Psal. 137. 2. In conspectu Angelorum psallam tibi et adorabo ad Templum sanctam tuum.    

STEPS TO THE TEMPLE, THE DELIGHTS OF THE MUSES, AND CARMEN DEO NOSTRO  
By Ric. Crashaw, sometimes Fellow of Pembroke Hall, and late Fellow of Saint Peter's College in Cambridge.  
The 2d Edition.  
In the SAVOY, Printed by T. N. for Henry Herringman at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange. 1670.   

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 Muster, at his Contemplations, these Poems can, viz. They shalt 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; so, mayst thou take a Poem hence, and tune thy soul by it into a Heavenly pitch; and thus refined and born 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 highborn 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 outgoings 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 Sixpeny Soul, a Subburb 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 S. Mary's Church near St. Peter's College; there he 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) viz. 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 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 this 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 Gentleman (now dead to us) as he himself doth, with the last Line of his Poem upon Bishop Andrews 's 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.    

THE TABLE.  

THe Weeper. Page 1  
O The Tear. p. 6  
On the Water of our Lord's Baptism. p. 8  
On the Baptised Aethiopian p. 8  
On the Miracle of the multiplied Loaves▪ p. 8  
Upon the Sepulchre of our Lord, p. 8  
The Widow's Mite. p. 9  
On the Prodigal. p. 9  
On the still surviving of our Saviour's wounds. p. 9  
The Sick implore St. Peter's shadow. p. 10  
The Dumb healed, and the people enjoined silence. p. 10  
Come see the place where the Lord lay. p. 10  
To Pontius washing his hands. p. 10  
To the Infant Martyrs. p. 11  
On the Miracle of Loaves. p. 11  
Why are ye afraid, O ye of little faith? p. 11  
On the Blessed Virgins bashfulness. p. 12  
Upon Lazarus his Tears. p. 12  
Two went up into the Temple to pray. p. 12  
Upon the Ass that bore our Saviour. p. 13  
I am not worthy that thou shouldst come under my Roof. p. 13  
Upon the Powder day. p. 13  
I am the door. p. 13  
The blind cured by the word of our Saviour. p. 14  
And he answered them nothing. p. 14  
To our Lord upon the Water made Wine. p. 14  
Neither durst any man from that day ask him any more questions. p. 15  
Upon our Saviour's Tomb wherein never man was laid p. 16  
It is better to go into Heaven with one Eye, etc. p. 16  
Upon the dumb 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 out, and the slanderous 〈◊〉 put to silence. p. 〈◊〉  
And a certain Priest coming that way looked on him and passed by. p. 17  
Blessed be the Paps which thou hast sucked. p. 17  
To Pontius washing his blood-stained hands. p. 17  
Ye build the Sepulchers of the Prophets. p. 18  
Upon the Infant Martyrs. p. 18  
Verily I say unto you, ye shall weep and lament. p. 18  
Upon our Lord's last comfortable discourse with his Disciples. p. 19  
Dives ask a drop. p. 19  
Give to Cesar and to God. p. 19  
But now they have seen and heard. p. 20  
Upon the crown of Thorns taken from our blessed Lords head all bloody. p. 20  
She began to wash his feet with Tears and wipe them with the hairs of her head. p. 20  
On St Peter cutting off Malchus his ear. p. 21  
But men loved darkness rather than light. p. 21  
I am ready, not only to be bound but to die p. 21  
On St Peter's casting away his Nets at our Saviour's call. p. 21  
Our Lord in his Circumcision to his Father. p. 22  
On the wounds of our crucified Lord. p. 22  
On our crucified Lord, naked and bloody. p. 23  
Easter day. p. 23  
On the bleeding wounds of our crucified Saviour. p. 24  
Samson to Dalilah▪ p. 26  
Psalm 23. p. 26  
Psalm 137. p. 28  
A Hymn on the Nativity, sung by the Shepherds. p. 29  
Sospetto d'Herode. p. 33  
On a Prayer book sent to Mistress M. R. p. 56  
On Mr. G. Herbert's Book entitled, The Temple of sacred Poems sent to a Gentlewoman. p. 60  
A Hymn to the Name and Honour of St. Teresa, that sought an early Martyrdom. p. 61  
An Apology for the precedent Hymn. p. 67  
On a Treatise of Charity. p. 68  
On the Glorious Assumption of the Blessed Virgin. p 70  
A Hymn on the Circumcision of our Lord. p. 72  
On Hope by way of Question and Answer, between A. Cowley and R. Crashaw, p. 74  
music's Duel. p. 81  
Upon the death of a Gentleman. p. 86  
Upon the death of Mr. Herris p. 87  
Another on the same. p. 89  
Another. p. 91  
His Epitaph p. 93  
An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife who died and were buried together. p. 95  
An Epitaph upon Dr. 〈◊〉 p. 95  
Upon Mr. Staninough's death. p. 96  
Upon the Duke of York's birth, a Penegyrick▪ p. 97  
Upon Ford's Two Tragedies. p. 100  
On a foul morning being then to take a journey. p. 101  
Upon the fair Aethiopian sent to a Gentlewoman. p. 102  
On Marriage. p. 102  
To the morning, satisfaction for sleep. p. 102  
Loves Horoscope p. 104  
Out of Virgil in praise of the Spring. p. 106  
With a picture sent to a friend. p. 107  
In praise of Lessius his rule of Health. p. 108  
The beginning of Heliodorus. p. 109  
Out of the Greek, Cupid's Crier. p. 110  
On Nanus. p. 112  
Upon Venus' putting on Mars his Arms. p. 115  
Upon the same. p. 115  
Upon Bishop Andrew's Picture before his Sermons. p. 115  
Out of Martial p. 116  
Out of Italian, a Song. p. 117  
Another out of Italian. p. 119  
Another. p. 119  
On the Frontispiece of Isaacson's Chronologie. p. 120  
Another. p. 121  
An Epitaph upon Mr. Ashton, a Conformable Citizen. p. 122  
Wishes to his supposed Mistress p. 124  
In Picturam reverendissimi Episcopi D. Andrews. p 129  
Epitaphium in Dominum Herrisium. p. 129  
Principi recens natae omen Maternae Indolis. p. 131  
In Reginae partum hyemalem. p. 133  
Ad Reginam. p. 134  
In faciem Regis a morbillis Integram. p. 135  
Rex Redux. p. 136  
Ad Principem nondum natum. p. 137  
Crashaw the Anagram, He Was Car. p. 141  
To the Countess of Denbigh, persuading her to resolution, etc. p. 143  
To the Name above every name, the Name Jesus, a Hymn▪ p. 146.  
A Hymn on the Epiphany sung as by the Three Kings. p. 153  
To the Queen upon Twelft-day. p. 161  
The Office of the Holy Cr●…h p. 162  
For the hour of Prime. p. 164  
The Third. p. 165  
The Sixth. p. 167  
The Ninth, p. 169  
Evensong. p. 170  
Compline. p. 172  
The Recommendation. p. 173  
Vexilla Regis, The Hymn of the Holy Cross. p. 174  
Charitas Nimia, Or the dear Bargain. p. 176  
Sancta Maria dolorosa, or, The Mother of sorrows. p. 178  
The Hymn of St Thomas, in Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. p. 183  
The Hymn Lauda Zion, etc. p. 187  
The Hymn in meditation of the day of judgement. p. 191  
The Hymn, O Gloriosa Domina. p. 194  
The Flaming heart, upon the Book and Picture of St. Teresa. p. 196  
A Song. p. 197  
Second part. p. 197  
To Mistress M. R. Council concerning her Choice. p. 198  
Alexias. The complaint of the forsaken wife of Saint Alexis. The First Elegy. p. 200  
The Second Elegy. p. 201  
The Third Elegy. p. 202  
Description of a Religious House and condition of Life. etc. p. 204  
Death's Lecture, the Funeral of a young Gentleman. p. 206  
Temperance, or the cheap Physician, upon the Translation of Lessius. p. 207    


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 be deceived all,  
Stars they be 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.   

6  
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.  
Sorrows best Jewels lie in these  
Caskets of which Heaven keeps the Keys.   

9  
When Sorrow would be seen  
In her brightest Majesty,  
(For she is a Queen)  
Then is she dressed by none but thee.  
Then, and only then she wears  
Her richest Pearls, I mean thy Tears.   

10  
Not in the Evenings Eyes  
When they red with weeping are,  
For the Sun that dies,  
Sits Sorrow with a Face so fair.  
No where 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 Balsome-sweating bough  
So coily should let fall,  
His medicinable ●…ears; 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 Hour-Glasses;  
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 born? 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 haste 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 Ear.   

3  
O 'tis a Tear,  
Too true a Tear; for no sad Eyes,  
How sad so e'er,  
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 Rosebuds 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 Ethiope:  
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 found:  
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.    

Luke 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 Council? 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 water's 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 e'er 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 Virgin's 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, heavens 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 lend his Eye.   

One nearer to God's Altar trod,  
The other to the Altar's 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 Balaams Asse●…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 methinks 'tis a far greater one  
That thou findest none.    

Matt. 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-ranked Feasts do follow,  
All mischief comes after. All-Hallow.    


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

Matt. 10.  

The Blind Cured by the word of our Saviour.  
THou speakest the Word (thy Word's a Law)  
Thou Spak'st, and straight the blind man saw.  
To speak and make the Blind man See,  
Was never man Lord spoke like 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 too:  
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 Life 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.    

Luke 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?    

Luk. 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.    

Luk. 11.  

Blessed be the Paps which Thou hast sucked.  
SUppose 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.  
IS Murder no sin? or a sin so cheap,  
That thou needest heap  
A Rape upon't? till thy Adulterous touch  
Taught her these sulled Cheeks, this blubbered Face,  
●…he 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 tipped, 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 dear's  
●…o 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.    

Luk. 16.  

Dives ask a drop.  
A Drop, one drop, how sweetly one fair drop  
Would tremble on my Pearl-tipped 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 thee not, O Life, O Love,  
Who saw aught in Thee that their Hate could move?    


Upon the Crown of Thorns taken from our Blessed Lords Head all bloody.  
knowst thou this Soldier? 'tis a much changed Plant, which yet  
Thyself didst set,  
'Tis changed indeed, did Autumn e'er 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 Thorns?    


She began to wash his Feet with Tears and wipe them with the Hairs of her Head.  
HEr Eyes Flood licks his Feets fair stain,  
Her Hairs Flame licks up that again.  
This Flame thus quenched hath brighter Beams▪  
This Flood thus stained fairer Streams.    


On St. Peter cutting off 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 than 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 Dye.  
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 stay;  
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?) lo 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.  
Now's 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 Spears 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 eyes,  
Each bleeding part some one supplies.   

Lo! a Mouth, whose full-bloomed Lips  
At too 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  
Instead of Tears such Gems as this is.   

The difference only this appears,  
(Nor can the change offend)  
The Debt is paid in Ruby-Tears,  
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 with 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 Virgin-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 born▪  
No Cloud scoul on his radiant Lids, no Tempest lower.   

Life, by this Light's Nativity  
All Creatures have.  
Death only by this days 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 die.     


On the bleeding Wounds of our crucified Lord.  

JEsu, 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 Oh thy Side! thy deep digged Side  
That hath a double Nilus going,  
Nor ever was the 〈◊〉 Tide  
Half so Fruitful, half so Flowing.   

What need thy fair Head bear a 〈◊〉  
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 ●…an 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 o'er.   

Rain-swoln 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.   

Ne'er 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.    


Psalms, 23.  
HAppy me! O haypy Sheep!  
Whom my God vouchsafes to keep,  
Even my God, even he it is  
That points me to these ways of Bliss;  
On whose Pastures cheerful Spring,  
All the year doth sit and Sing,  
And rejoicing, smiles to see  
Their Green Backs wear 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 blub'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 Shepherds' 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 overlooks her brims!  
So, even so still may I move  
By the Line of thy dear Love;  
Still may thy sweet Mercy spread  
〈◊〉 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 Bres●…  
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  
One 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  
Unpearcht, her vocal Arteries unstrung,  
No more acquainted with my Heart,  
On my dry Palates 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 cry'dst down, 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.    

Quem vidistis pastors, etc. 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 ou●… 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 th' hast been,  
Tell him Thyrsis what th' hast seen.   Tityrus. 

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 rise,  
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 left Perfumes instead 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 Dawn 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,  
Your 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 Cesar's Birthright is.  
Two Sister-Seas of Virgin's Milk,  
With many a rarely-tempered Kiss,  
That Breathes at once both Maid and Mother,  
Warms 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  
Gilded 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 life clean Hands full of clear Hearts.   

Yet when young April's Husband Showers,  
Shall Bless the fruitful Mai●…'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.    

Sospetto d' Herode. Libro Primo.  

Argomento.  

Casting the times with their strong signs,  
Death's Master his own his own death Divines;  
Struggling for Help, his best Hope is,  
Herod's suspicion may heal his;  
Therefore he sends a Fiend to wake,  
The sleeping Tyrants fond mistake,  
Who fears (in vain) that he whose Birth  
Mean's 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 (so what dares not jealous Greatness?) tore  
A thousand sweet Babes from their Mother's Breast,  
The Blooms of Martydome. 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 deflow'rs:  
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 Rein 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 Tyrrh●…ne 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 Crowns 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,  
Startle 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 sound with with his Tails strong lash.   

9  
Three Rigorous Virgins waiting still behind,  
Assist the Throne of th'Iron-Sceptered 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  
Are thou unto thyself, thou too self-wise  
Narcissus? foolish Phaeton? who for all  
Thy high-aimed hopes, gain'dst 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 become 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 Barrenness, 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-bound 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 Honey-sweating Fountains  
With Manna, Milk, and Balm, new broach the Mountains.   

15.  
He saw how in that Blessed Day-bearing Night,  
The Heaven rebuked shades made haste away;  
How bright a Dawn 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 which, 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  
Footsteps 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 ●…urrowed Brow,  
And gave a ghastly shriek, whose horrid Yell  
Ran trembling through the hollow vaults of Night,  
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 Angel-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 faintly 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 his Court should keep  
In a Clay-cottage, by each Blast controlled:  
That Glories self should serve our Griefs and Fears:  
And free Eternity submit to years:   

24.  
And further, that the Law's Eternal Giver,  
Should bleed in his own Law's obedience:  
And to the circumcising Knife deliver  
Himself, the forfeit of his Slave's 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 Griefs expression there,  
Is what in sign of joy among the blessed  
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 me! 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 still 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 Ray:  
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 clomb the North,  
Where never wing of Angel yet made way  
What though I missed 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 future stories?  
Must the bright Arms of Heaven rebuk 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,  
Oppressed 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 e'er dost bo●…  
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 fight  
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, and clapped their Hand●…  
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 fail, we'll put on our proudest Arms,  
And pouring on heavens Face the Seas huge Flood,  
Quench his curled fires, we'll wake with our Alarms  
Ruin, 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 Crowns defence?  
Stay, of whose 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 seeth 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'rtakes,  
She lifts her sooty Lamps, and looking round  
A gen'ral hiss from the whole Tire of Snakes  
Rebounding, through Hell's inmost Caverns came,  
In answer to her formidable Name.   

39  
Amongst 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, and dashed out 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 swea●…  
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 direstains  
Of Brother's mutual Blood, and Father's Brains.   

42.  
The Tables furnished with a cursed Feast,  
Which Harpies with lean Famine feed upon,  
Uufilled for ever. Here among the rest,  
●…nhumane Erisychthon too makes one;  
Tantalus, Atreus, Progne, here are Guests:  
Wolvish Lycaon here a place hath won.  
The Cup they drink in is Medusa's Scull,  
Which mixed with Gall and Blood they quaff brim full.   

43.  
The foul Queen's 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 Flower's a Pregnant poison, tried and good:  
Each Herb a Plague: The Winds sighs timed be  
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;  
Busiris 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 Schinas 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:  
●…he 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 Fight  
And poor Fowls intercepted in their Flight.   

48.  
Heaven saw her rise, and saw Hell in the sight.  
The Fields 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 asoft and Downy hand,  
Sealing all Breasts ina Lethaean band.   

50.  
When the Eryn●…s 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 born  
The Sceptre, which of old great David swayed.  
Whose Right by David's lineage 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 self-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 face's stile she doth devise,  
And in a pale Ghost's shape to spare his Eyes.   

53.  
Herself a while she lays aside, 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 to th' 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  
Her words, Sleepest thou fond man? Sleepest thou? said she.   

54.  
So sleeps a Pilot whose poor Bark is pressed  
With many a mercyless o'r-mastring 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' Hebrew's 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 life 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 Snake, 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 o'rflowing pride suppress the Flame,  
Whence all his high spirits, and hot courage came.   

62.  
So boils the fired Herod's blood-swoln Breast,  
Not to be siaked 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?  
heavens 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 prey▪  
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 great Book,  
(Fear it not, sweet,  
It is no 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 Love's 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 Hands 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 Housekeeper,  
And yet no sleeper.   

Dear Soul be strong,  
Mercy will come e'er 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 Virgins 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 Devils Holy day;  
To dance in the Sunshine of some smiling but beguiling.   

Spear of Sweet and Sugared Lies,  
Some slippery pair,  
Of False perhaps as Fair  
Flattering but ●…orswearing 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)  
Effectual whispers whose still 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, flies  
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 rarified 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 Blessings, and ten thousand more;  
If when he come  
He find the Heart from home,  
Doubtless he will unload   

Himself some otherwhere,  
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-brested 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 roseal 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 Poems, 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 the wings.  
One that gladly will be nigh,  
To wait upon each morning sigh.  
To flutter in the balmy Air,  
Of your well perfumed Prayer.  
These white Plumes of his he'll 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.    

A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint TERESA, Foundress of the Reformation of the Discalced Carmelites, both Men and Women; a Woman for Angelical height of speculation, for Masculine courage of performance, more than a Woman; who yet a Child, out ran Maturity, and durst plot a Martyrdom.  

LOve thou art absolute, sole Lord  
Of Life and Death— To prove the Word,  
●…e need to go to none of all  
●…hose thy old soldiers, stout and tall  
●…ipe and full grown, that could reach down,  
●…ith strong Arms their Triumphant Crown:  
●…ch as could with lusty breath,  
●…eak loud unto the face of Death  
●…eir great Lords glorious Name, to none  
●…f those whose large Breasts built a Throne  
●…r Love their Lord, glorious and great,  
●…e'll see him take a private seat,  
●…nd make his Mansion in the mild  
●…d 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.   

〈◊〉 never undertook to know,  
●…at Death with ●…ove should have to do.  
Nor hath she e'er 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 then 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 cold 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 in't 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 least her own.   

Farewell than all the World, adieu,  
Teresa is no more for you:  
Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys,  
Never till now esteemed toys:  
Farewell, whatever 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 bids thee come,  
T' embrace a milder Martyrdom.   

Blessed powers forbid, thy tender life  
Should bleed upon a barbarous knife.  
Or some base hand have power to raze,  
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.   

He is the Dart must make the death,  
Whose stroke wall taste thy hallowed Breath;  
A Dart thrice dipped in that rich flame,  
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 firstborn Loves of fire,  
Blest Seraphims shall leave their Choir,  
And turn Loves 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 once 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 dissolving sigh, and then  
O what! ask not the Tongues of men;   

Angels cannot tell, suffice,  
Thyself shalt 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 amongst her snowy Family,  
Immortal welcomes wait on thee.  
O what delight when she shall stand,  
And teach thy Lips Heaven, with her hand,  
On which thou now may'st to thy wishes,  
Heap up thy consecrated Kisses.  
What joy shall seize thy Soul when she  
●…ending 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  
Dress the soul, which late they slew.  
Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars,  
As keep account of the Lambs wars.   

Those rare Works, where thou shalt leave Writ,  
Loves Noble History, with Wit  
Taught thee by none but him, while here  
They seed 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  
Thousands of crowned Souls, throng to be  
Themselves thy Crown, Sons of thy Nows:  
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 (he'll say) put on  
My Rosy Love, that thy rich Zone,  
Sparkling with the sacred Flames,  
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't go.  
And where so e'er 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, as having been writ when the Author was yet a Protestant.  
THus have I back again to thy bright name,  
Fair sea of Holy fires, transfused the Flame  
〈◊〉 took from reading thee, 'tis to thy wrong  
〈◊〉 know that in my weak and worthless song  
Thou here art set to shine, where thy full day  
●…carce dawns, O pardon, if I dare to say  
●…hine own dear Books are guilty, for from thence  
〈◊〉 Learned to know that Love is Eloquence:  
●…hat Heavenly Maxim gave me heart to try  
〈◊〉 what to other Tongues is Tuned so high  
●…hy praise might not speak English too forbid  
By all thy Mysteries that there lie hid;)  
●…orbid it Mighty Love, let no fond hate  
●…f Names and Words so far prejudicated;  
●…uls are not Spaniards too, one friendly Flood  
●…f Baptism, blends them all into one Blood.  
●…hrists Faith makes but one body of all souls,  
●…nd loves that Body's Soul; no Law controls  
●…ur free Traffic, for Heaven we may maintain  
●…eace sure with Piety, though it dwell in Spain.  
●…hat Soul soever in any Language can  
●…eak Heaven like hers, is my Souls 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 hatch 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 Wine-press 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 (e'er 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 presumed thy Eastern Nest.  
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;  
She'll 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  
●…n their sad Ruins; nor Religion keep  
A melancholy Mansion in those cold  
●…rns; 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 redeem  
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.    

On the Glorious Assumption of the Blessed Virgin.  

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 lig●… 〈◊〉  
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 go'st, 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 Assumptiyn 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.   

Maria, Men and Angels sing,  
Maria Mother of our King.  
Live rarest Princess, and may the bright  
Crown of a most 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.    

An Hymn on the Circumcision of our Lord.  

RIse thou best and brightest 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 Cheekt-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 e'er 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 Fate's 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 Fire, both Shade and Light,  
Our Life in Death, our Day in Night.  
Fates cannot find out a capacity  
Of hurting thee.  
From thee their thinn Dilemma with blunt Horn  
Shrinks, like the sick Moon at the wholesome morn.   

Cowley.  
Hope, thou bold taster of Delight,  
Who, instead 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-joys we wed  
Come less unbroken to our Bed,  
Because that from the Bridal Cheek 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 fatui 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 strong, 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:  
Bythee the one doth changing Nature through  
Her endless Labyrinths pursue,  
And th' other chases 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 Fate's 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: 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 fugi●…ve Gold through all her faces,  
And loves more sierce, 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.  Mart. Dic mihi quid melius desidiosus agas.  

THE DELIGHTS OF THE MUSES.  
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 Plate,  
Under protection of an Oak; there sat  
A sweet Lutes-Master: in whose gentle Airs  
He lost the Days 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 against the Fight to come  
Informs it, in a sweet Praeludium  
Of closer strains, and e'er the War begin,  
He lightly skirmishes on every string  
Charged with a flying touch; and straight way she  
Carves out her dainty voice as readily,  
Into a thousand sweet distinguished 〈◊〉 ones,  
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 che●…rfulness; and made them sing  
To their own dance; now negligently r●…sh  
He throws his Arm and with a long drawn dash  
Blends all together, then distinctly trips  
From this to that, then quick returning skips  
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 sle●…k passage of her open Throat:  
A clear unwrinkled song, then doth she point it  
With tender Accents, and severely joint it  
By short dimunitives, 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 ●…atling strings (each breathing in his part)  
Most kindly do fall out, the grumbling Base  
●…n 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  
●…n 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 tops, 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 Silver-roof rings with the sprightly Notes  
Of sweet-liped Angel-●…mps, 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 Eyelids 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 out)  
Heaves her soft Bosom, wanders round about,  
And makes a pretty Earthquake in her Breast,  
Till the fledged Notes at length forsake their Nest;  
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 ride  
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 graver Note  
Thus high, thus low, as if her Silver Throat  
Would reach the Brazen voice of Wars hoarse Bird;  
Her little soul is ravished: and so poured  
Into loose ecstasies, that she is placed  
Above herself, Musics 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 Lute  
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 flings,  
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 friz●…d in the wanton Airs  
Of his own Breath, which married to his lyre  
Doth Tune the Spheres 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 there 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 Rhapsodies,  
Whose flourish (Meteor like) doth curl the Air  
With flash of highborn 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  
●…n 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  
●…y a strong Ecstasy) through all the Spheres  
Of Music's Heaven; and seat it there on high  
●…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-mouthed 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 Victor's prize,  
Falling upon his 〈◊〉; O fit to have  
(That lived so sweetly) dead, so sweet a Grave!    

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 e'er 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 Air,  
Thrived in these happy 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 timorous 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, O 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-youthful Spring,  
To be a shade for Angels while they sing,  
Mean while, who e'er thou art that passest 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,  
The art 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 Hour, when lo,  
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 scoul  
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 the 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 story, 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 or 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 Virtue's 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 Rhetoric's best Mould,  
His Tongue the Touchstone of her Gold;  
What Word so e'er 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 Fies  
Were vowed Love's flaming Sacrifice.   

Him while fresh and fragrant Time  
Cherished in his Colden 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, who die●… 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 ●…st knot that Love could tie.  
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,  
Till this stormy night be gone,  
And the Eternal Morrow dawn;  
Then the urtains will be drawn,  
And they wake into a Light,  
Whose Day shall never die in Night.    

An Epitaph upon Doctor Brook.  

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 c●…ll  
A summons, worthy of thy Funeral.   

Come then Youth, Beauty, and Blood, all ye soft Power▪  
Whose silken Flatteries swell a few fond hours  
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 refexion;  
Here gallant Ladies this impartial 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 self-prisoned Eye,  
Out-stares the Lids of large-lookt 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's Birth. A Panegyric.  

BRitain, 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 the, 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 Dawn of a Glorious day,  
Centre of those thy Grandsires shall I say  
Henry and James, or Mars and Phoebus rather?  
If this were Wisdom's God, that War's 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 transscribed 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 Cherrys mock  
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 Pearls 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 seen?  
Is it some Deity? or is't our Queen?  
'Tis she, 'tis she: her awful Beauties chase  
The Days 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 Phenixes, 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 giveth 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 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 mayst 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 them this Rural Wreath Fire from thine Eyes,  
This Rural Wreath dares be thy Sacrifice.    

Upon Ford's Two Tragedies. Love's 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 are 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 instile  
The face of things, an universal Smile:  
Say to the sullen Morn, thou comest to Court her;  
And wilt demand proud Zephyrus to sport her  
With wanton Gales; his Balmy Breath shall lick  
The tender Drops which tremble on her Cheek;  
Which rarified, 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 ●…ocks teaching them to flow,  
And frisk in curled Maeand●…rs: he will throw  
A fragrant Breath sucked from the Spicy Nest  
O' th' precious 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, wheresoe'er 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 scoul 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 sleep's 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,  
An 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  
Enthusiastic 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, and climb  
Upon the stopped 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 timelly kiss  
Will kill his Anger, and revive 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 Days Nativity.  
And the same Rosy-fingered hand of thine,  
That shuts Night's dying Eyes, shall open mine.   

But thou, saint God of sleep, forget that I  
Was ever known to be thy votary.  
No more my Pillow shall thine Altar be,  
Nor will I offer any more to thee  
Myself a melting-Sacrifice; I'm born  
Again a fresh 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.    

Love's Horoscope.  

LOve, brave virtues younger Brother,  
Erst hath made my Heart a Mother,  
She consults the conscious Spheres,  
To c●…lculate her young Sons years.  
She asks if sad, or saving powers,  
Gave Omen to his Infant hours,  
She asks each ●…tar 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 Love's Fortune-Book,  
On whose fair Revolutions wait  
The obsequious Motions of Love's Fate,  
Ah my Heart, 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 begun  
(Though the Heavens in Council sat,  
To crown an uncontrolled Fate,  
Though their best Aspects twined upon  
The kindest Constellation,  
Cast amorous glances on his 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 infltence move;  
And gild the hopes of humble Love:  
(Though Heavens inauspicious Eye  
Lay black on Love's Nativity;  
Though every Diamond in Jove's 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.    

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 large 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 South-west wind hurries in his Arms,  
But hastes 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 life's 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 not 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 Drugg,  
B●…it the disease, and while they tug  
Thou to maintain their cruel strife,  
Spend the dear Treasure of thy life:  
Go take Physic, dote upon  
Some big-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 Garmetts that upon her sit,  
As Garments should do, close and sit?  
A well-cloathed soul that's not oppressed,  
Nor choked with what she should be dressed?  
A Soul sheathed in a Crystal shrine,  
Through which all her bright Features shine?  
As when a piece of wanton Lawn,  
A thin aereal Veil is drawn  
O'er Beauty's Face, seeming to hide  
More sweetly shows the blushing Bride.  
A Soul whose intellectual Beams  
No Mists do Mask no lazy steams?  
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 Heliodorus.  

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  
Lick his proud feet, and haste into the seas  
Through the great Mouth that's named from Hercules)  
A band of men, rough as the Arms they 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 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 Wagg; 'tis I that own  
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 I uned Accents; but if once  
His anger kindle, presently  
It boils 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 heavens 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 shafs 'tis sauced too well;  
He is all cruel, cruel all;  
His Torch imperious though but small  
Makes the Sun (of Flames the Sire)  
Worse than Sunburnt in his Fire:  
Wheresoe'er you chance to find him  
Seize 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 fawning 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 e'er he dies,  
He strains these words; B●…se 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 then  
What needst thou put on Arms against poor men?    

Uupon 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?    

Upon Bishop Andrews his Picture before his Sermons.  

THis Reverend shadow cast that setting Sun,  
Whose Glorious course through our Horizon run,  
Left the dim Face of this dull Hemisphere,  
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,  
Snatched 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.    

Out of Martial.  

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,  
The hast left the third Cough now no business here.    

Out of Italian. A Song:  

TO thy Lover  
Deer, 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 Graccs  
In their places,  
Brother Pearls, and Sister Roses.   

From these Treasures  
Of ripe pleasures  
One bright smile to clear the weather.  
Earth and Heaven  
Thus made even,  
Both will be good friends together.   

The Air does 〈◊〉 thee,  
Winds cling to thee,  
Might a Word once fly from out thee;  
Storm and Thunder  
Would fit 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 reft him;  
The Heat commanding in my Heart doth sit,  
O! that poor Love be not for ever spoiled,  
Let my Heat to your Light be reconciled.   

So shall these Flames, whose worth  
Now all obsoured 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  
O 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'r-mastring all his might,  
To that one Sense, made all else thrall,  
And so he lost his Clothes, Eyes, Heart and all.    

On the Frontispiece of Isaacsons Chronologie explained.  

IF with distinctive 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, of 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 Phaenix-like, in spite of Satur'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-worn 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, and (Phoenix like) from death  
Revived Nature take a second Breath;  
If on Times right hand, sit fair History;  
If, from the seed of empty Ruin, she  
Can raise so fair an Harvest: let her be  
Ne'er so far distant, yet Chronology  
(Sharp-sighted as the Eagles Eye, that can  
Outstare the broad-beamed Days Meridian)  
Will have a Perspicil to find her out,  
And, through the Night of error, and dark doubt,  
Discern the Dawn 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, these 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 Ear.  
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 fans 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.    

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.    

Wishes to his (supposed) Mistress.  

WHo e'er she be,  
That not impossible she  
That shall Command my Heart and me;   

Where e'er 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,  
Bespeak her to my blisses,  
And be ye call d my absent kisses.   

I wish her Beauty,  
That owes not all its 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.   

Lips, 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 outfaces  
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 Tear.   

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

Eyes, that bestow  
Full Quivers on Love's 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 the 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 fore spent night of sorrow.   

Says, that in spite  
●…f Darkness, by the Light  
●…f a clear mind are Day all Night.   

●…ights, sweet as they,  
●…ade short by Lovers play,  
●…et long by th' absence of the Day.   

●…ife, that dares send,  
〈◊〉 challenge to his end,  
●…nd when it comes say Welcome Friend.   

●…ydneian showers  
Of sweet discourse, whose powers  
●…an Crown old Winter's head with Flowers.   

●…oft silken Hours.  
Open Suns; shady Bowers,  
●…ove all; Nothing within that lowers.   

What e'er Delight  
●…an make Days forehead bright,  
Or give Down to the Wings of Night.   

●…n her whole frame,  
Have Nature all the Name,  
●…rt and Ornament the shame.   

Her flattery,  
●…icture and Poesy▪  
Her Counsel her own Virtue be.   

〈◊〉 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,  
●…e ye my fictions; but her story.    

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 Tubam,  
Tota ora solus domuit & famam quoque  
Fecit modestam: mentis igneae pater  
Agilique radio Lucis aeternae vigil,  
Per alta rerum pondera indomito Vagus  
Cucurrit Animo, quippe naturam ferox  
Exhausit ipsam mille Foetus Artibus,  
Et mille Linguis ipse se in gentes 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.    

Epitaphim in Dominnm Herrisium.  

SIste te paulum (viator) ubi Longum Sisti  
Necesse erit, huc nempe properare te scias quocunque properas.  
Mor●… praetium erit  
Et Lachrymae,  
Si jacere hic scias  
Gulielmum  
Splendidae Herrisiorum familiae  
Splendorem maximum:  
Quem cum talem vixisse intellexeris,  
Et vixisse tantum;  
Discas licet  
In quant as spes possit  
Assurgere mortalitas,  
De quantis cadere.  
Quem 

Infantem, Essexia—  
Juvenem, Catabrigia   Vidit  
Senem, ah infelix utraque  
Quod non vidit.  
Qui  
Collegii Christi Alumnus  
Aulae Pembrokianae socius.  
Utrique, ingens amoris certamen fuit,  
Donec  
Dulciss. Lites elusit Deus,  
Eumque caelestis 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 

Oratoria  
Poetica  
Utraque  
Christianum   

Oratorem  
Poetam  
Philosophum  
Omnes   Agnovere.  
Qui 

Fide  
Spe  
Charitate  
Humilitate   

Mundum  
Coelum  
Proximum  
Seipsum   Superavit.  
Cujus  
Sub verna fronte senilis animus,  
Sub morum facilitate, severitas virtutis;  
Sub plurima indole, pauci anni;  
Sub majore modestia, maxima indoles adeo se occuluerunt ut vitam ejus  
Pulchram dixeris & pudicam dissimulationem:  
Imo vero & mortem,  
Ecce enim in ipso funere  
Dissimulare se passus est,  
Sub tantillo marmore tantum hospitem,  
Eo nimirum majore monumento quo minore tumulo.  
Eo ipso die occubuit quo Ecclesia  
Anglicana ad vesperas legit,  
Raptus est ne malitia mutaret intellectum ejus;  
Scilicet Id: Octobris, Anno S. 1631.    

Principi recèns natae omen maternae indolis.  

CRefce, O dulcibus imputanda Divis,  
O cresce, & propera, Puella Princeps,  
In matris propera venire partes.  
Et cum par breve fulminum minorum,  
Illinc Carolus, & Jacobus inde,  
In patris faciles subire famam,  
Ducent fata furoribus decoris;  
Cum terror sacer, Anglicique magnum  
Murmur nominis increpabit omnem  
Late Bosporon, Ottomanicasque  
Non picto quatiet tremore Lunas;  
Te tunc altera nec timenda paci,  
Poscent praelia. Tu potens pudici  
Vibratrix oculi, pios in hosts  
Late dulcia fata dissipabis.  
O cum slos tener ille, qui recenti  
Pressus sidere jam sub ora ludit,  
Olim fortior omne cuspidatos  
Evolvet latus aureum per ignes;  
Quique imbellis adhuc, adultus olim;  
Puris expatiabitur genarum  
Campis imperiosor Cupido;  
O quam certa superbiore penna  
Ibunt spicula, melleaeque mortes,  
Exultantibus hinc & inde turmis,  
Quoque jusser is, impigre 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, O puella Princeps,  
Quantacunque opus est tibi pharetra.  
Centum sume Cupidines ab uno  
Matris lumine, Gratiasque centum,  
Et centum Veneres: adhuc manebunt  
Centum mille Cupidines; manebunt  
Tercentum Veneresque Gratiaeque  
Puro fonte superstites per aevum.    

In Senerissimae Reginae partum hyemalem.  

SErta puer: (quis nunc flores non praebeat hortus?)  
Texe mihi facili pollice serta, puer.  
Quid tu nescio quos narras mihi, stulte, Decembres  
Quid mihi cum nivibus? da mihi serta, puer.  
Nix? & hyems? non est nostras quid tale per or as;  
Non est: vel si sit, non tamen esse potest  
Ver agitur: quecunque trucem dat larva Decembrem,  
Quid fera cunque fremant srigora, ver agitur.  
Nonne vides quali se palmite regia vitis  
Prodit, & in sacris quae sedet uva jugis?  
Tam laetis quae bruma solet ridere racemis?  
Quas hyemis pingit purpura tanta genas?  
O Maria! O divum 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 media poterunt tua surgere bruma,  
Atque suas solum lilia nosse nives?  
Ergo vel invitis nivibus, frendentibus Austris,  
Nostra novis poterunt regna tumere rosis?  
O bona turbatrix anni, quae limit noto  
Tempora sub signis non finis 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 atque importuna videri;  
Inque uteri titulos sic rape cuncta tui.  
Sit nobis sit saepe hyemes sic cernere nostras  
Exharedatas floribus ire tuis.  
Saepe sit has vernas hyemes Majosque Decembres,  
Has per te roseas saepe videre nives.  
Altera gens varium per sydera computet annum,  
Atque suos ducant per vaga signa dies.  
Nos deceat nimiis tantum permittere nimbis?  
Tempora tam tetricas ferre Britanna vices?  
Quin nostrum tibi nos omnem donabimus annum:  
In part us omnem expende, Maria, tuos.  
Sit tuus ille uterus nostri bonus arbiter anni:  
Tempus & in titulos tanseat omne tuos.  
Namque alia indueret tam dulcia nomina mensis?  
Aut qua tam posset candidus ire toga?  
Hanc laurum Jun●…s sibi vertice vellet utroque;  
Hanc sibi vel tota Chloride Majus emet.  
Tota suam (vere expulso) respublica storum  
Reginam cuperent te, sobolemve tuam.  
O bona sors anni, cum cuncti ex ordine menses  
Hic mihi Carolides, hic Marianus erit!    

Ad Reginam.  

ET vero jam tempus erat tibi, maxima Mater,  
Dulcibus his oculis accelerare diem:  
Tempus erat, ne qua tibi basia blanda vacarent;  
Sarcina ne coll●… sit minus apta tuo.  
Scilicet ille tuus, timor & spes ille suorum,  
Quo primum es 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 adeo negat ire sub annis:  
Jam nondum puer est, major & est puero.  
Si quis in aulaeis pict as animatus in iras  
Stat leo, quem docta cuspide lusit acus,  
Hostis (io!) est; neque enim ille alium dignabitur hostem;  
Nempe decet tant as 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,  
Tamtorvum, tam dulce micant: nescire fatetur  
Mars ne sub his oculis esset, an esset Amor.  
Quippe illic 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.  
●…asia jam veniant tua quant acunque caterva;  
Jam quocunque tuus murmure ludat amor.  
●…n! Tibi materies tenera & tractabilis hic est:  
Hic ad blanditias est tibi cera satis.  
●…alve infans, tot basiolis, molle argumentum,  
Maternis labiis dulce negotiolum,  
●…salve! Nam te nato, puer auree, natus  
Et Carolo & Mariae tertius est oculus.    

In faciem Augustiss. Regis à morbillis integram.  

MUsa redi; vocat alma parens Academia: Noster  
En redit, ore suo noster Apollo redit.  
●…ltus adhuc suus, & vultu sua purpura tantum  
Vivit, & admixtas pergit amare nives.  
Tune illas violare genas? tune illa profanis,  
Morbe ferox, tent as ire per or a notis?  
Tu Phoebi faciem tentas, vanissime? Nostra  
Nec Phoebe maculas novit habere suas.  
Ipsa sui vindex facies morbum indignatur;  
Ipsa sedet radiis O bene tuta suis:  
Quippe illic Deus est, coelum que & sanctius astrum;  
Quippe sub his totus ridet Apollo genis.  
Quod facie Rex tutus erat, Quod caetera tactus:  
Hinc hominem Rex est fassus, & inde Deum.    

Rex Redux.  

ILLe redit, redit. Hoc populi bona murmura volvunt  
Publicus hoc (audin'?) plausus ad astra refert:  
Hoc omni sedet in vultu commune serenum;  
Omnibus hinc una est laetitiae facies.  
Rex noster, lux nostra redit; redeuntis ad ora  
Arridet 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, quosve metus:  
Anne perrerati male fida volumina ponti  
Ausa illum terris pene negare suis:  
Hospitis an nimii rursus sibi conscia tellus  
Vix bene speratum reddat Ibera caput.  
Nil horum; nec enim male fida volumina ponti  
Aut sacrum tellus vidit Ibera caput.  
Verus amor tamen hac 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.    

Ad Principem nondum natum.  

NAscere nunc; O 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.     


CARMEN DEO NOSTRO, Te Decet HYMNUS. SACRED POEMS, COLLECTED, CORRECTED, AUGMENTED, Most Humbly PRESENTED, TO MY LADY THE COUNTESS OF DENBIGH.  
By her Most devoted Servant RICH. CRASHAW.  
In hearty acknowledgement of his immortal Obligation to her Goodness and Charity.   

CRASHAWE, THE ANAGRAM HE WAS CAR.  

WAs Car then Crashaw, or was Crashaw Car,  
Since both within one name combined are?  
Yes, Car's Crashaw, he Car; 'tis Love alone  
Which melts two hearts, of both composing one,  
So Crashaw's still the same: so much desired  
By strongest Wits; so honoured so admired;  
Car Was but He that entered as a friend  
With whom he shared his thoughts, and did commend  
(While yet he lived) this Work; they loved each other:  
Sweet Crashaw was his friend; he Crashaws' Brother:  
So Car hath Title then; 'twas his intent  
That what his Riches penned, poor Car should Print;  
Nor fears he check, praising that happy one  
Who was beloved by all; dispraised by none.  
To wit, being pleased with all things, he pleased all:  
Nor would he give, nor take offence; befall  
What Might; he would possess himself: and live  
As dead (devoid of interest) t' all might give  
Disease t' his well composed mind; forestalled  
With Heavenly Riches: which had wholly called  
His thoughts from Earth, to live above in th' Air  
A very Bird of Paradise. No care  
Had he of earthly trash. What might suffice  
To fit his soul to Heavenly exercise.  
Sufficed him; and may we guests his hart  
By what his Lips bring forth, his only part  
Is God and Godly thoughts. Leaves doubt to none  
But that to whom one God is all; all's one.  
What he might eat or wear he took no thought,  
His needful food he rather found then sought.  
He seeks no Downs, no Sheets, his Bed's still made  
If he can find, a Chair or Stool, he's laid,  
When day peeps in; he quits his restless rest;  
And still, poor soul, before he's up he's dressed.  
Thus dying did he live, yet lived to die  
In th' Virgin's Lap, to whom he did ayply  
His Virgin thoughts and words, and thence was styled  
By foes, the Chaplain of the Virgin mild  
While yet he lived without: his Modesty  
Imparted this to some, and they to me.  
Live happy then, dear soul; enjoy thy rest  
Eternally by pains thou purchasedst,  
While Car must live in Care; who was thy friend  
Nor cares he how he live, so in the end,  
He may enjoy his dearest Lord and thee;  
And sit and sing more skilful songs Eternally.   
THOMAS CAR.   

TO THE Noblest and best of LADIES, THE COUNTESS OF DENBIGH:  
Persuading her to Resolution in Religion, and to render herself without further delay into the Communion of the Catholic Church.  

WHat Heaven-intreated Heart is this?  
Stands trembling at the Gate of Bliss;  
Holds fast the door, yet dares not venture  
Fairly to open it and enter,  
Whose Definition is a doubt  
'Twixt Life and Death, 'twixt in and out.  
Say, lingering fair! why comes the birth  
Of your brave Soul so slowly forth?  
Plead your pretences (O you strong  
In weakness) why you choose so long  
In labour of yourself to lie,  
Nor daring quite to live nor die:  
Ah linger not, loved Soul! a slow  
And late consent was a long no,  
Who grants at last, long time tried  
And did his best to have denied,  
What Magic bolts, what Mystic Barrs  
Maintain the Will in these strange Wars!  
What fatal, what fantastic Bands,  
Keep the free Heart from its own Hands!  
So when the year takes cold, we see  
Poor Waters their own Prisoners be,  
Fettered, and lock d up fast they lie  
In a sad self-capti●…ity▪  
Th' astonished Nymphs their floods strange fate deplore  
To see themselves their own severer shore.  
Thou that alone canst thaw this cold,  
And fetch the Heart from its strong Hold;  
Almighty Love! end this long War,  
And of a Meteor make a Star.  
O fix this fair Indefinite  
And mongst thy shafts of Sovereign light  
Choose out that sure decisive Dart  
Which has the Key of this close Heart,  
Knows all the corners of't, and can control  
The self-shut Cabinet of an unsearched soul.  
O let it be at last, Loves hour;  
Raise this tall Trophy of thy Power;  
Come once the conquering way; not to confute  
But kill this Rebel-word, Irresolute,  
That so, in spite of all this peevish strength  
Of weakness, she may write Resolved at Length.  
Unfold at length, unfold fair Flower  
And use the season of Love's shower,  
Meet his wellmeaning wounds, wise Heart▪  
And haste to drink the wholesome Dart;  
That Healing shaft, which Heaven till now  
Has in Love's Quiver hid for you,  
O Dart of Love! Arrow of Light!  
O happy you, if it hit right,  
It must not fall in vain, it must  
Not mark the dry regardless dust.  
Fair one, it is your Fate▪ and brings  
Eternal Words upon its Wings.  
Meet it with wide-spread Arms; and see  
It's seat your soul's just centre be.  
Disband dull fears; give faith the day,  
To save your life, kill your delay;  
It is Love's Siege, and sure to be  
Your triumph, though his Victory.  
'Tis cowardice that keeps this Field,  
And want of Courage not to yield.  
Yield then, O yield, that Love may win  
The Fort at last, and let Life in.  
Yield quickly, lest perhaps you prove  
Death's prey, before the prize of Love.  
This Fort of your fair self, if't be not won,  
He is repulsed indeed, but you're undone.    

To the Name above every Name, the Name of JESUS, A Hymn.  

I Sing the Name which none can say  
But touched with an interior Ray;  
The name of our new Peace; our Good:  
Our Bliss, and supernatural Blood:  
The name of all our Lives and Loves.  
Harken, and help, ye Holy Doves!  
The highborn Brood of Day; you bright  
Candidates of blissful Light,  
The Heirs Elect of Love; whose Names belong  
Unto the everlasting life of Song;  
All ye wise souls; who in the wealthy Breast  
Of this unbounded Name build your warm Nest.  
Awake, my Glory, Soul, (if such thou be,  
And that fair Word at all refer to thee)  
Awake and Sing  
And be all Wing;  
Bring hither thy whole Self; and let me see,  
What of thy Parent Heaven yet speaks in Thee.  
O thou art Poor,  
Of Noble Powers, I see,  
And full of nothing else but empty Me,  
Narrow, and low, and infinitely less  
Than this great Mornings mighty business.  
One little World or two  
(Alas) will never do;  
We must have store.  
Go, Soul, out of thyself, and seek for More,  
Go and request  
Great Nature for the Key of her huge Chest  
Of heavens, the self-involving Set of Spheres  
(Which dull Mortality more feels than hears)  
Then rouse the nest  
Of nimble Art, and traverse round  
The Airy shop of Soul-appeasing sound:  
And beat a summons in the same  
All-Soveraign Name.  
To warn each several kind  
And shape of sweetness, be they such  
As sigh with supple wind  
Or answer Artful touch,  
That they convene and come away  
To wait at the Love-Crowned Doors of that  
Illustrious Day.  
Shall we dare this, my Soul? we'll do't and bring  
No other Note for't, but the Name we sing.  
Wake Lute and Harp  
And every sweet-lipped thing  
That talks with Tuneful string;  
Start into life, and leap with me  
Into a hasty fit-tuned harmony.  
Nor must you think it much  
T' obey my bolder touch;  
I have authority in Love's Name to take you  
And to the work of Love this morning wake you;  
Wake; in the Name  
Of Him who never sleeps, all things that are,  
Or what's the same,  
Are Musical;  
Answer my Call  
And come along;  
Help me to meditate mine immortal Song.  
Come, ye soft Ministers of sweet sad mirth,  
Bring all your Householdstuff of Heaven on Earth;  
O you, my Soul●…s most certain Wings,  
Complaining Pipes, and prattling strings,  
Bring all the store  
Of Sweets you have; and murmur that you have no more.  
Come, ne'er to part,  
Nature and Art!  
Come; and come strong,  
To the conspiracy of our spacious song.  
Bring all the Powers of Praise  
Your Provinces of well-united Worlds can raise;  
Bring all your Lutes and Harps of Heaven and Earth;  
What e'er cooperates to the common mirth  
Vessels of vocal joys,  
Or you, more Noble Architects of intellectual noise,  
Cymbals of Heaven, or Humane spheres,  
Solicitors of Souls or Ears;  
And when you are come, with all  
That you can bring or we can call;  
O may you fix  
For ever here, and mix  
Yourselves into the long  
And everlasting series of a deathless Song;  
Mix all your many Worlds, above,  
And lose them into One of Love.  
Cheer thee my Heart!  
For thou too hast thy part  
And place in the great Throng  
Of this unbounded all-imbracing Song.  
Powers of my Soul, be proud!  
And speak loud  
To all the dear-bought Nations this Redeeming Name,  
And in the wealth of one rich Word proclaim  
New Similes to Nature.  
May it be no wrong  
Blessed heavens, to you, and your Superior song,  
That we, dark Sons of Dust and Sorrow,  
A while dare borrow  
The name of your Delights and our Desires,  
And fit it to so far inferior Lyres.  
Our Murmurs have their Music too,  
Ye Mighty Orbs, as well as you,  
Nor yields the Noblest nest  
Of warbling Seraphim to the ears of Love,  
A choicer Lesson than the joyful Breast  
Of a poor panting Turtle-Dove.  
And we, low Worms have leave to do  
The same bright business (ye third heavens) with you.  
Gentle Spirits, do not complain;  
We will have care  
To keep it fair,  
And send it back to you again.  
Come, lovely Name! appear from forth the bright  
Regions of peaceful Light;  
Look from thine own illustrious home,  
Fair King of Names, and come:  
Leave all thy Native Glories in their gorgeous Nest,  
And give thyself a while the gracious Guest.  
Of humble Souls, that seek to find  
The hidden Sweets  
Which man's heart meets  
When thou art Master of the Mind.  
Come, Lovely Name; life of our hope!  
Lo we hold our Hearts wide open!  
Unlock thy Cabinet of Day  
Dearest Sweet, and come away.  
Lo how the thirsty Lands  
Gasp for thy golden showers! with long stretched hands:  
Lo how the labouring Earth  
That hopes to be  
All Heaven by Thee,  
Leaps at thy Birth.  
Th' attending World, to wait thy Rise,  
First turned to Eyes;  
And then, not knowing what to do;  
Turned them to Tears, and spent them too,  
Come Royal Name; and pay th' expense  
Of all this precious patience.  
O come away  
And kill the Death of this Delay.  
O see, so many Worlds of barren years  
Melted and Measured out in Seas of Tears.  
O see the weary Lids of wakeful Hope  
(Love's Eastern windows) all wide open  
With Curtains drawn,  
To catch the daybreak of thy Dawn.  
O dawn, at last, long-looked for day!  
Take thine own wings and come away.  
Lo, where aloft it comes! It comes, among  
The conduct of adoring Spirits that throng  
Like diligent Bees, and swarm about it.  
O they are wise:  
And know what Sweets are sucked from out it.  
It is the Hive,  
By which they thrive,  
Where all their hoard of Honey lies.  
Lo where it comes, upon the snowy Doves  
Soft back; and brings a bosom big with Loves.  
Welcome to our dark World, thou  
Womb of Day!  
Unfold thy fair Conceptions; and display  
The Birth of our bright joys.  
O thou compacted  
Body of Blessings: Spirit of Souls extracted!  
O dissipate thy spicy Powers  
(Cloud of condensed sweets) and break upon us  
In balmy showers;  
O fill our senses, and take from us  
All force of so profane a Fallacy  
To think aught sweet but that which smells of thee.  
Fair, Flowery Name; in none but thee  
And thy Nectareal fragrancy,  
Hourly there meets  
An universal Synod of all Sweets;  
By whom it is defined Thus  
That no Perfume  
For ever shall presume  
To pass for odoriferous,  
But such alone whose sacred Pedigree  
Can prove itself some kin (sweet name) to Thee.  
Sweet Name, in thy each Syllable  
A thousand Blessed Arabia's dwell;  
A Thousand Hills of Frankincense;  
Mountains of myrrh, and Beds of Spices,  
And Ten thousand Paradises.  
The Soul that tastes thee takes from thence  
How many unknown Worlds there are  
Of Comforts, which thou hast in keeping!  
How many thousand Mercies there  
In Pity's soft Lap lie a sleeping!  
Happy he who has the Art  
To awake them,  
And to take them  
Home, and lodge them in his Heart,  
O that it were as it was wont to be!  
When thy old friends of fire, all full of thee,  
Fought against frowns with smiles; gave Glorious chase  
To persecutions; and against the Face  
Of Death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave  
And sober pace march on to meet a Grave.  
On their bold Breasts about the World they bore thee  
And to the Teeth of Hell stood up to teach thee,  
In Centre of their inmost souls they wore thee,  
Where Racks and Torments strived in vain to reach thee.  
Little, alas, thought they  
Who tore the fair Breasts of thy Friends,  
Their Fury but made way  
For thee; and served them in thy Glorious ends.  
What did their weapons but with wider pores  
Enlarge thy flaming breasted Lovers  
More freely to transpire  
That impatient fire  
The heart that hides thee hardly covers,  
What did their weapons but set wide the doors  
I or thee: fair purple Doors, of Love's devising;  
The Ruby windows which enriched the East  
Of thy so oft repeated Rising.  
Each wound of theirs was thy new morning;  
And reinthroned thee in thy Rosy Nest,  
With blush of thine own blood thy day adorning:  
It was the wit of Love oreflowed the bounds  
Of Wrath, and made the way through all these wounds,  
Welcome Dear, All-Adored Name!  
For sure there is no Knee  
That knows not thee.  
Or if there be such Sons of shame,  
Alas what will they do  
When stubborn Rocks shall bow  
And Hills hang down their Heav'n-saluting Heads  
To seek for humble Beds  
Of Dust, where in the bashful shades of night  
Next to their own low Nothing they may lie,  
And couch before the dazzling light of thy dread  
Majesty.  
They that by Love's mild dictate now  
Will not adore the,  
Shall then with just Confusion, bow  
And break before thee.    

In the Glorious Epiphany of our Lord God, a Hymn sung as by the Three Kings.  1. KING. 
BRight Babe, whose awful Beauties make  
The morn incur a sweet mistake;  2. 
For whom th' officious heavens devise  
To disinherit the Suns Rise,  3. 
Delicately to displace  
The Day, and plant it fairer in thy Face;  1. 
O thou born King of Loves,  2. 
Of Lights,  3 
Of Joys.  Cho. 
Look up. Sweet Babe, look up, and see  
For love of thee  
Thus far from home  
The East is come  
To seek herself in thy sweet Eyes.  1. 
We, who strangely went astray,  
Lost in a bright  
Meridian night,  2. 
A Darkness made of too much Day,  3 
Beckoned from far  
By thy fair Star,  
Lo at last have found our way.  Cho. 
To Thee, thou Day of Night; thou East of West!  
Lo we at last have found the way  
To thee, the World's great Universal East;  
The general and indifferent day.  1 
All-circling point, All-centring sphere,  
The World's One, Round, Eternal year.  2 
Whose full and all-unwrinkled face  
Nor sinks nor swells with time or place;  3 
But every where, and every while  
Is one consistent solid smile;  1 
Not vexed and tossed.  2. 
Betwixt Spring and Frost,  3 
Nor by alternate shreds of Light  
Sordidly shifting hands with Shades and Night.  Cho. 
O little all, in thy embrace  
The World lies warm, and likes his place;  
Nor does his full Globe fail to be  
Kissed on both his Cheeks by thee:  
Time is too narrow for thy year  
Nor makes the whole World thy half Sphere.  1 
To thee, to thee  
From him we flee  2 
From him, whom by a more illustrious lie,  
The blindness of the World did call the Eye;  3 
To him, who by these mortal Clouds hast made  
Thyself our Sun, though thine own Shade.  2 
Farewell, the World's false Light;  
Farewell, the white  
Egypt, a long farewell to thee  
Bright Idol; black Idolatry.  
The dire face of inferior darkness, kissed  
And courted in the pompous Mask of a more specious Mist.  2 
Farewell, farewell  
The proud and misplaced Gates of Hell,  
Perched, in the morning's way  
And double-guilded as the doors of Day;  
The deep Hypocrisy of Death and Night  
More desperately dark, because more bright.  3 
Welcome, the World's sure way;  
heavens wholesome Ray.  Cho. 
Welcome to us; and we  
Sweet to ourselves, in thee.  1 
The deathless Heir of all thy Father's day;  2 
Decently born,  
Embosomed in a much more Rosy Morn,  
The Blushes of thy all-unblemished Mother.  3 
No more that other  
Aurora shall set open  
Her Ruby Casements, or hereafter hope  
From mortal Eyes  
To meet Religious welcomes at her Rise.  Cho. 
We (precious ones) in you have won  
A gentler Morn, a juster Sun.  1 
His superficial Beams Sun-burned our skin;  2 
But left within  3 
The night and Winter still of Death and Sin.  Cho. 
Thy softer yet more certain Darts  
Spare our Eyes, but pierce our Hearts.  1 
Therefore with his proud Persian spoils  2 
We court thy more concerning smiles.  3 
Therefore with his disgrace  
We gild the humble Cheek of this chaste place;  Cho. 
And at thy Feet pour forth his Face,  1 
The doting Nations now no more  
Shall any day but thine adore.  2 
Nor (much less) shall they leave these Eyes  
For cheap Egyptian Deities.  3 
In whatsoever more Sacred shape  
Of Ram, He-Goat, or Reverend Ape,  
Those beauteous ravishers oppressed so sore  
The too-hard-tempted Nations.  1 
Never more  
By wanton Heifer shall be worn  2 
A Garland, or a guilded Horn.  
The Altar-stalled Ox, fat Osiris now  
With his fair Sister Cow,  3 
Shall kick the Clouds no more; but lean and tame.  Cho. 
See his horned Face, and die for shame,  
And Mithra now shall be no name.  1. 
No longer shall the immodest Lust  
Of adulterous Godless dust  2 
Fly in the face of Heaven; as if it were  
The poor World's Fault that he is fair.  3 
Nor with perverse Loves and Religious Rapes  
Revenge thy Bounties in their beauteous shapes;  
And punish best things worst; because they stood  
Guilty of being much for them too good.  1 
Proud sons of death that durst compel  
Heaven itself to find them Hell;  2 
And by strange wit of madness wrest  
From this World's East the other's West.  3 
All-Idolizing worms, that thus could crowd  
And urge their Sun into thy Cloud;  
Forcing his sometimes eclipsed face to be  
A long deliquium to the light of thee.  Cho. 
Alas with how much he avier shade  
The shamfaced Lamp hung down his head,  
For that one Eclipse he made,  
Then all those he suffered!  1 
For this he looked so big, and every morn  
With a red face confessed this scorn;  
Or hiding his vexed cheeks in a hired mist  
Kept them from being so unkindly kissed  2 
It was for this the day did rise  
So oft with blubbered Eyes.  
For this the Evening wept; and we ne'er knew  
But called it Dew.  3 
This daily wrong  
Silenced the morning Sons, and dampt their song  Cho. 
Nor was't our deafness, but our sins, that thus  
Long made th' Harmonious orbs all mute to us.  2 
Time has a day in store  
When this so proudly poor  
And self-oppressed spark, that has so long  
By the lovesick World been made  
Not so much their Sun as Shade,  
Weary of this Glorious wrong,  
From them and from himself shall flee  
For shelter to the shadow of thy Tree;  Cho. 
Proud to have gained this precious loss  
And changed his false Crown for thy Cross.  2 
That dark day's clear doom shall define  
Whose is the Master Fire, which Sun would shine▪  
That sable iudgement-seat shall by new laws  
Decide and settle the Great cause  
Of controverted light,  Cho. 
And nature's wrongs rejoice to do thee right.  3 
That forfeiture of noon to night shall pay  
All the idolatrous Thefts done by this night of day;  
And the great Penitent press his own pale Lips  
With an elaborate Love-eclipse  
To which the low world's Laws  
Shall lend no cause  Cho. 
Save those domestic which he borrows  
From our sins and his own sorrows.  1 
Three sad hours sackcloth then shall show to us  
His penance, as our fault, conspicuous.  2 
And he more needfully and nobly prove  
The Nation's terror now then erst their love,  3 
Their hated loves changed into wholesome fears.  Cho. 
The shutting of his Eye shall open theirs.  2 
As by a fair-eyed fallacy of day  
Misled before they lost their way,  
So shall they, by the seasonable fright  
Of an unseasonable night,  
Losing it once again, stumble on true Light,  2 
And as before his too-bright eye  
Was their more blind idolatry,  
So his officious blindness now shall be  
Their black, but faithful perspective of thee;  3 
His new prodigious night,  
Their new and admirable light;  
The supernatural Dawn of thy pure day,  
While wondering they  
(The happy converts now of him  
Whom they compelled before to be their sin)  
Shall henceforth see  
To kiss him only as their rod  
Whom they so long courted as God,  Cho. 
And their best use of him they worshipped be  
To learn, of him at least, to worship thee.  2 
It was their Weakness wooed his Beauty;  
But it shall be  
Their wisdom now, as well as duty,  
T'enjoy his Blot; and as a large black Letter  
Use it to spell thy Beauties Better;  
And make the night itself their torch to thee.  2 
By the oblique ambush of this close night  
Couched in that conscious shade  
The right eyed Areopagite  
Shall with a vigorous guess invade  
And catch thy quick reflex; and sharply see  
On this dark Ground  
To descant thee.  3 
O price of the rich Spirit! with that fierce chase  
Of this strong Soul, shall he  
Leap at thy lofty Face,  
And seize the swift flash, in rebound  
From this obsequious Cloud;  
Once called a Sun;  
Till dearly thus undone,  Cho. 
Till thus triumphantly tamed (O ye two  
Twin-Suns!) and taught now to negotiate you.  1 
Thus shall that reverend Child of light,  2 
By being Scholar first of that new night,  
Come forth Great Master of the mystic day;  3 
And teach obscure Mankind a more close way  
By the frugal negative Light  
Of a most wise and well-abused Night,  
To read more legible thine original Ray,  Cho. 
And make our darkness serve thy day;  
Maintaining 'twixt thy World and ours  
A commerce of contrary powers,  
A mutual Trade  
'Twixt Sun and Shade,  
By confederate Black and White  
Borrowing Day and lending Night.  1 
Thus we, who when with all the Noble powers  
That (at thy cost) are called, not vainly, ours;  
We vow to make brave way  
Upwards, and press on for the pure intelligential prey;  2 
At lest to play  
The amorous spies  
And peep and proffer at thy sparkling Throne;  3 
Instead of bringing in the blissful Prize  
And fastening on thine Eyes,  
Forfeit our own  
And nothing gain  
But more ambitious loss, at lest of brain;  Cho. 
Now by abased Lids shall learn to be  
Eagles; and shut our Eyes that we may see.  The Close. 
Therefore to thee and thine auspicious ray  
(Dread sweet!) lo thus  
At lest by us,  
The delegated Eye of Day  
Does first his Sceptre, than himself in solemn Tribute pay.  
Thus he undresses  
His sacred unshorn Tresses;  
At thy adored Feet, thus, he lays down  1 
His gorgeous tire  
Of Flame and Fire,  2 
His glittering Robe,  3 
His sparkling Crown,  3 
His Gold,  2 
His Myrrh,  3. 
His Frankincense,  Cho. 
To which he now has no pretence.  
For being showed by this days light, how far  
He is from Sun enough to make thy Star,  
His best ambition now, is but to be  
Something a brighter shadow (Sweet) of thee;  
Or on heavens azure forehead high to stand  
Thy Golden Index; with a duteous Hand  
Pointing us home to our own Sun  
The World's and his Hyperion.   

To the Queen's Majesty on Twelfth-day.  
MADAM,  

Amongst those long rows of Crowns that gild your  
Race.  
These Royal sages sue for decent place.  
The daybreak of the Nations; their first ray;  
When the dark World dawn'd into Christian day.  
And smiled i'th' Babes bright face, the purpling Bud  
And Rosy dawn of the right Royal Blood;  
Fair first-fruits of the Lamb; sure Kings in this;  
They took a Kingdom while they gave a kiss,  
But the World's Homage, scarce in these well blown,  
We read in you (Rare Queen) ripe and full grown.  
For from this day's rich seed of Diadems  
Does rise a radiant crop of Royal stems,  
A Golden Harvest of Crowned heads, that meet  
And crowd for kisses from the Lambs white feet.  
In this illustrious throng, your lofty flood  
Swells high, fair confluence of all highborn Blood▪  
With your bright head whose groves of Sceptres bend  
Their wealthy tops; and for these feet contend.  
So swore the Lambs dread Sire, and so we see't,  
Crowns, and the Heads they kiss must court these Feet.  
Fix here fair Majesty! may your heart ne'er miss  
To reap new Crowns and Kingdoms from that kiss;  
Nor may we miss the joy to meet in you  
The aged honours of this day still new.  
May the great time, in you, still greater be  
While all the year is your Epiphany,  
While your each day's Devotion duly brings  
Three Kingdoms to supply this days three Kings.    

The Office of the Holy Cross: For the hour of Matins.  The Versicle. 
Lord, by thy sweet and saving Sign,  The Responsory. 
Defend us from our Foes and Thine.  Ver. 
Thou shalt open my Lips, O Lord.  Res. 
And my mouth shall declare thy praise.  Ver. 
O God make speed to save me.  Res. 
O Lord make haste to help me.  
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.  
As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end, Amen.  

THE HYMN.  
THe wakeful Matines' haste to sing,  
The unknown sorrows of our King,  
The Father's Word and Wisdom, made  
Man, for Man, by Man's betrayed;  
The world's price set to sale, and by the bold  
Merchants of Death and Sin, is bought and sold;  
Of his best Friends (yea of himself) forsaken,  
By his worst foes (because he would) besieged and taken.   The Antiphon. 
All hail, fair Tree.  
Whose Fruit we be.  
What Song shall raise  
Thy seemly praise.  
Who brought'st to light  
Life out of Death, Day out of night.  The Versicle. 
Lo, we adore thee,  
Dread Lamb! and bow thus low before thee,  The Responsor. 
'Cause by the Covenant of thy Cross,  
Thou hast saved at once the whole World's loss.  The Prayer. 
O My Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God interpose, I pray thee, thine own precious death, thy Cross and Passion, betwixt my Soul and thy Judgement, now and in the hour of my death. And vouchsafe to grant me thy Grace and Mercy; to the living and dead, remission and rest; to thy Church peace and concord; to us sinners life and glory everlasting. Who livest and reignest with the Father, in the Unity of the Holy Ghost, one God, world without end, Amen.   

For the hour of Prime.  The Versicle. 
Lord by thy sweet and saving Sign.  The Responsor. 
Defend us from our foes and thine.  Ver. 
Thou shalt open my Lips, O Lord.  Res. 
And my mouth shall declare thy praise.  Ver. 
O God make speed to save me.  Res. 
O Lord make haste to help me.  
Glory be to, etc.  
As it was in, etc.  

THE HYMN.  
THe early Prime blushes to say  
She could not rise so soon, as they  
Called Pilate up, to try if he  
Could lend them any Cruelty.  
Their Hands with lashes armed, their Tongues with lies,  
And loathsome spital blot those beauteous Eyes,  
The blissful springs of Joy, from whose all-chearing ray  
The fair Stars fill their wakeful fires, the Sun himself drinks day.   The Antiphon. 
Victorious Sign  
That now dost shine,  
Transcribed above  
Into the Land of Light and Love;  
O let us twine  
Our Roots with thine,  
That we may rise  
Upon thy Wings and reach the Skies.  The Versicle. 
Lo we adore thee  
Dread Lamb! and fall  
Thus low before thee  The Responsor. 
'Cause by the Covenant of thy Cross  
Thou hast saved at once the whole world's loss.  The Prayer. 
O My Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God interpose, I pray thee, thine own precious death, thy Cross and Passion, betwixt my Soul and thy Judgement, now and in the hour of my death. And vouchsafe to grant me thy Grace and Mercy; to the living and dead, remission and rest; to thy Church peace and concord; to us sinners, life and glory everlasting: Who livest and reignest with the Father, in the unity of the Holy Ghost, one God, world without end, Amen:   

The Third.  The Versicle. 
Lord, by thy sweet and saving Sign  The Responsor. 
Defend us from our foes and thine.  Ver. 
Thou shalt open my Lips, O Lord,  Res. 
And my mouth shall declare thy praise.  Ver. 
O God make speed to save me.  Res. 
O ●…ord make haste to help me.  Ver. 
Glory be to, etc.  Res. 
As it was in the, etc.  

THE HYMN.  
THe Third hour's deafened with the cry  
Of Crucify him, Crucify.  
So goes the vote (nor ask them, why!)  
Live Barrabas! and let God die.  
But there is wit in wrath, and they will try  
A Hall more cruel than their Crucify,  
For while in sport he wears a spiteful Crown,  
The serious showers along his decent Face run sadly down.   The Antiphon. 
Christ when he died  
Deceived the Cross,  
And on Death's side  
Threw all the loss.  
The captive World awaked, and found  
The Prisoner loose, the Jailor bound.  The Versicle. 
Lo we adore thee  
Dread Lamb, and fall  
Thus low before thee  That Responsor, 
'Cause by the Covenant of thy Cross  
Thou hast saved at once the whole World's loss  The Prayer. 
O My Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God interpose, I pray thee, thine own precious death, thy Cross and Passion, betwixt my Soul and thy Judgement, now and in the hour of my death. And vouchsafe to grant me thy Grace and Mercy; to the living and dead, remission and rest; to thy Church, peace and concord; to us sinners, life and glory everlasting, Who livest and reignest with the Father, in the unity of the Holy Ghost, one God, world without end, Amen.   

The six.  The Versicle. 
Lord by thy sweet and saving Sign,  The Responsor. 
Defend us from our foes and thine.  Ver. 
Thou shalt open my lips, O Lord,  Res. 
And my mouth shall declare thy praise.  Ver. 
O God make speed to save me,  Res. 
O Lord make haste to help me.  Ver. 
Glory be to, &c:  Res. 
As it was in, etc.  

The HYMN.  
NOw is the Noon of sorrow's night;  
High in his patience as their spite.  
Lo the faint Lamb, with weary Limb  
Bears that huge Tree which must bear him,  
That fatal Plant, so great of Fame  
For fruit of sorrow and of shame,  
Shall swell with both for him; and mix  
All woes into one Crucifix.  
Is tortured Thirst itself, too sweet a cup?  
Gall, and more bitter mocks shall make it up.  
Are Nails blunt Pens of superficial smart?  
Contempt and scorn can send sure wounds to search the inmost Heart.   The Antiphon. 
O dear and sweet dispute  
'Twixt death's and Love's far different Fruit!  
Different as far  
As Antidotes and Poisons are.  
By that first fatal Tree  
Both Life and Liberty  
Were sold and slain;  
By this they both look up, and live again.  The Versicle. 
Lo we adore thee  
Dread Lamb! and bow thus low before thee;  The Responsor. 
'Cause by the covenant of thy Cross.  
Thou hast saved the World from certain loss.  The Prayer. 
O My Lord Jesus Christ, son of the living God interpose, I pray thee, thine own precious death, thy Cross and Passion, betwixt my soul and thy judgement, now and in the hour of my death. And vouchsafe to grant me thy grace and mercy; to the living and dead, remission and rest; to thy church peace and concord, to us sinners, life and glory everlasting. Who livest and reignest with the Father, in the unity of the Holy Ghost, one God, world without end. Amen.   

The NINTH.  The Versicle. 
Lord by thy sweet and saving Sign,  The Responsor. 
Defend us from our foes and thine.  Ver. 
Thou shalt open my lips, O Lord,  Res. 
And my mouth shall declare thy praise.  Ver. 
O God make speed to save me,  Res. 
O Lord make haste to help me  
Glory be to, etc.  
As it was in, etc.  

The HYMN.  
THe Ninth with awful horror hark'ned to those groans  
Which taught attention even to Rocks and Stones.  
Hear, Father, hear! thy Lamb (at last) complains  
Of some more painful thing then all his pains.  
Then bows his all-obedient head, and dies  
His own love's, and our sin's great Sacrifice.  
The Sun saw that; and would have seen no more  
The Centre shook, her useless veil th'inglorious Temple tore.   The Antiphon. 
O strange mysterious strife  
Of open death and hidden life!  
When on the cross my King did bleed,  
Life seemed to die, Death died indeed.  The Versicle. 
Lo we adore thee  
Dread Lamb! and fall thus low before thee  The Responsor. 
'Cause by the covenant of thy Cross  
Thou hast saved at once the whole world's loss.  The Prayer. 
O my Lord Jesus Christ, son of the living God interpose I pray thee, thine own precious death, thy Cross ●…d Passion, betwixt my soul and thy judgement, now and in the hour of my death: and vouchsafe to grant me thy grace and mercy; to the living and dead, remission and rest; to thy Church, peace and concord; to us sinners, life and glory everlasting: who livest and reignest with the Father, in the unity of the Holy Ghost, one God, world without end, Amen.   

Even-Song.  The Versicle. 
Lord, by thy sweet and saving Sign  The Responsor. 
Defend us from our foes and thine.  Ver. 
Thou shalt open my Lips, O Lord,  Res. 
And my mouth shall declare thy praise.  Ver. 
O God make speed to save me.  Res. 
O Lord make haste to help me.  Ver. 
G●…ory be to, etc.  Res. 
As it was in, etc.  

The HYMN.  
BUt there were Rocks would not relent at this.  
Lo, for their own hearts they rend His,  
Their deadly hate lives still, and hath  
A wild reserve of wanton wrath;  
Superfluous Spear! but there's a Heart stands by  
Will look no wounds be lost, no death shall die,  
Gather now thy grief's ripe fruit, Great Mother-maid!  
Then sit: thee down▪ and sing thy Ev'n-song in the sad  
Trees shade.   The Antiphon. 
O sad, sweet Tree!  
Woeful and joyful we  
Both weep and sing in shade of thee,  
When the dear Nails did lock  
And graft into thy gracious Stock  
The hope, the health,  
The worth, the wealth  
Of all the ransomed World, thou hadst the power  
(In that propitious hour)  
To poise each precious Limb,  
And prove how light the World was when it weighed with Him.  
Wide mayst thou spread  
Thine Arms; and with thy bright and blissful head  
O'er look all Libanus. Thy lofty crown  
The King himself is; thou his humble Throne.  
Where yielding, and yet conquering he  
Proved a new path of patient victory.  
When wondering death by death was slain,  
And our Captivity his Captive ta'en.  The Versicle. 
Lo we adore thee  
Dread Lamb! and bow thus low before thee;  The Responsor. 
'Cause by the covenant of thy Cross  
Thou hast saved the World from certain loss.  The Prayer. 
O My Lord Jesus Christ, son of the living, etc.   

COMPLINE.  The Versicle. 
Lord by thy sweet and saving Sign.  The Responsor. 
Defend us from our foes and thine.  Ver. 
Thou shalt open my lips, O Lord.  Res. 
And my mouth shall declare thy praise.  Ver. 
O God make speed to save me.  Res. 
O Lord make haste to help me.  Ver. 
Glory be to, etc.  Res. 
As it was in. etc.  

The HYMN  
THe Compline hour comes last, to call  
Us to our own Live's funeral.  
Ah heartless task! yet hope takes head;  
And lives in him that here lies dead.  
Run, Mary, run! bring hither all the Blessed  
Arabia, for thy Royal Phenix' nest;  
Pour on thy Noblest sweets, which, when they touch  
This sweeter Body, shall indeed be such,  
But must thy bed, Lord, be a borrowed Grave  
Who lendest to all things all the life they have.  
O rather use this Heart, thus far a fitter Stone,  
'Cause, though a hard and cold one, yet it is thine own.  
Amen.   The Antiphon. 
O save us then  
Merciful King of men!  
Since thou wouldst needs be thus  
A Saviour, and at such a rate, for us;  
Save us, O save us, Lord.  
We now will own no shorter wish, nor name a narrower word,  
Thy blood bids us be bold.  
Thy wounds give us fair hold.  
Thy sorrows chide our shame.  
●…hy Cross, thy Nature, and thy Name  
Advance our claim  
And cry with one accord,  
Save them, O save them, Lord.  The Versicle. 
Lo we adore thee  
Dread Lamb! and bow thus low before thee.  The Responsor. 
'Cause by the covenant of thy Cross,  
Thou hast saved the world from certain loss.  The Prayer. 
O My Lord Jesus Christ, Son of, etc.   

The RECOMMENDATION.  

THese Hours, and that which hovers o'er my end,  
Into thy Hands, and Heart, Lord, I commend.   

Take both to thine account, that I and mine  
In that hour and in these, may be all thine.   

That as I dedicate my devoutest Breath  
To make a kind of Life for my Lord's Death,   

So from his living, and lifegiving Death,  
My dying Life may draw a new, and never-fleeting Breath.    

VEXILLA REGIS, The Hymn of the Holy Cross.  

1.  
LOok up, languishing soul! Lo where the fair  
Badge of thy Faith calls back thy care,  
And bids thee ne'er forget  
Thy Life is one long Debt  
Of Love to Him, who on this painful Tree  
Paid back the Flesh he took for thee.   

2.  
Lo, how the streams of Life from that full Nest  
Of Loves, thy Lord's too liberal Breast,  
Flow in an amorous Flood  
Of Water wedding Blood.  
With these he washed thy stain, transferred thy smart,  
And took it home to his own heart.   

3.  
But though great Love, greedy of such sad gain  
Usurped the portion of thy pain,  
And from the Nails and Spear  
Turned the steel point of Fear,  
Their use is changed, not lost; and now they move  
Not stings of Wrath, but wounds of Love.   

4.  
Tall Tree of Life! thy Truth makes good  
What was till now ne'er understood,  
Though the prophetic King  
Struck loud his faithful string.  
It was thy wood he meant should make the Throne  
For a more than Solomon.   

5.  
Large throne of Love! Royally spread  
With purple of too rich a Red.  
Thy crime is too much duty;  
Thy burden too much Beauty;  
Glorious or grievous more? thus to make good  
Thy costly Excellence with thy Kings own Blood.   

6.  
Even balance of both Worlds! our World of sin,  
And that of Grace Heaven weighed in Him,  
Us with our price thou weighedst,  
Our price for us thou payedst;  
Soon as the right-hand scale rejoiced to prove  
How much Death weighed more light then Love.   

7.  
Hail, our alone Hope! let thy fair Head shoot  
Aloft; and fill the Nations with thy Noble fruit.  
The while our hearts and we  
Thus graft ourselves on thee;  
Grow thou and they; and be thy fair increase  
The sinner's pardon and the just man's peace.   

Live, O for ever Live and Reign  
The Lamb whom his own Love has slain!  
And let thy lost sheep live t' inherit  
That Kingdom which this Cross did merit. Amen.    

Charitas Nimia. Or the dear Bargain.  

LOrd, what is Man? why should he cost thee  
So dear? what had his ruin lost thee?  
Lord, what is Man? that thou hast over-bought  
So much a thing of nought?   

Love is too kind, I see, and can  
Make but a simple Merchant man.  
'Twas for such sorry Merchandise,  
Bold Painters have put out his Eyes.   

Alas, sweet Lord, what were't to thee  
If there were no such Worms as we?  
Heaven nevertheless still Heaven would be.  
Should Mankind dwell  
In the deep Hell,  
What have his Woes to do with thee?   

Let him go weep  
O'er his own wounds;  
Seraphims will not sleep  
Nor Spheres let fall their fatihful rounds.   

Still would the youthful Spirits sing,  
And still thy spacious Palace ring.  
Still would those beauteous Ministers of Light  
Burn all as bright,   

And bow their flaming heads before thee,  
Still Thrones and Dominations would adore thee,  
Still would those ever-wakeful sons of fire  
Keep warm thy praise  
Both nights and days,  
And teach thy loved name to their Noble Lyre.   

Let froward Dust then do its kind;  
And give itself for sport to the proud wind.  
Why should a piece of peevish Clay plead shares  
In the Eternity of thy old cares?  
Why shouldst thou bow thy awful Breast to see  
What mine own madnesses have done with me?   

Should not the King still keep his Throne  
Because some desperate Fool's undone?  
Or will the World's illustrious Eyes  
Weep for every Worm that dies;   

Will the gallant Sun  
E'er the less Glorious run?  
Will he hang down his Golden head  
Or e'er the sooner seek his Western bed,  
Because some foolish Fly  
Grows wanton, and will die?   

If I were lost in misery,  
What was it to thy Heaven and thee?  
What was it to thy precious blood  
If my soul Heart called for a flood?   

What if my faithless soul and I  
Would needs fall in  
With guilt and sin,  
What did the Lamb that he should die?  
What did the Lamb that he should need?  
When the Wolf sins, himself to bleed?   

If my base Lust,  
Bargained with Death and well-beseeming Dust  
Why should the white  
Lamb's bosom write  
The purple name  
Of my sin's shame?   

Why should his unstained Breast make good  
My blushes with his own heartblood?   

O my Saviour make me see  
How dearly thou hast paid for me   

That lost again, my Life may prove  
As then in Death, so now in Love.    

Sancta Maria dolorum, Or the Mother of sorrows; a Pathetical descant upon the devout Plainsong of Stabat Mater dolorosa.  

1.  
IN shade of Death's sad Tree  
Stood doleful she,  
Ah she! now by no other  
Name to be known, alas, but Sorrow's Mother.  
Before her Eyes  
Her's and the whole World's joys,  
Hanging all torn she sees; and in his woes  
And Pains, her pangs and throes.  
Each wound of his, from every part,  
All, more at home in her own heart.   

2.  
What kind of Marble than  
Is that cold man  
Who can look on and see,  
Nor keep such Noble sorrows company?  
Sure even from you  
(My Flints) some drops are due  
To see so many unkind swords contest  
So fast for one soft Breast.  
While with a faithful, mutual, flood  
Her Eyes bleed Tears, his wounds weep blood.   

3.  
O costly intercourse  
Of deaths, and worse  
Divided Loves: while Son and Mother  
Discourse alternate wounds to one another;  
Quick Deaths that grow  
And gather, as they come and go:  
His Nails write swords in her; which soon her heart  
Pays back, with more than their own smart;  
Her swords, still growing with his pain,  
Turn Spears, and strait come home again;   

4.  
She sees her Son, her God,  
Bow with a load  
Of borrowed sins; and swim  
In woes that were not made for him.  
Ah hard Command  
Of Love! Here must she stand  
Charged to look on, and with a steadfast Eye  
See her life die:  
Leaving her only so much Breath  
As serves to keep alive her death.   

5.  
O Mother Turtledove!  
Soft source of Love,  
That these dry Lids might borrow  
Something from thy full seas of Sorrow!  
O in that Breast  
Of thine (the noblest Nest  
Both of Love's Fires and Floods) might I recline  
This hard, cold, Heart of mine!  
The chill lump would relent, and prove  
Soft Subject for the siege of Love.   

6.  
O teach those wounds to bleed  
In me; me, so to read  
This Book of Loves, thus writ  
In lines of death, my life may copy it  
With Loyal cares.  
O let me here claim shares;  
Yield something in thy sad prerogative  
(Great Queen of griefs) and give  
Me to my Tears; who, though all stone,  
Think much that thou shouldst mourn alone.   

7.  
Yea let my life and me  
Fix here with thee,  
And at the Humble Foot  
Of this fair Tree take our Eternal Root.  
That so we may  
At least be in Love's way;  
And in these chaste wars while the winged wounds flee  
So fast 'twixt him and thee,  
My Breast may catch the kiss of some kind Dart,  
Though as at second hand, from either Heart.   

8.  
O you, your own best Darts,  
Dear doleful hearts!  
Hail; and strike home and make me see  
That wounded bosoms their own weapons be.  
Come Wounds! come Darts!  
Nailed hands! and pierced hearts!  
Come your whole selves, Sorrow's great Son and Mother.  
Nor grudge a younger Brother  
Of grief's his portion, who (had all their due)  
One single wound should not have left for you.   

9  
Shall I set there  
So deep a share  
(Dear wounds) and only now  
In sorrows draw no dividend with you!  
O be more wife,  
If not more soft, mine Eyes!  
Flow, tardy Founts! and into decent showers  
Dissolve my Days and Hours.  
And if thou yet (faint soul!) defer  
To bleed with him, fail not to weep with her.   

10.  
Rich Queen, lend some relief;  
At least an alms of Grief  
To ' a heart who by sad right of sin  
Could prove the whole sum (too sure) due to him.  
By all those stings  
Of Love, sweet bitter things,  
Which these torn hands transcribed on thy true Heart;  
O teach mine too, the Art  
To study him so, till we mix  
Wounds, and become one Crucifix.   

11.  
O let me suck the Wine  
So long of this chaste Vine,  
Till, drunk of the dear wounds, I be  
A lost thing to the World, as it to me.  
O faithful friend  
Of me and of my end!  
Fold up my life in Love; and lay't beneath  
My dear Lord's vital death.  
Lo, heart, thy hopes whole Plea! her precious breath  
Poured out in Prayers for thee; thy Lord's in death.    

The Hymn of St. Thomas, in Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament.  

WIth all the powers my poor Heart hath  
Of humble Love and Loyal Faith,  
Thus low (my hidden life!) I bow to thee  
Whom too much Love hath bowed more low for me.  
Down, down, proud sense! discourses die,  
Keep close, my soul's enquiring Eye!  
Nor touch nor taste must look for more,  
But each sit still in his own door.   

Your Ports are all superfluous here,  
Save that which lets in Faith, the Ear.  
Faith is my skill; Faith can believe  
As fast as Love new Laws can give.  
Faith is my force; Faith strength affords  
To keep pace with those powerful words:  
And words more sure, more sweet than they  
Love could not think, truth could not say.   

O let thy wretch find that relief  
Thou didst afford the faithful Thief;  
Plead for me, Love! Allege and show  
That Faith has farther, here, to go,  
And less to lean on; because than  
Though hid as God, wounds writ thee Man,  
Thomas might touch; none but might see  
At least the suffering side of thee;  
And that too was thyself which thee did cover,  
But here ev n that's hid too which hides the other.   

Sweet consider then, that I  
Though allowed not Hand nor Eye  
To teach at thy loved Face; nor can  
Taste thee God, or touch thee Man;  
Both yet believe and witness thee  
My Lord too, and my God, as loud as he.   

Help, Lord, my Hope increase;  
And till my portion in thy peace.  
Give Love for Life, nor let my days  
Grow, but in new powers to name thy Praise.   

O dear memorial of that Death  
Which lives still, and allows us Breath!  
Rich, Royal Food! Bountiful Bread!  
Whose use denies us to the Dead;  
Whose vital gust alone can give  
The same leave both to Eat and Live;  
Live ever Bread of Loves, and be  
My Life, my Soul, my surer self to me.   

O soft self-wounding Pelican!  
Whose Breast weeps Balm for wounded Man:  
Ah this way bend thy benign Houd  
To a bleeding Heart that g●…spes for Blood;  
That Blood, whose least drops sovereign be  
To wash my Worlds of sine from me.  
Come Love! Come Lord! and that long day  
For which I languish, come away.  
When this dry soul those Eyes shall see,  
And drink the unsealed source of thee.  
When Glory's Sun Faith's shade shall chase,  
Then for thy veil give me thy Face, Amen.    

Thè Hymn for the Blessed Sacrament. Lauda Sion Salvatorem.  

1.  
RIse, Royal Zion! rise and sing  
Thy Soul's kind Shepherd, thy Hearts King.  
Stretch all thy powers; call if you can  
Harps of Heaven to hands of man,  
This Sovereign subject sits above  
The best ambition of thy Love.   

2.  
Lo the Bread of Life, this day's  
Triumphant Text. provokes thy praise  
The living and lifegiving Bread.  
To the Great Twelve distributed  
When Life himself at point to die,  
Of Love, was his own Legacy.   

3.  
Come, Love! and let us work a Song  
Loud and pleasant, sweet and long;  
Let Lips and Hearts lift high the noise  
Of so just and solemn joys,  
Which on his white brows this bright day  
Shall hence for ever bear away.   

4.  
Lo the new Law of a new Lord,  
With a new Lamb blesses the Board.  
The aged Pascha pleads not years  
But spies Love's dawn, and disappears.  
Types yield to Truths; shades shrink away;  
And their Night dies into out Day.   

5.  
But lest that die too, we are bid,  
Ever to do what he once did.  
And by a mindful, mystic breath,  
That we may live, revive his Death;  
With a well-blest Bread and Wine  
Transumed, and taught to turn Divine.   

6.  
The Heav'n-instructed house of Faith  
Here a Holy Dictate hath,  
That they but lend their Form and Face,  
Themselves with reverence leave their place  
Nature and Name to be made good  
By a Nobler Bread, more needful Blood,   

7.  
Where Nature's Laws no leave will give,  
Bold Faith takes heart, and dares believe  
In different species, name not things  
Himself to me my Saviour brings,  
As Meat in that, as Drink in this;  
But still in both one Christ he is.   

8.  
The receiving Mouth here makes  
Nor wound nor breach in what he takes.  
Let one, or one Thousand be  
Here Dividers, single he  
Bears home no less, all they no more,  
Nor leave they both less than before.   

9  
Though in itself this Sovereign Feast  
Be all the same to every Guest,  
Yet on the same (life-meaning) Bread  
The child of death eats himself dead.  
Nor is't Love's fault, but Sins dire skill  
That thus from Life can Death distil.   

10.  
When the blessed signs thou broke shalt see,  
Hold but thy Faith entire as he,  
Who, howsoe'er clad, cannot come  
Less than whole Christ in every crumb.  
In broken forms a stable Faith  
Untouched her precious Total hath.   

11.  
Lo the Life-food of Angels than  
Bowed to the lowly mouths of men!  
The children's Bread; the Bridegroom's Wine,  
Not to be cast to Dogs or Swine.   

12.  
Lo, the full, final, Sacrifice  
On which all Figures fixed their Eyes,  
The ransomed Isaac, and his Ram;  
The Manna, and the Paschal Lamb.   

13.  
Jesus, Master, Just and true!  
Our Food, and faithful Shepherd too!  
O by thyself vouchsafe to keep,  
As with thyself thou feedest thy sheep.   

14.  
O let that Love which thus makes thee  
Mix with our low Mortality,  
Lift our lean Souls, and let us up  
Convictors of thine own full cup.  
Coheirs of Saints, that so all may  
Drink the same Wine; and the same Way.  
Nor change the Pasture, but the Place,  
To seed of Thee in thine own Face. Amen.    

The HYMN. Dies irae dies illa. In Meditation of the day of Judgement.  

1.  
Hearest thou, my soul, what serious things  
Both the Psalm and Sibyl sings  
Of a sure Judge, from whose sharp Ray  
The World in Flames shall fly away.   

2.  
O that fire! before whose face  
Heaven and Earth shall find no place:  
O these Eyes! whose angry light  
Must be the day of that dread Night.   

3.  
O that trump! whose blast shall run  
An Even round with th' circling Sun,  
And urge the murmuring graves to bring  
Pale mankind forth to meet his King.   

4.  
Horror of Nature, Hell and Death!  
When a deep groan from beneath  
Shall cry we come, we come, and all  
The Caves of Night answer one call.   

5.  
O that Book! whose Leaves so bright  
Will set the World in severe Light.  
O that Judge! whose Hand, whose Eye  
None can endure; yet none can fly.   

6.  
Ah then, poor Soul, what wilt thou say?  
And to what Patron choose to pray?  
When Stars themselves shall stagger; and  
The most firm Foot no more than stand.   

7.  
But thou giv'st leave (dread Lord) that we  
Take shelter from thyself in Thee;  
And with the wings of thine own Dove  
Fly to thy Sceptre of soft Love.   

8.  
Dear, remember in that day  
Who was the cause thou cam'st this way.  
Thy sheep was strayed, and thou wouldst be  
Even lost thyself in seeking me.   

9  
Shall all that labour, all that cost  
Of Love, and even that loss, be lost?  
And this loved soul, judged worth no less  
Than all that way and weariness?   

10.  
Just Mercy then, thy reckoning be  
With my price, and not with me;  
'Twas paid at first with too much pain,  
To be paid twice, or once in vain.   

11.  
Mercy (my Judge) Mercy I cry  
With blushing Cheek and bleeding Eye,  
The conscious Colours of my sin  
Are Red without and pale within.   

12.  
O let thine own soft Bowels pay  
Thyself; and so discharge that day.  
If sin can sigh, Love can forgive.  
O say the word, my Soul shall live.   

13.  
Those Mercies which thy Mary found  
Or who thy Cross confessed and Crowned,  
Hope tells my heart, the same Loves be  
Still alive and still for me.   

14.  
Though both my Prayers and Tears combine,  
Both worthless are; for they are mine.  
But thou thy bounteous self still be;  
And show thou art, by saving me.   

15.  
O when thy last frown shall proclaim  
The flocks of goats to folds of flame,  
And all thy lost sheep found shall be,  
Let come ye Blessod then call me.   

16.  
When the dread Ite shall divide  
Those Limbs of death from thy left side,  
Let those Life-speaking Lips command  
That I inherit thy right hand.   

17.  
O hear a suppliant heart; all crushed  
And crumbled into contrite dust.  
My hope, my fear! my Judge, my Friend!  
Take charge of me, and of my end.    

The HYMN. O Gloriosa Domina.  

HAil, most High, most humble one!  
Above the World; below thy Son  
Whose blush the Moon beauteously mars  
And stains the timorous light of Stars.  
He that made all things had not done  
Till he had made himself thy Son.  
The whole World's host would be thy guest  
And board himself at thy rich Breast.  
O boundless Hospitality!  
The Feast of all things feeds on thee.  
The first Eve, Mother of our Fall,  
E'er she bore any one, slew all.  
Of her unkind gift might we have  
The inheritance of a hasty Grave;  
Quick buried in the wanton Tomb  
Of one forbidden bit;  
Had not a better Fruit forbidden it.  
Had not thy healthful womb  
The World's new Eastern window been  
And given us Heaven again in giving him.  
Thine was the Rosy Dawn that sprung the Day  
Which renders all the Stars she stole away.  
Let then the aged World be wise, and all  
Prove Nobly, here, unnatural:  
'Tis gratitude to forget that other  
And call the Maiden Eve their Mother.  
Ye redeemed Nations far and Near,  
Applaud your happy selves in her,  
(All you to whom this Love belongs)  
And keep't alive with lasting songs.  
Let Hearts and Lips speak loud, and say,  
Hail, door of Life, and source of Day!  
The Door was shut, the Fountain sealed;  
Yet Light was seen and Life revealed;  
The Fountain sealed, yet Life found way.  
Glory to thee, great Virgin's son  
In bosom of thy Father's bliss.  
The same to thee, sweet Spirit be done;  
As ever shall be, was, and is, Amen.    

The Flaming Heart, upon the Book and Picture of the Seraphical Saint Teresa, as she is usually expressed with a Seraphim beside her.  

WEll meaning Readers! you that come as friends  
And catch the precious name this piece pretends;  
Make not too much haste t'admire  
That fair-cheeked fallacy of fire,  
That is a Seraphim, they say  
And this the great Teresia.  
Readers be ruled by me; and make  
Here a well-placed and wise mistake;  
You must transpose the picture quite,  
And spell it wrong to read it right;  
Read Him for Her, and Her for Him;  
And call the Saint the Seraphim.   

Painter, what didst thou understand  
To put her Dart into his hand!  
See, even the years and size of him  
Shows this the Mother Seraphim.  
This is the Mistress flame; and duteous he  
Her happy fireworks, here, comes down to see:  
O most poor-spirited of men!  
Had thy cold Pencil kissed her Pen,  
Thou couldst not so unkindly err  
To show us this faint shade for her.  
Why Man, this speaks pure mortal frame;  
And mocks with female Frost, Love's manly flame,  
One would suspect thou meanest to print  
Some weak, inferior, Woman Saint.  
But had thy palefaced purple took  
Fire from the burning checks of that bright Book  
Thou wouldst on her have heaped up all  
That could be found Seraphical;  
What e'er this youth of fire wears fair,  
Rosy Fingers, Radiant Hair.  
Glowing Cheek, and glistering Wings,  
All those fair and flagrant things,  
But before all, that fiery Dart  
Had filled the Hand of this great Heart.   

Do then as equal right requires,  
Since his the blushes be, and her's the fires,  
Resume and rectify thy rude design;  
Undress thy Seraphim into Mine.  
Redeem this injury of thy Art;  
Give him the Veil, give her the Dart.   

Give him the vail; that he may cover  
The red Cheeks of a rivalled Lover;  
Ashamed that our worled, now, can show  
Nests of new Seraphims here below.   

Give her the Dart for it is she  
(Fair youth) shoots both thy shaft and Thee:  
Say, all ye wise and well-pierced hearts  
That live and die amidst her Darts,  
What is't your tastful spirits do prove  
In that rare life of her, and Love?  
Say and bear witness, Sends she not  
A Seraphim at every shot?  
What Magazines of immortal Arms there shine,  
heavens great Artillery in each'love-spun line.  
Give then the Dart to her who gives the flame;  
Give him the veil, who gives the shame.   

But if it be the frequent fate  
Of worst faults to be fortunate;  
If all's prescription; and proud wrong  
Hearkens not to an humble song;  
For all the gallantry of him,  
Give me the suffering Seraphim.  
His be the bravery of all those bright things.  
The glowing Cheeks, the glistering wings;  
The Rosy hand, the radiant Dart;  
Leave her alone the Flaming Heart.   

Leave her that; and thou shalt leave her  
Not one loose shaft but Love's whole Quiver.  
For in Love's Field was never found  
A Nobler weapon than a wound.  
Love's Passives are his Activ'st part;  
The wounded is the wounding heart.  
O Heart! the equal poise of Love's both parts,  
Big alike with Wounds and Darts;  
Live in these conquering Leave's; Live all the same;  
And walk through all Tongues one Triumphant flame;  
Live here, great Heart; and love, and die, and kill;  
And bleed and wound, and yield, and conquer still.  
Let this immortal Life where e'er it comes  
Walk in a crowd of Loves and Martyrdoms.  
Let mystic Deaths wait on't; and wise souls be  
The Love-slain witnesses of this life of thee.  
O sweet incendiary! show here thy Art,  
Upon this Carcase of a hard cold Heart;  
Let all thy scattered shafts of Light, that play  
Among the Leaves of thy large Books of day,  
Combined against this Breast at once break in  
And take away from me myself and sin;  
This Gracious Robbery shall thy bounty be  
And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me.  
O thou undaunted Daughter of Desires!  
By all thy dower of Lights and Fires;  
By all the Eagle in thee, all the Dove;  
By all thy Lives and Deaths of Love;  
By thy large draughts of intellectual day;  
And by thy thirsts of Love more large than they;  
By all thy brim-filled Bowls of fierce desire;  
By thy last morning's draught of liquid Fire;  
By the full Kingdom of that final kiss  
That seized thy parting Soul, and sealed thee his;  
By all the heavens thou hast in him  
(Fair Sister of the Seraphim)  
By all of Him we have in Thee;  
Leave nothing of myself in me.  
Let me so read thy life, that I  
Unto all life of mine may die.    

A Song.  

LOrd, when the sense of thy sweet Grace  
Sends up my Soul to seek thy Face.  
Thy Blessed Eyes breed such desire,  
I die in Love's delicious Fire.   

O Love, I am thy Sacrifice,  
Be still Triumphant, Blessed Eyes  
Still shine on me, fair Suns, that I  
Still may behold, though still I die.   

Second part.  
Though still I die, I live again;  
Still longing so to be still slain,  
So gainful is such loss of breath,  
I die even in desire of death.  
Still live in me this loving strife  
Of living Death and dying Life.  
For while thou sweetly slayest me,  
Dead to myself, I live in thee.    

To Mistrses M. R. Council concerning her Choice.  

DEar, Heav'n-designed Soul!  
Amongst the rest  
Of Suitors that besiege your Maiden breast,  
Why may not I  
My fortune try  
And venture to speak one good word  
Not for myself, alas! but for my dearer Lord;  
You'ave seen already in this lower sphere  
Of Froth and Bubbles, what to look for here.  
Say, gentle Soul, what can you find  
But painted shapes,  
Peacocks and Apes,  
Illustrious Flies,  
Guilded Dunghills, Glorious Lies,  
Goodly surmises  
And deep disguises,  
Oaths of Water, Words of Wind?  
Truth bids me say, 'tis time you cease to Trust  
Your Soul to any son of Dust.  
'Tis time you listen to a braver Love,  
Which from above  
Calls you up higher,  
And bids you come  
And choose your room  
Among his own fair sons of fire,  
Where you among  
The Golden throng  
That watches at his Palace doors  
May pass along  
And follow those fair Stars of yours;  
Stars much too fair and pure to wait upon  
The false smiles of a sublunary Sun.  
Sweet, let me Prophesy that at last 'twill prove  
Your wary Love  
Lays up his purer and more precious vows,  
And means them for a far more worthy Spouse  
Then this world of Lies can give you,  
Even for him with whom nor cost,  
Nor love, nor labour can be lost;  
Him who never, will deceive you.  
Let not my Lord, the Mighty Lover  
Of souls, disdain that I discover  
The hidden Art  
Of his high stratagem to win your heart,  
It was his Heavenly Art  
Kindly to cross you  
In your mistaken Love,  
That, at the next remove  
Thence he might toss you,  
And strike your troubled heart  
Home to himself; to hide it in his Breast  
The bright ambrosial Nest,  
Of Love, of Life, and everlasting Rest.  
Happy mistake!  
That thus shall wake  
Your wise soul, never to be won  
Now with a love below the Sun.  
Your first choice fails, O when you choose again,  
May it not be among the sons of men.    

ALEXIAS. The Complaint of the forsaken wife of Saint Alexis.  

The First ELEGY.  

I Late the Roman Youth's loved praise and pride,  
Whom long none could obtain, though thousands tried,  
Lo here am left (alas,) For my lost mate  
T' embrace my Tears, and kiss an unkind Fate.  
Sure in my early woe, Stars were at strife,  
And tried to make a Widow e'er a Wife.  
Nor can I tell (and this new Tears doth breed)  
In what strange path my Lord's fair footsteps bleed.  
O knew I where he wandered, I should see  
Some solace in my sorrow's certainty;  
I'd send my woes in words should weep for me.  
(Who knows how powerful well-writ prayers would be)  
Sending's too slow a word, myself would fly:  
Who knows my own heart's woes so well as I?  
But how shall I steal hence? Alexis thou,  
Ah thou thyself, alas, has taught me how.  
Love too, that leads thee, would lend thee the wings  
To bear me harmless through the hardest things:  
And where Love lends the wing, and leads the way,  
What dangers can there be dare say me nay?  
If I be shipwrack●…t, Love shall teach to swim;  
If drowned, sweet is the death endured for him;  
The noted sea shall change his name with me,  
ay, amongst the blessed Stars a new name shall be;  
And sure where Lovers make their watery Graves,  
The weeping Mariner will augment the waves.  
For who so hard, but passing by that way  
Will take acquaintance of my woes, and say,  
Here't was the Roman Maid found a hard fate  
While through the world she sought her wand'ring  
Mate;  
Here perished she, poor heart; heavens, be my vows  
As true to me, as she was to her Spouse.  
O live, so rare a love! live! and in thee  
The too frail life of female constancy.  
Farewell and shine, fair soul, shine there above  
Firm in thy Crown, as here fast in thy Love.  
There thy lost fugitive thou hast found at last;  
Be happy; and for ever hold him fast.    

The Second ELEGY.  

THough all the Joys I had fled hence with thee,  
Unkind! yet are my Tears still true to me;  
I'm wedded o'er again since thou art gone,  
Nor couldst thou, cruel, leave me quite alone.  
Alexis' Widow now is sorrow's wife,  
With him shall I weep out my weary life.  
Welcome my sad sweet Mate! Now have I got  
At last a constant Love that leaves me not.  
Firm he, as thou art false, nor need my cries  
Thus vex the Earth, and tear the Skies.  
For him, alas, ne'er shall I need to be  
Troublesome to the World, thus, as for thee,  
For thee I talk to Trees; with silent Groves  
Expostulate my woes and much-wronged loves.  
Hills and relentless Rocks, or if there be  
Things that in hardness more allude to thee;  
To these I talk in Tears, and tell my pain;  
And answer too for them in Tears again.  
How oft have I wept out the weary Sun?  
My watery hourglass hath old time outrun.  
O, I am Learned grown, poor Love and I  
Have studied over all Astrology.  
I'm perfect in heavens state, with every Star  
My skilful grief is grown familiar.  
Rise, fairest of those fires; what e'er thou be  
Whose Rosy beam shall point my Sun to me;  
Such as the Sacred Light that erst did bring  
The Eastern Princes to their infant King.  
O rise, pure Lamp! and lend thy Golden ray  
That wary Love at last may find his way.    

The Third ELEGY.  

RIch, churlish Land! that hidest so long in thee,  
My Treasures, rich, alas, by robbing me.  
Needs must my Miseries owe that man a spite  
Who e'er he be was the first wand'ring Knight.  
O had he ne'er been at that cruel cost  
Nature's Virginity had ne'er been lost.  
Seas had not been rebuked by saucy Oars  
But lain locked up safe in their sacred shores  
Men had not spurned at Mountains; nor made wars  
With Rocks; nor bold hands struck the World's strong bars,  
Nor lost in too large bounds, our little Rome  
Full sweetly with itself had dwelled at home.  
My poor Alexis, then in peaceful life,  
Had under some low roof loved his plain wife:  
But now, ah me, from where he has no foes  
He flies; and into wilful exile goes.  
Cruel return or tell the reason why  
Thy dearest Parents have deserved to die;  
And I, what is my crime I cannot tell,  
Unless it be a crime t' have loved too well.  
If Heats of Holier Love and high Desire  
Make big thy fair Breast with immortal Fire,  
What needs my virgin Lord fly thus from me,  
Who only wish his virgin Wife to be?  
Witness, chaste heavens! no happier vows I know  
Then to a virgin Grave untouched to go.  
Love's truest knot by Venus is not tied;  
Nor do embraces only make a Bride.  
The Queen of Angels, (and men chaste as you)  
Was Maiden-Wife, and Maiden-Mother too.  
Cecilia, Glory of her Name and Blood  
With happy gain her Maiden vows made good.  
The lusty Bridegroom made appoach, young man,  
Take heed (said she) take heed Valerian;  
My bosom Guard, a Spirit great and strong,  
Stands armed to shield me from all wanton wrong.  
My Chastity is Sacred; and my Sleep  
Wakeful, her dear vows undefiled to keep.  
Pallas bears Arms, forsooth, and should there be  
No fortress built for true Virginity?  
No gap●… Gorgon this, none like the rest  
Of your learned Lies: here you'll find no such jest.  
I'm yours, O were my God, my Christ so too,  
I'd know no name of Love on Earth but you.  
He yields, and strait Baptised, obtains the Grace  
To gaze on the fair soldier's Glorious face.  
Both mixed at last their Blood in one rich Bed  
Of Rosy Martydome, twice Married.  
O burn our Hymen bright in such high Flame,  
Thy Torch, terrestrial Love, has here no name.  
How sweet the mutual yoke of Man and Wife,  
When Holy fires maintain Love's Heavenly life!  
But I, (so help me Heaven my hopes to see)  
When Thousands sought my Love, loved none but  
Thee.  
Still, as their vain Tears my firm vows did try,  
Alexis, he alone is mine (said I)  
Half true, alas, half false, proves that poor Line,  
Alexis is alone; but is not mine.     

Description of a Religious House and condition of Life. (Out of BARCLAY.)  

NO roofs of Gold o'er riotous Tables shining,  
Whole Days and Suns devoured with endless  
Dining;  
No Sails of Tyrian Silk proud pavements sweeping;  
Nor ivory couches costlyer slumbers keeping;  
False Lights of fl●…iring Gems; tumultuous joys;  
Hall's full of flattering Men and frisking Boys;  
Whatever false shows of short and slippery good  
Mix the mad sons of Men in mutual blood.  
But Walks and unshorn Woods; and Souls, just so  
Unforced and genuine; but not shady tho:  
Our Lodgings hard and homely as our Fare,  
That Chaste and Cheap, as the few Clothes we wear.  
Those course and negligent, as the natural Locks  
Of these loose Groves, rough as th' unpolisht Rocks.  
A hasty portion of prescribed sleep;  
Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep,  
And Sing, and Sigh, and Work, and Sleep again;  
Still rolling a round Sphere of still-returning pain,  
Hands full of hearty labours, do much, that more they may,  
And work for work, not wages; let to morrows  
New drops wash off the sweat of this days sorrows.  
A long and daily dying-life, which breathes  
A respiration of reviving deaths,  
But neither are there those ignoble stings  
That nip the bosom of the World's best things  
And lash Earth-laboring souls;  
No cruel guard of diligent cares, that keep  
Crowned woes awake; as things too wise for sleep:  
But Reverend Discipline, and Religious Fear,  
And soft obedience find sweet biding here;  
Silence, and sacred Rest; Peace, and pure joys;  
Kind Loves keep house, lie close, and make no noise,  
And room enough for Monarches while none swells  
Beyond the Kingdoms of contentful Cels.  
The self-remembring Soul sweetly recovers  
Her kindred with the Stars; not basely hovers  
Below; but meditates her immortal way  
Home to the original source of Light and intellectual  
Day.    

Death's Lecture, the Funeral of a young Gentleman.  

DEar Relics of a dislodged Soul, whose lack  
Makes many a mourning Paper put on black!  
O stay a while e'er 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 the soft powers  
Whose Silken flatteries swell a few fond hours  
Into a false Eternity. Come man;  
Hyperbolized Nothing! know thy span;  
Take thine own measure here, down, down, and bow  
Before thyself in thine Idea; thou  
Huge emptiness! contract thyself, and shrink  
All thy wild Circle to a point, O sink  
Lower and lower yet; till thy lean size  
Call Heaven to look on thee with narrow Eyes;  
Lesser and lesser yet; till thou begin  
To show a Face, sit to confess thy Kin,  
Thy Neighbourhood to Nothing.  
Proud Looks, and lofty Eyelids, here put on  
Yourselves in your unfeigned reflection,  
Here, gallant Ladies; this unpartial Glass  
(Though you be painted) shows you your true face:  
These death-sealed Lips are they dare give the lie  
To the loud boasts of poor Mortality:  
These Curtained windows, this retired Eye  
Out-stares the Lids of large-looked Tyranny:  
This posture is the brave one, this that lies  
Thus low, stands up (methinks) thus and defy,  
The World; all-daring Dust and Ashes! only you  
Of all interpreters read Nature true.    

Temperance, or the cheap Physician upon the Translation of Lessius.  

Go now; and with some daring drug  
Bait thy disease, and whilst they tug,  
Thou to maintain their precious strife  
Spend the dear Treasures of thy life.  
Go take Physic, dote upon  
Some big-named Composition,  
Th' Oraculous Doctors mystic Bills;  
Certain hard Words made into Pills,  
And what at last shalt gain by these?  
Only a costlier disease,  
That which makes us have no need  
Of Physic, that's Physic indeed.  
Hark hither, Reader, wilt thou see  
Nature her own Physician be?  
Wilt see a man, all his own wealth,  
His own Music, 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-sheathed in a Crystal shrine;  
Through which all her bright features shine;  
As when a piece of wanton Lawn,  
A thin aerial veil, is drawn  
O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide,  
More sweetly shows the blushing bride.  
A soul, whose intellectual beams  
No Mists do Mask, no Lazy steams,  
A happy soul, that all the way  
To Heaven rides in a Summer's day.  
Wouldst see a man, whose well-warmed Blood  
Baths him in a genuine Flood!  
A man whose tuned humours be  
A seat of rarest harmony?  
Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh Cheeks beguile  
Age? wouldst see December smile?  
Wouldst see Nests of new 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?  
Whose latest and most leaden hours  
Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers;  
And when Life's sweet Fable ends,  
Soul and Body part like friends;  
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay;  
A kiss, a Sigh, and so away.  
This rare one, Reader, wouldst thou see?  
Hark hither; and thyself be he.    
FINIS.