayers took their price and strength  
Not from the loudness, nor the length.  
He was a Protestant at home,  
Not only in despite of Rome.  
He loved his Father; yet his zeal  
Tore not off his Mother's veil.  
To th' Church he did allow her Dress,  
True Beauty, to true Holiness.  
Peace, which he loved in Life, did lend  
Her hand to bring him to his end;  
When Age and Death called for the score,  
No surfeits were to reckon for.  
Death tore not (therefore) but sans strife  
Gently untwined his thread of Life.  
What remains then, but that Thou  
Write these lines, Reader, in thy Brow,  
And by his fair Examples light,  
Burn in thy Imitation bright.  
So while these Lines can but bequeath  
A Life perhaps unto his Death.  
His better Epitaph shall be,  
His Life still kept alive in Thee.   

Rex Redux.  
ILle redit, redit. Hoc populi bona murmura vol●unt;  
Publicus hoc (audin'?) plausus ad astra refert:  
Hoc omn● sedet in vultu commune serenum;  
Omnibus hinc una est laetitiae facies.  
Rex noster, lux nostra redit; redeuntis ad ora  
Aridet totis Anglia laeta genis:  
Quisque suos oculos oculis accendit ab istis;  
Atque novum sacro sumit ab ore diem.  
Forte roges tanto quae digna pericula plausu  
Evadat Carolus, quae mala, quósve metus;  
Anne perrerati male fida volumina ponti  
Ausa illum terris pene negare suis:  
Hospitis an nimii rurcus sibi conscia, tellus  
Vix bene speratum reddat Ibera caput.  
Nil horum; nec enim male fida volumina ponti  
Aut sacrum tellus vidi● Ibera caput.  
Verus amor tamen haec sibi falsa pericula fingit:  
(Falsa peric'la solet fingere verus amor)  
At Carolo qui falsa timet, nec vera timeret:  
(Vera peric'la solet temnere verus amor)  
Illi falsa timens, sibi vera pericula temnens,  
Non solum est fidus, sed quoque fortis amor.  
Interea nostri satis ille est causa triumphi:  
Et satis (ah!) nostri causa doloris erat.  
Causa doloris erat Carolus, sospes licet esset;  
Anglia quod saltem discere posset, Abest.  
Et satis est nostri Carolus nunc causa triumphi;  
Dicere quod saltem possumus, Ille redit.   

Out of Catullus,  
COme and let us live my Dear,  
Let us love and never fear,  
What the sourest Fathers say:  
Brightest Solemnising that dies to day  
Lives again as blithe to morrow,  
But if we dark sons of sorrow  
Set; o then, how long a Night  
Shuts the Eyes of our short light!  
Then let amorous kisses dwell  
On our lips, begin and tell  
A Thousand, and a Hundred score  
An Hundred, and a Thousand more,  
Till another Thousand smother  
That, and that wipe of another.  
Thus at last when we have numbered  
Many a Thousand, many a Hundred;  
we'll confound the reckoning quite,  
And lose ourselves in wild delight:  
While our joys so multiply,  
As shall mock the envious eye,   

Ad Principem nondum natum.  
NAscere nunc; ô nunc! quid enim, puer alme, moraris?  
Nulla tibi dederit dulcior hora diem.  
Ergone tot tardos (o lente!) morabere menses?  
Rex redit. Ipse veni, & dic bone, Gratus ades.  
Nam quid Ave nostrum? quid nostri verba triumphi?  
Vagitu melius dixeris ista tuo.  
At maneas tamen: & nobis nova causa triumphi  
Sic demum fueris; nec nova causa tamen:  
Nam, quoties Carolo novus aut nova nascitur infans,  
Revera toties Carolus ipse redit.   

Wishes. To his (supposed) Mistress.  

WHo ere she be,  
That not impossible she,  
That shall command my heart and me;   

Where ere she lie,  
Locked up from mortal Eye,  
In shady leaves of Destiny:   

Till that ripe Birth  
Of studied fate stand forth,  
And teach her fair steps to our Earth;   

Till that Divine  
Idea, take a shrine  
Of Crystal flesh, through which to shine:   

Meet you her my wishes,  
Be speak her to my blisses,  
And be ye called my absent kisses.   

I wish her Beauty,  
That owes not all his Duty  
To gaudy Tire, or glistering shoo-ty.   

Something more than  
Taffeta or Tissue can,  
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.   

More than the spoil  
Of shop, or silkworms Toil  
Or a bought blush, or a set smile.   

A face that's best  
By its own beauty dressed,  
And can alone command the rest.   

A face made up  
Out of no other shop,  
Then what natures white hand sets open.   

A cheek where Youth,  
And Blood, with Pen of Truth  
Write, what the Reader sweetly ru'th.   

A Cheek where grows  
More than a Morning Rose:  
Which to no Box his being owes▪   

Lipps, where all Day  
A lover's kiss may play,  
Yet carry nothing thence away.   

Looks that oppress  
Their richest Tires but dress  
And clothe their simplest Nakedness.   

Eyes, that displaces  
The Neighbour Diamond, and out faces  
That Sunshine by their own sweet Graces.   

Tresses, that wear  
jewels, but to declare  
How much themselves more precious are.   

Whose native Ray,  
Can tame the wanton Day  
Of Gems, that in their bright shades play.   

Each Ruby there,  
Or Pearl that dare appear,  
Be its own blush, be its own Tea●e.   

A well tamed Heart,  
For whose more noble smart,  
Love may be long choosing a Dart.   

Eyes, that bestow  
Full quivers on loves Bow;  
Yet pay less Arrows than they owe.   

Smiles, that can warm  
The blood, yet teach a charm,  
That Chastity shall take no harm▪   

Blushes, that been  
The burnish of no sin,  
Nor flames of aught too hot within.   

joys, that confess,  
Virtue their Mistress,  
And have no other head to dress.   

Fears, fond and flight,  
As the coy Brides, when Night  
First does that longing lover right.   

Tears, quickly fled,  
And vain, as those are shed  
For a dying Maidenhead.   

Days, that need borrow,  
No part of their good Morrow,  
From a ●ore spent night of sorrow.   

Days, that in spite  
Of Darkness, by the Light  
Of a clear mind are Day all Night.   

Nights, sweet as they,  
Made short by lovers play,  
Yet long by th' absence of the Day.   

Life, that dares send,  
A challenge to his end,  
And when it comes say Welcome Friend.   

Sydnaean showers  
Of sweet discourse, whose powers  
Can Crown old Winter's head with flowers,   

Soft silken Hours,  
Open suns; shady Bowers,  
'Bove all; Nothing within that lours.   

What ere Delight  
Can make Day's forehead bright,  
Or give Down to the Wings of Night.   

In her whole frame,  
Have Nature all the Name,  
Art and ornament the shame.   

Her flattery,  
Picture and Poesy,  
Her counsel her own virtue be.   

I wish, her store  
Of worth, may leave her poor  
Of wishes; And I wish— No more.   

Now if Time knows  
That her whose radiant Brows,  
Wove them a Garland of my vows;   

Her whose just Bays,  
My future hopes can raise,  
A trophy to her present praise;   

Her that dares be,  
What these Lines wish to see:  
I seek no further, it is she.   

'Tis she, and here  
Lo I unclothe and clear,  
My wishes cloudy Character.   

May she enjoy it,  
Whose merit dare apply it,  
But Modesty dares still deny it.   

Such worth as this is.  
Shall fix my flying wishes,  
And determine them to kisses.   

Let her full Glory,  
My fancies, fly before ye,  
Be ye my fictions; But her story.   
Imprimatur Na: Brent.  
FINIS.   

THE TABLE.  
THe Weeper. 
Page 1  The Tear. 
6  Divine Epigrams begin at page the 
8  On the Water of our Lord's Baptism 
8  Act. 8. on the Baptised Aethiopian 
8  On the Miracle of multiplied Loaves 
8  Upon the Sepulchre of our Lord 
8  The Widows Might's 
9  Luck 15. on the Prodigal 
9  On the still surviving marks of our Saviour's wounds 
9  Acts 5. the sick implore St. Peter's shadow 
9  Mark 7. the Dumb healed, and the people enjoined silence 
10  Mat. 28. Come see the place where the Lord lay 
10  To Pontius washing his hands 
10  To the Infant Martyrs 
10  On the Miracle of Loaves 
11  Mark. 4. Why are ye afraid, O ye, of little faith 
11  On the blessed Virgin's bashfulness 
12  Upon Lazarus his Tears 
12  Two men went up into the Temple to pray 
12  Upon the Asses that bore our Saviour 
12  Matthew 8. I am not worthy that thou shouldest come under my roof. 
13  Upon the Powder day 
13  I am the door 
13  Math. 10. The blind cured by the word of our Saviour 
14  Math. 27. And he answered nothing, 
14  To our Lord upon the water made wine 
14  Matthew 22. Neither durst any man from that day ask him any more questions 
15  Upon our Saviour's Tomb wherein never man was laid 
16  It is better to go to heaven with one eye, etc. 
16  Luke 11. Upon the dumb devil cast out, and the slanderous jews put to silence 
16  Luke 10. And a certain Priest coming that way looked on him and passed by 
16  Luke 11. Blessed be the paps which thou hast sucked 
17  To Pontius washing his blood-stained hands 
17  Math. 23. To build the Sepulchers of the Prophets 
17  Upon the Infant Martyrs 
18  joh. 16. Verily I say unto you, ye shall weep and lament 
18  joh. 15. Upon our Lords last comfortable discourse with his Disciples 
18  Luk. 16. Dives ask a drop. 
18  Mark. 12. Give to Caesar, and to God 
19  But now they have seen and hated 
19  Upon the Thorns taken down from our Lord's head, bloody 
19  Luke 7. She began to wash his feet with tears, and wipe them with the hairs of her head 
20  On St. Peter cutting off Malchus his ear 
20  john 3. But men loved darkness rathet then light 
20  Act. 21. I am ready not only to be bound, but to die 
20  On St. Peter casting away his nets at our Saviour's call 
20  Our Lord in his Circumcision to his Father 
21  On the wounds of our crucified Lord 
21  On our crucified Lord naked and bloody 
22  Easter day 
22  On the bleeding wounds of our crucified Lord 
23  Samson to his Dalilah 
24  Psalm 23. 
25  Psalm 137. 
27  A Hymn on the Nativity sung by the Shephcards 
28  Upon the death of a Gentleman 
31  Upon the death of Mr. Herrys 
32  Another upon the death of the most desired Master Herrys 
33  Another 
36  His Epitaph 
38  An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife which died, and were buried together 
39  An Epitaph upon Doctor Brooke 
40  Upon Master Stannoughs death 
40  Upon the Duke of York his birth. A Panegyric 
41  Upon Fords two Tragedies, Love's Sacrifice, and the broken heart 
45  On a foul morning being then to take a journey 
45  Upon the fair Aethiopian sent to a Gentlewoman 
46  On Marriage 
47  To the morning Satisfaction for sleep 
47  Love's Horoscope 
49  Sospetto d'Herode Libro primo 
51  On a Prayer book sent to M M. R. 
74  On Master George Herbert's book entitled the temple of Sacred poems sent to a Gentlewoman 
78  In memory of the Virtuous and Learned Lady Madre de Teresa, that sought an early Martyrdom 
79  An Apology for the precedent Hymn 
85  On a Treatise of Charity 
86  In Picturam Reverendissimi Episcopi Dr. Andrew's 
89  On the Assumption 
90  Epitaphium in Dominum Herrissium 
92  An Hymn for the circumcision day of our Lord 
94  On Hope, by way of Question an Answer, between A. Cowley and R. Crasnaw. 
96  MVsicks Duell 
103  Principi recens natae omen maternae Indolis 
108  Out of Virgil in the praise of the Spring 
110  With a Picture sent to a friend 
111  In praise of Lessius his rule of health 
112  The beginning of Heliodorus 
114  Out of the Greek, Cupid's Crier 
115  On Nanus mounted upon an Ant 
117  Upon Venus' putting on Mars his Arms 
117  Upon the same 
017  In Senerissimae Regine partum Hyemalem 
118  Upon Bishop Andrew's his Picture before his Sermons 
120  Ad Reginam 
121  Out of Marshal 
122  Out of the Italian. A Song 
123  Out of the Italian 
125  Out of the Italian 
126  In faciem Augustiss. Regis à morbillis integram 
127  On the Frontispiece of Isaacsons Chronologie explained 
128  Or thus 
129  An Epitaph upon Master Ashton a conformable Citizen 
130  Rex Redux 
131  Out of Catullus 
132  Admetus Principem nondum natum 
133  Wishes to his (supposed) Mistress 
134   
FINIS.