DIVINE raptures OR PIETY IN poesy; Digested Into a quaint Diversity of sacred FANCIES.  
Composed by Tho. Jordan, Gent.  Demost: 
Plus ●l●i quam vini mihi consumptum est.  
LONDON, Printed by authority, for the use of the Author. 1646.   

The Preface.  
You wanton Lads, that spend your winged time,  
And chant your ears, in reading lustful rhyme,  
Who like transformed Actaeon range about,  
And beat the woods to find Diana out,  
is't this you'd have? then hence: here's no content  
For you, my Muse ne'er knew what Venus meant;  
But stay: I may subvert your rude conceit;  
And every verse may prove a heavenly bait:  
O that ye were such captives! then you'd be  
Thrice happy: such as these are only free,  
Leave, leave your wanton toys; and let alone  
Apollo sporting at his Helicon,  
Let Vulcan deal with Venus, what's to thee  
Although she dandle Cupid's on her knee?  
Be not enchanted with her wanton charms,  
Let her not hug thee in her whorish arms,  
But wisely do (as Neptune did) in spite  
Of all, spew out the Lady Aphrodite,  
Come, come fond lad, what? wouldst thou fain espy,  
A glorious object for thy wandering eye?  
And glut thy sight with beauty? wouldst behold  
A visage that will make thy Venus cold?  
If this be all, I'll give thy eye delight:  
Come see that face that lendes the sun his light,  
Come see that face that makes the heavens to shine,  
Come see that glorious face, that lends thee thine,  
Come and behold that face which if thou see,  
Aright, 'twill make the earth a heaven to thee,  
Come see that glistering face from which arise  
Such glorious beams that dazzles Angels eyes,  
What canst have more; but dost thou think that such?  
A comely visage will not let thee touch?  
Or dost thou think a sun that shines so clear,  
Will scorn to let a lesser orb come near?  
No thou mistakest: say, dost thou t●uely thirst,  
For him?: I dare avouch he loved thee first,  
Be not dismayed, It needs no more dispute,  
Come give this glorious face a kind salute.   

THE world's METAMORPHOSIS.  
BEfore all time, 
The Chaos.  when every thing did lie,  
Wrapped in a Chaos of deformity,  
When all things nothing were, and could present  
No comely frame, no heaven, no element,  
No earth, no water, fire or air alone  
But all as 'twere compounded all in one,  
Then with a word our Tri-une Jove did bring,  
This nothing Chaos into every thing;  
Yea than our great Jehovah did present  
A several region to each element,  
Then Time, his hours began to measure out,  
And he most nimbly garrisoned about,  
This new created orb: he took his flight  
And hurried restless on both day and night,  
His motion was so quick, that scarce 'twas eyed,  
He for ten thousand worlds won't squint aside,  
Nor once turn back his head; by chance I viewed  
His flight, his wings I thought were then renewed,  
Yea his unwearied feathers did so soar  
Swiftly, as if they never flew before,  
As when the Thracians from their snaky bow  
Did make there feathered darts so swiftly go,  
That they out ran all sight, so time did fly,  
As if he strove with winged Mercury;  
No weapon all this while for his defence  
He bore, he dealt with none but innocence,  
And now those feggy mists that so did lie,  
Cloistered together from eternity  
Were all dispersed; yea now 'twas very bright  
And darkness was unfettered from the light;  
When this was done, our great Jehovah lent  
The world (as yet scarce made) a firmament,  
He separated waters wondrous well,  
Then Seas with surging billows ganne to swell,  
And tossed to and fro with every wave,  
As if the fretful region would out brave  
Her own Creator; they were not content  
With their but now appointed regiment,  
Their watery mountains did so oft aspire  
To Heaven, as if they would be placed higher,  
But now great Jove looked on they did not dare  
Surpass their stations, nay, nor once impair  
Their bounds, he quickly quelled their lusty pranks,  
And caused the waves to crouch within their banks,  
When he had conquered this unruly stran,  
Within two days he crownes Leviathan,  
King of the liquid region, and doth give  
Ten thousand thousand more with him to live,  
Then fruitful earth which is the Ocean bars  
〈…〉 and heavens bespangled all with stars  
The ●unne begins 〈…〉,  
And proudly danceth up the Orient,  
He nor his horses can no longer sleep,  
But gallop from the Oriental deep,  
He rid so fast that in few hours was spied  
All bravely wrapped in his meridian pride,  
But when he clambered to the highest brink,  
He viewed the fabric, then began to sink,  
And all the way as he did homewards go,  
He laughed, to see so brave a frame below,  
Still whipping on his jades, until his head  
Was safely laid into his Western bed.  
Silver Lucina as yet did not enter,  
But lay immured within the reeking centre,  
Whilst he had mounted on his flaming seat,  
And viewed a glorious orb, wondrous, complete,  
With that the purple Lady straight prepares,  
Attended with ten thousand thousand stars,  
She clambers up in this her rich array,  
And views the goodly building all the way,  
Sweet smiles she cast from her admiring eye,  
Whilst all her little babes stood twinkling by,  
Playing the wantons by their mother's side,  
As if they were enamoured with the pride  
Of such a fabric: to express their mirth,  
Some shot from heaven, as though they'd live on Earth,  
This done, sweet Phoebe soon began to drop  
Her borrowed beams into her brother's lap,  
And ever since to see this glorious sight  
One laughs at day; the other smiles at night.  
And can you blame them? earth is spread with bowers,  
And trees, and proudly decked with sundry flowers,  
She that ere while in dunghill Chaos lay,  
Is now with violets purp'ld every day,  
And damaskt all with Roses, yea she's clad  
With sweeter herbs than ever Ceres had,  
Her fruitful womb brings forth most dainty cates,  
And lovely fruits, these are her comely brats,  
No rustic ploughman now doth take the pains  
To pierce her entrails, or to squeeze her veins,  
But heaven and she unites, they scorn to see  
A bastard weed, disgrace their pedigree,  
she's overspread with pinks and daffodils,  
Carnations, Roses, and the whitest Lilies,  
Those foundlings lolling in her arms do lie,  
Shaking their heads, and in her bosom die;  
These in their mother's sides do take their rest,  
Till they do drop their leaves into her breast,  
And now the little birds do every day,  
Sit singing in the boughs, and chirp, and play,  
The pheasant and the Partridge slowly fly,  
Undaunted even before the falcon's eye,  
Now comes Behemoth with his Lordly gate,  
Gazing, as if he stood admiring at  
So rich a frame, first having fixed his sight  
On glorious earth, he always took delight  
In viewing that; and would not look on high,  
Nay all the glorious spangles of the sky  
Could not entice him, ever from his birth  
He spent his time in looking on the earth.  
All other beasts their greedy eyes did fling  
On lovely earth, as did their crowned King:  
Yea now the Lion with the lamb did go,  
And knew not whether blood were sweet or no,  
The little Kids to show their wanton pride,  
Came dancing by the loving tiger's side,  
The Hare being minded with the Hounds to play,  
Would give a sporting touch, and so away,  
And then return, being willing to be found,  
And take his turn to chase the wanton Hound.  
The busy Mice sat sporting all the day,  
Mean while the Cat did smile to see them play.  
The fox stands still, to see the Geese asleep,  
The harmless wolf now grazeth with the sheep,  
Here was no raping, but all beasts did lie  
As linked in one, O Heavenly Sympathy!  
The goodly Pastures springing from the Clay,  
Did woo their mouths to banquet, all the way  
Was spread with dainty herbs, and as they found  
Occasion, they would oft salute the ground,  
Those uncontrolled creatures then begun  
To sport, and all lay basking in the sun,  
No creature was their Lord, gain said by none,  
As if that Heaven and earth were all their own.  
Thus when this mighty builder did inrobe  
Himself with night, and Chaos to a globe  
Convert, of this he took a serious view,  
And did as 'twere create it all anew,  
He made a little orb, called man; the same,  
Only compacted in a lesser frame,  
For what is all this all, that man in one  
Doth not enjoy. A man that's only blown  
With heaven's breath, a man that doth present  
Life, Spirit, sense, and every element:  
Yea in this little world great Jove did place  
His glorious Image, and this miry face  
Was heaven's picture, 'twas this face alone  
That still looked up to his creator's throne,  
Then God did make (a place to be admired,  
Surely 'twas heaven itself had then conspired,  
To find it out,) a garden sweetly blown,  
With pleasant fruit, and man's exempt from none,  
Of all these plants, except a middle tree,  
And what can one among a thousand be!  
O glorious place, that God doth now provide  
For dirty clay! the earth in all her pride,  
He tramples on: and heaven that's so beset  
With spangles and each glistering Chrysolet  
Doth give attendance, yea it serves to be  
A covering for his head, his canopy.  
Thus man of heaven and earth is all possessed,  
This span of dirt, is Lord of all the rest,  
methinks I see how all the Creatures bring  
Their several congees to their new made King,  
Behemoth which ere while did range about  
Unchecked, and tossing up his bony snout,  
Feared none: now having cast his rolling eyes  
Upon his Lord, see how he crouching lies,  
Behind a sheltering bush, he seems to be,  
Imploring aid of every spreading tree,  
The lion which ere while was in his pride,  
Squinting by chance his gogle-eyes aside,  
Espies his King, he dares not stay for haste,  
Spews out his meat half chawed, and will not taste  
Of his intended food; but sneaks away,  
Counting his life to be his chiefest prey,  
It was but now the raven was espied,  
Sporting her wings upon the Tigars hide,  
But now, O how her feathered sails do soar,  
As if she vowed to touch the earth no more!  
See how the goats do clamber to the top  
Of highest mountains, and the coneys drop  
Into their holes, see how the roebuck flings  
Himself, almost exchanging legs for wings.  
Why? what's the matter, that ye haste away,  
Ye that ere while, were sporting all the day?  
Tell me ye Creatures, say, what fearful sight  
Hath put you to this unexpected flight?  
Speak, speak thou giddy lamb, were't not thou spied  
At play but now? why then dost skip aside?  
What? is it man that frights you? can his face  
Stretch out your legs unto their swiftest pace?  
Can one look daunt you all? what need this be?  
Are ye not made of Clay, as well as he?  
Have ye not one Creator? are ye not  
His elder Brothers, and the first begot?  
Why start ye then? is it not strange to see  
One weak-one make ten thousand strong ones flee?  
But ah I need not ask, I know it now,  
You spied your maker's image in his brow.  
'Twas even so indeed, no time to stay,  
Your Lord was coming, fit, he should have way.  
And thus these Creatures dares not come in sight;  
Surely 'twas heaven's Idea, caused the fright.  
Now see how flattering earth doth strive alone  
To please this Lord; each tree presents a done,  
See how the fruit hangs with a comely grace,  
And woos his hands to rent them from their place,  
O how they bow, and would not have him bring  
His hands to them, they bend unto their King,  
But if by chance he will not pluck and taste,  
They break the boughs, and so for grief they waste.  
See how the little pinks when they espy  
Their Lord, do Curtsy as he passeth by,  
The wanton daisies shake their leafy heads,  
The purple Vilets startle from their beds,  
The Primrose sweet and every flower that grows,  
Bestrowes his way with odours as he goes;  
Thus did the herbs, the trees, the pleasant flowers  
Welcome their Lord into his Eden bowers.  
But all this while, the earth with all her pride,  
She nor her store could not aford a bride  
Fitting for man, no, no, to end the strife  
The man himself must yield himself a wife,  
It was not meet for him to be alone.  
Then did our one-in-three our three-in-one  
Cast him into a sleep, and did divide  
His ribs, and brought a woman from his side.  
When this was done, the devil did entice  
The wife from Gods, unto his paradise,  
See how the lying serpent maketh choice  
Of the forbidden tree: a tacit voice  
It hath indeed most lovely to the eye,  
Presents it to her, and she by and by  
Forsooth must taste: and so must Adam too.  
What cannot women by entreaties do!  
God he intends a wife for man's relief,  
But oftentimes she proves the greatest grief.  
Was there but one forbid? and must she be  
So base a wretch to taste of such a tree?  
Must Adam too? Ah see how she plucks down  
Her husband's glory, and kicks off his crown!  
O see how angry God himself comes down,  
To curse these wretches! heaven begins to frown,  
Alas poor naked souls, me thinks I see  
Transformed Adam crouch behind a tree,  
'tis time to run when once God doth reject him,  
'tis not his leafy armour can protect him,  
Heaven and hell with all the spite they can  
Strive for revenge against this monster man.  
O how the Creatures frown, and bend their brow,  
As if they all conspired and took a vow  
Against this caitiff, hark how earth complains  
That she by man is barred of moderate reins,  
she's now become a strumpet, fruitful seeds,  
And dainty flowers, are turned to bastard weeds,  
Disrobed of all her glory, lost her pride,  
The creatures now lie starving by her side,  
O how she sighs, and sends up hideous cries,  
To see poor cattle fall before her eyes,  
For want of food: they rip their mother's womb  
For meat, but finding none, do made their tomb,  
Hark how the bulls and angry lions roar  
To heaven, and tell how man decreased their store,  
Hear how the little lambs which yesterday  
Did honour to their King, and gave him way,  
O how they beg for vengeance to come down  
On man, and dispossess him of his crown,  
See, see what raping and what cruel thrall  
Is used: 'tis man alone that murders all,  
The Lion mild ere while for want of food,  
Doth fill his paunch with unaccustomed blood,  
The wolf which lately was more apt to keep  
The tender lambs, now prosecutes the sheep,  
Surely the ravenous beasts (did not they spy  
The glimpse of heaven within man's purblind eye,)  
Would straight devour him, did not mercy now  
Come down and smooth her father's wrinkled brow:  
The earth would scorn to bear him, but divide  
Herself, and make this Dathan sink in pride;  
The earth would not endure the plough to pass  
Into her iron sides, the heavens as brass  
Would soon become, and both do what they can  
To starve up this deformed monster man.  
See how this caitiff causeth discontent,  
And raiseth discord in each element,  
How often have I seen the raging fire  
Unto the top of highest towers aspire,  
And clamber mighty buildings? 'tis unbound,  
Surely t' would burn the fabric to the ground,  
Did not our God look from his mercy seat,  
And make the watery sister quell the heat.  
How is the air poisoned with misty fogs,  
And churlish vapours; only such that clogs  
The corpse with deadly humours, such that brings  
The Pestilence, yea such that quickly flings  
Loathsome diseases always tipped with death,  
Did not Jove fan it with his mighty breath.  
Hark how the impatient seas begin to thunder,  
As if they'd rent their prison walls in sunder;  
See how the mounting waves do swiftly fly  
To heaven, as if they meant to tell the sky  
How basely man hath dealt: O how they roar,  
Beating their foaming waves against the shore,  
Chiding their sister earth that dares to bear  
So base a wretch; see how the waves do tear  
Her bowels, and with all the spite they can  
Strive for to drown this wretched caitiff man.   

Christ's BIRTH AND PASSION.  
O Thou most Sacred Dove that I may write  
Thy praises, drop thou from thy soaring flight  
A quill: come aid my muse, for she intends  
To sing such love no mortal comprehends,  
Guide thou her stamring tongue, and let her be  
Strongly protected in her infancy,  
Then she'll tell how the King of Kings by birth  
Forsook his throne, to live on dunghill earth,  
Then she'll declare how great creating Jove,  
Whose star-depaved palace is above  
All whose attendance is a glorious troop,  
Of glittering cherubs, unto whom do stoop  
Each glorious angel, flinging himself down,  
Presenting at his feet his pearly crown,  
To be his palace heaven itself's not meet,  
And dunghill earth's too little for his feet;  
Yet this great King-creating King did slide  
To earth, and laid his Diadem aside,  
Exchanging it for thorns, and did untire  
His glorious self, and clad himself in mire;  
At whose appearance singing Angels shot  
Like stars from heaven (News ne'er to be forgot)  
Yea winged Cherubs from the highest came  
As heaven's Heralds to divulge his fame.  
All heaven did obeisance but for earth  
(Ungrateful soil unworthy of the birth  
Of such a babe) 'twas readier to entomb  
The dying Lord, then to afford a room,  
Proud Salem was too high to entertain  
Poor Mary's babe, 'twas kept for Herod's train,  
And Rome that seavenhild city was too great  
To lodge this Child, 'tis Caesar's royal seat,  
'tis Bethlem, little Bethlem must suffice  
To lighten Joseph's Consorts weary thighs,  
And that's almost too proud to lodge him in,  
No private house, but even a vulgar inn,  
And they're not harboured in the choicest rooms,  
No, not so well as with the common grooms,  
But this (ah most unworthy) worthy guests  
Is thrust (and gladly too) among the beasts,  
He that before was wont to take his rest,  
All covered in his father's silken breast,  
Is now constrained to lay his worthy head,  
Upon an undeserved strawy bed,  
He that was wont to hear the pleasant tones  
Of sweete-voyced Angels, now the saddest groans  
Of doleful Mary, mixed with brinish tears,  
These only these are harboured in his ears,  
The Babe is scarcely borne, but sought to die,  
As yet not learned to go, but forced to fly,  
And to avoid the Tetrarchs furious Curse,  
Hard hearted Egypt's now become a Nurse,  
He that can make both Heaven and earth to dread,  
Lo patiently takes all, and hides his head,  
Yet he'll return, no, not the bitter wrongs,  
Nor spiteful usage, nor the smarting thongs,  
Nor sharpest scourges, no nor blackest hell,  
Can quench the boundless love, nor yet expel  
His strong affections, let the traitors set  
A thorny crown on's head, and also wet  
His glorious face with spital, and deride,  
And scourge till blood falls trickling down his side,  
Nay though he be constrained to leave his breath,  
And's dying soul is heavy unto death,  
He can't but smile upon his bitter foe,  
And love the traitors whe're they will or no,  
Yet see how ●ordid man repayeth all  
His kindness, with an undeserved thrall,  
Whilst he (sad soul) lay prostrate all alone,  
Fast fixing both his eyes at heaven's throne,  
And sending up such sighs, as though he'd make  
The weakened vaults of heaven and earth to shake,  
His sweat dropped down like dew, and as he stood  
He stained Mount Olives with his Crimson blood,  
Whilst all his sad Disciples drowsy lie,  
Scarce able to hold up a sluggish eye,  
Now he's betrayed by Judas, he that bore  
The bag, and was entrusted with the store,  
He that did scorn the traitor's name, and cry,  
Who shall betray thee Lord? Lord speak? is't I?  
Yet now an abject Christ becomes, to be,  
And thirty pence is valued more than he,  
The bloody steward with a treacherous kiss  
Forsook his Master and eternal bliss,  
And sold the body of a Lord so good  
To soldiers, such as thirsted after blood,  
And then for fear the Innocent should pass  
Untouched, was straight accused by Caiaphas,  
Condemned by Pontius Pilate, to expel  
The guilt, he washed his hands, and all was well,  
O see what force weak water had to quench  
His sparkling Conscience, and his flaming sense!  
Alas not Nilus, no nor Jordans' flood  
Can cleanse the stains of such a Crimson blood;  
No 'tis the streams of a repenting eye  
'tis only this takes out a scarlet dye,  
Thus our Astrea stands arraigned to die  
And nothing's to be heard but crucify:  
When this alarum sounded to the height  
And heaven and hell conspired both to fight  
Against this captain, than his daunted troop  
Forsook their Lord, each soul began to droop;  
Yet gracious he imparted his renown  
He won the battle and gave them the crown,  
Yea he became a curse that knew no sin  
He was inrobed and disinrobed ag'in;  
His temples crowned with thorns, his glorious face  
Was spit upon and beat with all disgrace  
That abject slaves could use, and then they cry,  
To blinded Christ who beat thee? prophecy.  
Ah stupid souls as if that piercing sight  
That views all secrets in the darkest night,  
That tries the thoughts of every heart, and stares  
Into each soul is now as blind as theirs;  
Thus was he basely used, but all's not done  
The hell-invented fury is to come,  
By vulgar slaves the very son of God  
Is falsely scourged and forced to kiss the rod,  
Yea he whose nostrils able are to cast  
Out flame, and burn the world at every blast,  
Whose mighty breath is able for to fan  
Ten thousand worlds, and puff out every man  
Like chaff, and make the flaunting world to toss  
Like waves, is now compelled to bear his cross;  
Whereon his body in a vulgar street  
Hung naked pierced with nails both hands and feet:  
The well of water, he that gave the first  
To all his creatures, now's himself a thirst,  
Yea he to whom all thirsty creatures call  
For drink, must now drink vinegar with gall,  
They pierced his side from whence came watery blood,  
More sovereign far than all Bethesda's flood,  
These tyrants thus (though to themselves denied)  
Did make a way to heaven through his side.  
Alas my muse for sighs can scarce prolong  
The fatal tuning of so dire a song,  
To see heavens fair Idea seem so foul  
Sobbing and sighing out his burdened soul,  
Those eyes which now seem dim, were once so bright,  
From hence it was that Phoebus begged his light,  
Those arms which now hang weak did from their birth  
Support the tottering vaults of heaven and earth,  
That tongue that now lies speechless in his head,  
A word of that would soon revive the dead,  
One touch of those Pale fingers would suffice  
To heal the sick and make the dead man rise:  
Those legs which now are peircd by abject slaves  
were kindly entertained amongst the waves:  
The coat whose warmth did give his sides relief  
The hem, the very hem could cure a grief;  
But now strength's weak, th'omnipotent's a crying  
For aid, health's sick and life itself's a-dying,  
His head hangs drooping and his eyes are fixed,  
His weakened arms grown pale, the sun's eclipsed  
(O boundless love, thus thus thou didst expose  
Thyself no damned pains to save thy foes)  
Hell fought against him, heaven began to frown  
And justice soon sent vengeance posting down,  
Who clad with fury, being angry shakes  
Her ugly head whose hair doth nurture snakes,  
She lays about her greedy of her prey  
Quencheth h●r t●irst with blood and so away,  
And mercy now lies covered in a cloud  
And will not hear although his sighs are loud  
(Although his cries are such that cause a stone  
To hear, yet sin makes heaven forget her own)  
Heaven frowns as if she had her own forgot,  
Mercy looks off as if she knew him not,  
He suffered pains that hell itself devisd,  
So much, that justice cried I am sufficed:  
His tortures were so high, so great, so sore,  
That hell cried out: I can inflict no more:  
Which done the heavens closed up their lamping light  
And turned the day into a dismal night;  
Bright Phoebus veiled his face and would not see,  
Worms actors of so bloody treachery:  
And quivering earth her wonted rigour lacked  
And straight stood trembling at so dire a fact:  
The buried Saints arose to see betwixt  
Two dusky clouds, their glorious sun eclipsed:  
Thus heaven itself with the terrestrial Ball  
Doth join to celebrate his funeral:  
The Landlord of the globe who first did raise  
Earth's fabric, was a tenant for three days;  
But when once Christ did cease to be turmoiled  
Heaven and he was gladly reconciled,  
Mercy came dancing from the angry den  
Tossed off her cloudy mantle, smiled again,  
Parched on her brightest throne, and makes a vow  
To smooth the wrinkled furrows of her brow:  
And grim faced vengeance she that's only fed  
With poison, dares nor show her snaky head  
For fear: all angers banished clean away,  
Stern justice now hath not a word to say,  
And now the father's anger being done  
Double embraces entertain the son:  
As when a tender mother sometime beats  
Her wanton boy for his unruly feats  
She wipes his blubbered face and by and by  
Presents a thousand gugoyes to his eye,  
She angry with herself begins to seek  
His former love tears trickling down her cheek,  
Quickly forgetting what was done amiss,  
Ending her anger in a lovely kiss,  
Doubtless her fondling burns the rod and then  
Come peace my babe kiss and be friends again.  
Just so when God inflicted on his son  
His bittrest wrath, the anger being done  
O then how soon he doubled his renown?  
Adorned his Temple with a richer crown?  
Angry with those that would not hear his moan  
Ready to fling grim vengeance from his throne,  
And chide with mercy she that once did run  
To hide herself from this his dying son,  
And for this fact would surely overthrow  
The fabric, did not justice hold the blow.  
Thus heaven was friends again, but sordid man  
Poor mortal dust whose days are but a span  
Doth strive against his God, like dogs that storm  
And bark and brawl and foam at Phoebe's horn:  
Ah Lord, why are they so extreme to thee?  
What is the cause thou mad'st their blindmen see?  
Or why didst thou their fury thus enrage?  
Because thou didst revive their dead men's age?  
Me thinks 'tis strange good God thou shouldst inflame  
Their anger by restoring legs too lame.  
How is it Lord thou sowedst glorious seeds  
And lo a harvest all compact of weeds?  
Thou gavest them life, and spentst thy dearest breath  
For them, and now thou art repaid with death:  
What grief was ere like thine? would not thy moan  
Quickly dissolve an adamantine stone?  
Would not those sighs (which could not pierce their ears)  
Have turned a rock into a sea of tears?  
Would not those wrongs thou borest without relief,  
Make every cave, to echo out thy grief?  
For greedy Lions are more kind than men,  
They entertained thy limb within their den:  
Forget their wonted humours and became  
As careful shepherdess to thy tender lamb,  
The croaking raven, she whose natures wild  
Became a tender nurse unto thy child,  
And to obey thy voice the stony rock  
Became a springing fountain to thy flock,  
Yea rather than thy babes shall live in thrall,  
The very sea itself provides a wall,  
The flames forget their force, through thy constraint  
Lose heat and know not how to burn a Saint,  
Yea when thy soldiers wanted day to fight,  
The Sun stood still and lent them longer light:  
When boisterous seas did show their lusty pranks,  
Scorning to be imprisoned in their banks,  
And with their billows vaulted up so high,  
As if they meant to scale the starry sky,  
And boundless Boreas from his frozen Cave  
Rushed out and proudly challenged every wave,  
One nod of thine did quell those seas again,  
And sent proud Boreas to his sullen den:  
Thus thou the senseless creatures oft didst check,  
And mad'st the proudest pliant to thy beck,  
For devils trembled and that breath of thine  
Made them seek shelter in a heard of swine,  
They knew thy greatness and confessed thy name.  
Hell sent forth heralds to divulge thy fame  
But man (Lord what's he made of?) stupid soul  
Is now more greedy than the raping foul:  
Harder than slint, his nature is so grim,  
That questionless the lion changed with him:  
Hotter than flame, more boisterous than the wind,  
More fierce than waves, and hells not more unkind.  
Yet thou (O match less love) didst undergo  
An undeserved curse to save thy foe:  
Yea guiltless thou because thou wouldst suffice  
For guilty man, becom'st a Sacrifice.  
Thou Grand physician for thy patients good  
Didst mix thy physic with thy dearest blood:  
Man from the sweetest flower did suck his grief  
But thou from venom didst extract relief,  
From pleasure's limbeck man distilled his pain  
Thou out of sorrow pleasure draw again,  
Sweet Eden was the garden where there grew  
Such sugared flowers, yet there our poison blew,  
Sad Gethseman the arbour where was plucked,  
Though bitter herbs, yet thence was honey sucked:  
So have I seen the busy Bee to feed,  
Extracting honey from the sourest weed,  
Whilst Spiders wandering through a pleasant bower  
Suck deadly poison from the sweetest flower,  
Thus, thus sweet Christ, thy sickness was our health,  
Thy death, our life, thy poverty our wealth,  
Thy grief our mirth, our freedom was thy thrall,  
Thus thou by being conquered conquerest all.   

CANT. 8.7. Much water cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.  
O How my heart is ravished! thoughts aspire  
To think on thee my Christ: my zeals on fire,  
What shall I do my love? me thinks mine eyes  
Behold thee still, yet still I tantalise;  
Ten thousand lets stand armed and all agree,  
Conspiring how to part my love and me.  
Presumption like Olympus scales the sky,  
A mountain for to part my Love and I.  
despair presents a gulf, a greedy grave  
Much like the jaws of the internal Cave:  
But what of this? though hills are ne'er so high  
Whose sunne-confronting tops upbraid the sky  
I'll trample o'er, and make them know 'tis meet  
Their proudest heads should stoop and kiss my feet:  
I'll stride o'er cares deeper than Neptune's well,  
Whose threatning jaws do yawn as wide as hell:  
Although the sea boyles in her angry tides  
And watery mountains knock at heavens' sides,  
Though every puff of Neptune's angry breath  
Should raise a wave and every wave a death,  
I'll scorn his threats should stop my course, or quell  
My pace, though every death presents a hell:  
Yea I'll adventure through those swelling storms  
Whose billows seems to quench great Phoebe's horns,  
Mountains shall be as molehilles, every wave  
Tossed in the fretful region, shall outbrave  
No more than streams that show their wanton pranks,  
Gliding along by Thames his petty banks:  
But grant that seas should swell, and tossing tides  
With storms should crush my waving vessels sides:  
Suppose for footmen mountains are too steep,  
Each hill too high, and every cave too deep:  
Suppose all earth conspire to stop: care I?  
My faith will lend me wings and then I'll fly:  
O how I'll laugh to see that mounting clay!  
O how I'll smile at that that stopped my way!  
O how I laugh to see the Ocean strain  
Her banks for to oppose and all in vain!  
And can you blame me? when I'm once above  
I'll care for none, for none but thou my Love.  
Thou art my path: I shall not go awry:  
My sight shall never fail: thou art my eye:  
Thou art my clothing: I shan't naked be:  
I am no bondman: thou hast made me free;  
I am not pined with sickness: thou art health:  
I am no whit impoverished, thou art wealth.   

Man's natural infirmity.  
WHat means my God? why dost present to me  
Such glorious objects? can a blind man see?  
Why dost thou call? why dost thou beckon so?  
Wouldst have me come? Lord can a Cripple go?  
Or why dost thou expect that I should raise  
Thy glory with my voice? the dumb can't praise.  
Vnscale my dusky eyes, then I'll express  
Thy glorious objects strong attractiveness:  
Dip thou my limbs in thy Bethesda's lake,  
I'll scorn my earthly crutches, I'll forsake  
Myself: touch thou my tongue and then I'll sing  
An Allelujah to my glorious King.  
Raise me from this my grave, than I shall be  
Alive, and I'll bestow my life on thee  
Till thou Eliah-like dost overspread  
My limbs, I'm blind, I'm lame, I'm dumb, I'm dead:   

The melancholic souls comfort.  
O That I had a sweet melodious voice!  
O that I could obtain the chiefest choice  
Of sweetest music! pre-three David lend  
Thy well-resounding harp, that I may send  
Some praises to my God: I know not how  
To pay by songs my heart-resolved vow:  
How shall I sing good God? thou dost afford  
Ten thousand mercies, trebled songs O Lord  
Cannot requite thee! O that I could pay  
With life-time songs the mercies of one day!  
I oft begin to sing, and then before  
My songs half finished, God gives sense for more.  
Alas poor soul art puzzled? canst not bring  
Thy God some honour though thou strive to sing?  
The Cause is this, thou art become his debtor  
he'll make thee play on music that is better.  
I Cannot play, my sobs do stop my course,  
My groans do make my music sound the worse.  
What nought but groans? ah shall th' almighty's ears  
Be filled with sighs all usherd in with tears?  
I this is music: such a tune prolongs  
God's love, and makes him listen to thy songs:  
'tis this that makes his ravished soul draw nigher,  
'tis this outstrips the Thracian with his Lyre,  
'tis this enchants thy God, 'tis this alone  
That drags thy spouse from heaven to hear thy tone:  
No better music than thy sobs and cries,  
If not a David's harp, get Peter's eyes.   

The soul in love with Christ.  
WHat though my Love doth neat appear?  
And makes Aurora blush to see her?  
Though nature paints her cheeks with red  
And makes proud Venus hide her head?  
What though her crimson lips so mute  
Do always woo a new salute,  
What though her wan●on eyes do shine  
Like glistering stars and dazzle mine?  
'tis Christ alone,  
Shall be my own,  
'tis him I will embrace,  
'tis he shall be  
A Spouse to me,  
All beauty's in his face.  
What though the earth for me prepares  
A present from her golden Quarres,  
And braggeth of her early gains,  
Exhausted from her silver veins?  
What though she show her painted brates  
And bids me smell her Violates?  
And decks herself in spring attire,  
To make my ravished soul admire?  
Yet all this shan't  
My soul enchant  
I'll smile to see her pride  
I know where lies  
A better prize  
For Christ hath broached his side.  
What though the world doth me invite  
And daily play the Parasite?  
Or with her gilded tales entice  
Me, to a seeming Paradise?  
And paints her face and all day long  
Sits breathing out a Sirens song?  
And shows her pomp, and then in fine  
Tells me, that she and hers are mine?  
Yet none of this,  
Shall be my bliss,  
I'll scorn the painted whore  
I will deride  
Her and her pride  
For Christ is this and more.  
What though insinuating pleasure,  
Prefers me to her chiefest treasure  
And every day, and every night  
Doth feed me with a new delight  
And slumbers me with lullaby  
Dandling me on her whorish thigh?  
What though with her sublime pretences  
She strives t'imprison all my senses?  
Yet she shan't be  
A trap to me  
Her freedom is but thrall,  
Her greatest coy  
Will but annoy,  
Till Christ doth sweeten all.  
Or what though profit with her charms  
Grasping the world within her arms  
Vnlades herself? and bids me see  
What pains she takes, and all for me;  
And then invites me to her bower  
Filling my coffers every hour?  
What though she thus enlarge my store  
With every day a thousand more?  
Yet let her pack  
And turn her back,  
Her purest gold's but dross  
Her greatest pains  
Produce no gains  
Till Christ come all is loss.  
Or what though Fortune should present  
Her high Olympic regiment.  
And never my Ambition check,  
But still be pliant to my beck?  
What though she lends me wings to fly  
Unto the top of Dignity,  
And make proud monarchs with her wheel  
uncrown their heads to crown my heel,  
I'll not depend  
On such a friend,  
'tis Christ is all my stay:  
she can revoke  
The highest spoke,  
Her wheels turned every day.  
Let none of these in me take place:  
Fond Venus hath a Vulcan's face:  
And so till heaven be pleased to smile  
Poor earth sits barren all the while:  
The world that's apt to win a fool  
It is my burden, not my stool:  
Nor pleasure shall enchant my mind,  
she's smooth before, but stings behind:  
I will disdain  
Their greatest gain,  
And fortune's but a feather,  
'tis none of these  
Can give me ease,  
But Christ's the same for ever.   

Lord why hidest thou thy face from me.  
WHat drowsy weather's this? the angry skies  
Do threaten storms, and heaven itself denies  
Her lovely visage, ah these darkened days  
Do make my vitals drowsy, and decays  
My soul's delight: good God can I control  
Or drive these pensive humours from my soul?  
Ah no I can't my lively spirits keep,  
Such drowsy weather's fit for nought but sleep.  
O thou eternal light that hast the sway  
In Jove's broad walls, thou sceptre of the day,  
Thou heaven's bright torch, thou glistering worlds bright eye,  
Why dost thou hide and so obscurely lie?  
Come wrap thyself in thy complete attire,  
Show forth thy glory, make my soul admire  
Thy splendour, come and do no longer stay  
But with thy glorious beams bestrow my way,  
Extirp these foggy mists from out mine eyes,  
That I may plainly see where heaven lies.  
Then I'll awake, sweet Christ, do thou display  
Thy glittering beams, send out a summer's day,  
I'll rub my slumbering eyes, O then I'll roam  
A life-time journey from my native home:  
The soul will sleep and can't hold up her eyes  
until the sun of righteousness arise.   

Christ's Resurrection.  

COme Rise my heart, thy Master's risen,  
Why slugest thou in thy grave?  
Dost thou not know he broke the prison?  
Thou art no more a slave.   

He rolled of the sealed stone  
That once so ponderous lay,  
And left the watchmen all alone  
And bravely scaped away.   

When flesh, the world, and Satan too  
Wont suffer thee to quatch,  
Learn of thy Master what to do  
And cozen all the watch.   

Let not these clogging earthly things  
Make thee (Poor soul) forsake him,  
Go, ask of Faith, she'll lend thee wings,  
Haste, fly, and overtake him.   

But hark my soul, I'll tell thee where  
Thy Master sits in state:  
Go knock at heaven's door, for there:  
He entered in of late.   

If Peter now had kept the key  
Thou mightst get in with ease,  
But justice only bears the sway  
And let's in whom she please.   

she's wondrous stern and suffers not  
A passenger to enter,  
Without thy Master's ticket got  
Thou mayst not touch her centre.   

But come my soul, let me advise,  
What needst thou to implore  
The Saints for aid? I know where lies  
For thee a private door.   

Dost not remember since the pride  
Of base perfidious men  
Did thrust thy Master through the side  
(Wert not thou wounded then.)   

When justice is so stern that thou  
Unto a straight art driven,  
(Come hark and I will tell thee now)  
creep through that wound to heaven.    

Sanctificat.  

O My head, alas my bones,  
O my wounded joints do smart,  
Flesh ere while as hard as stones,  
Now it aches in every part:  
Lord 'tis thy Art.   

All thy judgements could not scare  
Me, nor make my soul to fly,  
Now one angry look can rear  
Me, and make me pensive lie  
In misery.   

Lord there where I took my rise,  
There did I begin to reel,  
surfeited in Paradise,  
And there I got a bruised heel,  
Which now I feel.   

Surely my disease was great,  
sick, and yet I felt no pain;  
Hungry, yet I could not eat:  
Sore, yet could I not complain:  
Yet all was gain.   

For, good God, thy care was such▪  
That thou gavest me much relief,  
Yea thou lendedst me a Crutch,  
And didst make me know my grief:  
Lord thou art chief.   

Thou hast made the rock to weep  
And my stony heart to groan,  
Thou hast raised me from my sleep,  
And dost smile to hear my tone;  
And lov'st my moan.   

But what needest thou lend a Crutch,  
Thou canst make me perfect whole?  
Thou canst heal me with a touch,  
By this thou know'st a woman stole,  
Cure for her dole.   

When leave I this halting pace?  
When shall I most perfect be?  
When thou shalt my glistering face,  
In the land of glory see.  
Lord perfect me.    

A Meditation on a man's shadow.  
WHen as the sun flings down his richest rays,  
And with his shining beams adorns my ways,  
See how my shadow tracks me where I go,  
I stop, that stops; I walk, and that doth so:  
I run with winged flight, and still I spy  
My waiting shadow run as fast as I.  
But when a sable cloud doth disarray  
The sun, and robs me of my smiling day:  
My shadow leaves me helpless all alone,  
And when I most need comfort I have none:  
Just so it is; let him that hath the height  
Of outward pomp, expect a parasite:  
If thou art great, thy honours will draw nigh:  
These are the shadows to prosperity:  
O how the worldlings make pursuit to thee,  
With cap in hand and with a bended knee:  
But if disastrous fate should come betwixt  
Thee and thy sun, thy splendor's all eclipsed:  
Thy friends forsake thee, and thy shadow's gone,  
And thou (Poor sun-less thou) art left alone,  
This is thy souls estate, the worldly gain  
And greatest pomp, in stormy times are vain:  
They are but shadows when distress comes nigh,  
They are as nothing to a faithful eye.  
Yet here's my comfort Lord, if I can see  
My shadow, I must needs a substance be.  
O let me not with worldly shadows clog  
myself, grant me more wit than Esop's dog.   

A Meditation on children's rashness.  
WHen Mothers are desirous for to play  
The wantons with their babes, and show the way  
To find their feet: to give their brats content,  
They wag their sporting fingers, and present  
A penny in the forehead, or some pap,  
To win the Children to the mother's lap:  
How soon will they their little grissels stretch,  
And run apace, aspiring for to fetch  
This petty object? never caring though  
Their way be full of stumbling blocks below:  
Thou art that Mother Lord, thou usest charms,  
And still art dandling, Christ within thine arms  
Presents most glorious objects to our eyes,  
And shows us where thy choicest mercies lies;  
Why then are we so backward? why so slow?  
Or why so loath into thy arms to go?  
Small molehills seem as mountains in our way,  
And every light affliction makes us stay:  
Why should we stop at petty straws below?  
Make us thy Children Lord we shan't do so.   

A Meditation on a good Father having a bad son.  
QVerkus of late was minded to dispute  
Of this, A tree that's good brings forth good fruit.  
Hence he concludes such parents that have been  
Converted, bring forth children void of sin.  
Peace Querkus' peace, and hold thy tongue for shame  
Dost not perceive that thy conclusion's lame?  
May not a grain that's free from chaff and clear  
Cast in the ground, bring forth a chaffy care.   

A Meditation on a weathercock.  
SEe how the trembling weathercock can find  
No settled place, but turns with every wind,  
If blustering Zephyr blows and gives a check,  
How soon's this cock made pliant to his beck,  
If Boreas gets the day, 'twill change its side,  
And turn in spite of bragging Zephyrs pride:  
Thus temporizers turn at every puff,  
And yet forsooth they think they're good enough,  
If stand, they stand: if he that seems to be  
The greatest turn, they turn as fast as he,  
I wonder at such wavering feathers, did I  
So often turn 'twould make me wondrous giddy.  
Lord let that wind that blows upon thy flock,  
turn me, and make me Lord thy weathercock.   

A Meditation on Cockfighting.  
SEe how those angry creatures disagree,  
Whilst the spectators sit and laugh to see.  
do not two neighbours often do the same,  
Whilst that the Lawyers laugh to see the game?   

A Meditation on an Echo and a Picture.  
SEe how Apelles with his curious art,  
Pourtraies the picture out in every part:  
If he can give't a voice, no doubt he can  
Completely make the shape a living man:  
Surely his work would to his praise redound,  
Could he but give the shape he made, a sound:  
What wants the Echo of a living creature  
But Shape? and what but voice this comely feature?  
Yet both can't meet together: God alone,  
Will have this secret Art to be his own.   

A Meditation on Noah's Dove.  
WHen God the floods from lands did undivide?  
And made the sky aspiring mountains hide,  
When heaven reigned seas, and fountains were unbound,  
And all mankind except eight souls were drowned;  
Then did Jove's Pilot Noah make an ark  
And thrust this little world into a bark:  
Yea than he sent a Dove to range about  
The Floods, to answer his uncertain doubt:  
O how she wanders up and down the Seas,  
Fluttring her weary wings but finds no ease!  
She sees no food, no resting place, no park,  
But soon returns into her wished ark.  
Observe how tender Noah, full of Love,  
Opens the window to this weary Dove.  
Puts forth his hands to meet her, takes her in,  
But by and by she flutters out again:  
She finds an Olive leaf, and that she brings  
Between her bill, hou'ring her tired wings  
Upon the ark: still Noah is the same,  
Let's in his wandering Dove that's now made tame  
With restless flight; once more she gets away,  
And now she spies the earth (that lately lay  
Soaked in the impartial deluge) in her pride,  
Adorned with dainty herbs on every side;  
When food is plenty, this ungrateful Dove  
Forgets her Noah, and his former love:  
Minds nothing but herself, she that before  
Did crouch unto thee ark, returns no more.  
Thou art that Noah Lord, and Christ the boat,  
Afflictions are the waters that do float:  
Man is that wandering Dove, that often flies  
unto his Christ for shelter, else he dies.  
How apt are we good God to use our wings,  
And fly to thee when all these outward things  
With floods are drowned up, though we have been  
So vile, how apt art thou to catch us in?  
O how our God when we have been astray  
Puts forth his arms to meet us in the way,  
And take us home! we are no sooner in  
But by and by we flutter out again:  
This time by chance like Noah's Dove we see,  
The upper branches of some Olive tree,  
I mean some petty shelter: still we fly  
Unto our God for aid or else we die.  
How apt are we, when outward things forsake us,  
To haste to God? how apt's our God to take us?  
The third time we are gone, now floods are hushed  
The Sun-confronting mountains bravely washed,  
The Seas give place, the lowest valleys seen,  
Yea all the earth most sweetly decked in green:  
Now we forget our God and post away,  
And after make an everlasting stay?  
When worldly wealth comes in, and we can rest  
upon the creature: O how we detest  
Our former refuge! if we find a park,  
We ne'er return unto our wonted ark.   

A Meditation on a ship.  
Mark how the floating vessel shows her pride  
And is extolled with every lofty tide;  
But when it ebbs, and all the floods retire  
See how the bragging bark is plunged in mire:  
Just so good God, how apt are we to swim  
When mercies fill our banks unto the brim?  
When worldly wealth appears, and we can see  
Such outward blessings flow: than who but we?  
But when it ebbs, and thou dost once unlinke  
These mercies from us: O how soon we sink;  
Good God let not the great estate possess  
Me with presumption, nor despair the less:  
Let me not sink when such an ebb appears,  
No, let me swim in true repentant tears:   

A Meditation on a Windmill.  
OBserve it always 'tis the maker's skill  
To place the windmill on the highest hill;  
It stands unuseful till the potent winds  
Puff up the lofty sails and then it grinds:  
Just thus it is: the hypocrite's the mill,  
His actions sails, ambition is the hill,  
The wind that drives him is a blast of fame,  
If blown with this he runs, if not he's tame:  
He stirs not till a puff of praise doth fill  
His sails: but then, O how he turns the mill!  
Lord drive me with thy Spirit, then I'll be  
Thy windmill, and will grind a grist for thee.   

A Meditation on Organs.  
Hark how the Organist most sweetly plays  
His psalms upon the tone-divided keys:  
Each touch a sound, but if the hand don't come  
And strike the kayes, how soon's the music dumb?  
A moderate stroke doth well, but if too hard  
The Organ's broke, and all the raptures marred.  
I am that Organ Lord, and thou alone  
Canst play, each prayer is a pleasant tone,  
Affliction is the hand that strikes the kayes:  
(O Lord from me the sweetest music raise:)  
If thou don't strike at all how can I speak  
Thy worthy praises, if too hard I break:  
Strike mildly Lord, strike soft, and then I'll sing,  
And charoll out the glory of my King.   

A Meditation on an ape's love.  
WHen once the foolish Ape hath filled her nest  
With little brats, there's one among the rest,  
She most affects: to shelter this from harms,  
She always hugs it in her wanton arms.  
Until at length she squeezeth out the breath,  
Of this her fondling, Loves the cause of death:  
The Worlds this wanton Ape, that still delights  
In hugging some peculiar favourites,  
Of those that are thus dandled by this Ape,  
There doth not one among a thousand scape.   

On contempt of the World.  
aloft O soul; soar up, do not turmoil  
Thyself by grabbling on a dunghill soil:  
Toss up thy wings, and make thy soaring plumes  
Outreach the loathsome stench and noisome fumes  
That spring from sordid earth: come, come, and see  
Thy birth, and learn to know thy pedigree:  
What? wast thou made of Clay? or dost thou owe  
Homage to earth? say, is thy bliss below?  
Dost know thy beauty? dost thou not excel?  
Can the Creation yield a parallel?  
The world can't give a glass to represent  
Thy shape, and shall a dirty element  
Bewitch thee? think, is not thy birth most high?  
Blown from the mouth of all the trinity,  
The breath of all-creating Jove, the best  
Of all his works, yea thee of all the rest  
He chose to be his Picture: where can I  
But in thyself see Immortality  
'Mong all his earthly creatures? Thou art chief  
Of all his works: and shall the world turn thief  
And steal away thy love? wert not for thee  
The heaven aspiring mountain should not be,  
The heavens should have no glistering star, no light,  
No sun to rule the day, no moon the night:  
The Globe had been ('twas not the maker's will  
To make it for itself) a Chaos still:  
Thou art Jove's priestly Aaron to present  
The creatures service, while they give assent  
By serving thee, why then's the world thy rest?  
'Tis but thy servant's servant at the best:  
It gives attendance to refined mire,  
That Jove hath wrapped thee in as thy attire;  
For what's the body but a lump of clay  
carved neatly out, in which the soul bears sway?  
'tis servant to the soul: what limb can stir,  
Nay dar'st to quatch, if once she make demur?  
See how the captived members trembling stand  
Wondrous submissive to her dire command!  
O how the legs do run with eager flight  
To overtake the object of delight!  
See how the arms do grasp as if they'd rent  
To hold the thing that gives the soul content.  
Why what's the body when the soul's away?  
Nought but a stinking carcase made of clay.  
What's heaven without a God? or what's the sky  
If once bright Phoebus close his radiant eye?  
The world was for our bodies, they for none  
But for our souls, our souls for God alone:  
What madness then for men of such a birth  
To nuzzle all their days on dunghill earth,  
Still hunting after with an eager sent  
An object which can never give content;  
For what contentment in the world can lie,  
That's only constant in inconstancy?  
It ebbs and flows each minute: thou Mayst brag  
This day of thousands, and to morrow b●g:  
The greatest wealth is subject for to reel,  
The globe is placed on fortune's tottering wheel:  
As when the gladding sun begins to show  
And scatter all his golden beams below,  
A churlish cloud soon meets him in the way,  
And sads the beauty of the smiling day:  
Or as a stately ship a while behaves  
Herself most bravely on the slumbering waves,  
And like a swan sails nimbly in her pride  
The helpful winds concording with the tide  
To mend her pace: but by and by, the wind  
The fretful Seas, the heavens and all combined  
Against this bragging bark, O how they fling  
Her corkey sides to heaven, and then they bring  
Her back: she that ere while did sail so brave  
Cutting the floods, now's toast with every wave:  
Just so, the waving world gives joy and sorrow,  
This day a Croesus, and a Job to morrow:  
How often have I seen the miser bless  
Himself in wealth, and count it for no less  
Than his adored God: straight comes a frown  
Flying from unhappy fate, and whirleth down  
Him, and his heaps of gold, and all that prize  
Is lost, which he but now did idolise.  
But grant the world (as never 'twill) to be  
A thing most sure most full of constancy,  
What is thy wealth unless thy God doth bless  
Thy store, and turn it to a happiness?  
What though thy Table be completely spread  
With far-fetched dainties, and the purest bread  
That fruitful earth can yield? all this may be,  
If thou no stomach hast, what's all to thee?  
What though thy habitation should excel  
In beauty, and were Eden's parallel?  
Thou being pestered with some dire disease,  
How can thy stately dwelling give thee ease?  
Thy joys will turn thy grief, thy freedom thrall,  
Unless thy God above doth sweeten all:  
When thou (Poor soul) liest ready to depart,  
And hear'st thy Conscience snarling at thine heart,  
Though heaps of gold should in thy coffers lie,  
And all thy worthless friends stand whining by,  
'Tis none, 'tis none of these can give thee health,  
But thou must languish in the midst of wealth.  
Then cease thou mad man and pursue no more  
The world, and know she's but a painted whore,  
Thou catchest shadows, labourst in thy dreams,  
And thirst's amongst th' imaginary streams.   

A Meditation on a mean.  
LOrd in excess I see there often lies  
Great dangers, and in wants great miseries:  
Send me a mean, do thou my ways preserve,  
For I may surfeit Lord, as well as starve.   

On Satan's tempting Eve.  
ARt thou turned Fencer Satan? prithee say?  
Surely thou art not active at thy play.  
Challenge a Woman? fie thou art to blame,  
Suppose thou getst the day, thou getst no fame.  
But prithee speak, hast any cause to prate?  
Thou bruised her heel, what though? she broke thy pate.   

On a sponge.  
THe sponge itself drinks water till it swell it,  
But never empties till some strength expel it:  
Lord, of ourselves we're apt to soak in sin,  
But thou art fain to squeeze it out again.   

A Meditation on a chime of Bells.  
Hark; what harmonious music fills mine ear?  
What pleasant raptures? yet me thinks I hear  
Each Bell that's rung, to bear a various sound,  
Had all one note, how quickly 'twould confound  
The tune; a discord in the bells arise,  
And yet they disagreeing, sympathize:  
'tis not the greatest makes the sweetest noise,  
No, but the skilful Ringer still employs  
The small as well as great, 'tis every bell  
Together rung, that makes them sound so well;  
Thus 'tis in commonweal: if every man  
Kept time, and place proportioned to him, than  
How sweetly would our music sound? 'twould be  
The emblem of an Heavenly harmony,  
Where each man would be great, the land enjoys  
No music, but a base preposterous noise,  
Each Bell sounds well: what though the tenor be  
The bigest? the treble seems as sweet to me:  
Let's not aspire too high, experience tells  
The choicest chimes makes use of petty bells:  
But howsoever Lord, lest I disgrace  
Thy sweet-voiced chime, make me keep time, and place.   

A Meditation on the burning a torch at noon day.  
WHen Sol doth in his flaming throne remain,  
My Blazing torch doth spend itself in vain,  
But when the sun goes down, and once 'tis night,  
O then how welcome is my torches Light,  
Sol's radiant beams at noon do so surmount  
They make my tapers light of small account;  
So Lord when thou dost great abundance send  
We cannot then so well esteem a friend,  
We slight their helps: they always seem most bright  
When dire affliction sends a dismal night.   

A Meditation on the sound of a cracked Bell.  
Hark how the hoarsemouthed Bell extends a tone  
Into mine ears; delightful unto none,  
The Mettal's good, 'tis some unwelcome scar,  
Some fatal crack that makes the music jar,  
But what of this? although the sound be rough  
'twill call me to the temple well enough:  
Such are those ill-lived Teachers who confound  
The sweetness of their soul converting sound  
By flaws seen in their unbeseeming lives,  
By which their heavenly calling lesser thrives:  
Yet Lord, I know they're able for to bring  
My soul to heaven, though with so hoarse a ring.  
But since thou dost such jarring tunes disdain,  
Melt thou this mettle, cast these bells again.   

A Meditation on a silly sheep.  
WHen all the Winds show forth their boisterous pride,  
And every cloud unloads his spongy side,  
When Boreus blows, and all the Heavens weep,  
And with their storms disturb the grazing sheep:  
See how the harmless creature, much dismayed,  
Doth crouch unto the bramble bush for aid:  
'Tis true, the bramble hides her from the wind,  
But yet it makes her leave her fleece behind.  
Who can but smile at such that knows not how  
To take the frownings of an angry brow;  
Whose base revengeful spirits strive to crush  
Their foes, though fleece themselves at law'ers bush.  
Guide me good God, let me revenge no more,  
When once the cure grows worse than the sore.   

A Meditation on the Flowers of the sun.  
Mark how the flowers at night do hang their heads  
As if they'd drop their leaves into their beds,  
But when the morning sun doth once arise  
They represent their glory to mine eyes,  
Than they unveil their tops, and do attire  
Themselves in beauty, as the sun goes higher.  
Thus Lord thy Saints on earth, when thou dost hide,  
They cover all the glory of their pride,  
Their drooping souls do wither, all their mirth.  
Is gone, they find no pleasure in the earth:  
But when the sun of righteousness appears,  
Than they display their beauty, and their fears  
Are all extinct: O Lord do thou make me  
Thy Saint, that I may fall and rise with thee.   

A Meditation on a Loadstone, and jet.  
WHen once the Loadstone shows itself, then straight  
The Iron careless of its wonted weight,  
Unto its wished object doth aspire,  
As if it did enjoy the sense, Desire,  
And thus the black-faced jet is apt to draw  
The dust, and to enchant the wanton straw,  
This jet and Loadstone well me thinks imparts  
An emblem of our fond-attractived hearts,  
The Spirit is that Loadstone that doth pluck  
Our Iron hearts, that once so fast were stuck  
Plunged in the depth of sin, and sets them sure,  
In spite of devilish malice to endure.  
The World's the jet that often doth control  
Vain frothy man, and steal away his soul  
With her enchanting tricks; thus jet can bring  
Light straws, submissive to so vain a thing:  
Be thou my Loadstone Lord, than thou shalt see  
My Iron heart will quickly cleave to thee.   

A Meditation on false lookin-glasses.  
MAdam look off; why peepest thou? O forbear,  
'twill either make thee proud or else despair!  
Th'one glass doth flatter thee above desert,  
The other makes thee blacker than thou art,  
Tell me sweet Lady, now thou hast both there,  
Dost not most love the glass that makes thee fair?  
'tis our condition, we can seldom see  
A man that tells us truly what we be;  
Our friends do often flatter, and present  
Too fine a shape, and all to give content:  
Our rough-mouthed foes do strive to lay a scar  
On us, and make us worser than we are,  
But yet of both, our lofty nature's such  
Indeed, we love our flattering friends too much:  
Give me a perfect glass, Lord clear my sight,  
That I may see myself, and thee aright.   

A Meditation on hunting the Hare.  
OBserve how nature tutors senseless Beasts,  
How quickly will they post into their nests  
For fear of harm; O how the trembling Hare  
Will shun the dog, and every bird the snare,  
See how the crafty Fox doth take his rounds,  
And clamber mountains to avoid the hounds,  
If Nature shows this; to such creatures too,  
O what doth Reason and Religion do?  
How is it then, that Man so little fears  
The plots of Satan and those deu'lish snares?  
How apt are we good God to trample in,  
Nay t'urge occasions for to act our sin?  
unless we by thy spirit are possessed,  
We are more stupid than the senseless beast.   

A Meditation on the pride of womens' apparel.  
SEe how some borrowed off cast vain attire,  
Can puff up pampered clay, and dirty mire:  
Tell me whence hadst thy cloths that makes thee fine,  
Wast not the silly Sheeps before 'twas thine?  
Doth not the silk worm and the ox's hide  
Serve to maintain thee in thy chiefest pride?  
Dost not thou often with those feathers veil  
Thy face, with which the ostrich hides her tail?  
What art thou proud of then? methinks 'tis fit  
Thou shouldst be humble for the wearing it:  
Tell me proud Madam; thou that art so nice,  
How were thy parents clad in Paradise?  
At first they wore the armour of defence  
And were completely wrapped in innocence:  
Had not they sinned, they ne'er had been dismayed  
Nor needed not the figtrees leafy aid!  
What ever state O Lord thou place me in  
Let me not glory in th' effect of sin.   

A Meditation on a Wax Candle lighted.  
SEe how my burning Taper gives his light,  
And guides my ways in the obscurest night,  
It wastes itself for me, and when 'tis spent  
The snuff doth leave behind a wholesome sent:  
Thus do thy pastor's Lord who shine most bright,  
They spend themselves to give thy people light,  
And when by thee their posting time's confined,  
They die and leave a lovely smell behind.   

A Meditation on an Elephant.  
THe Elephant doth always choose to drink  
In dirty ponds, and makes his paw to sink  
And raise the mud, that so he may escape,  
Without the shadow of his ugly shape:  
Thus 'tis with guilty souls, who dare not peep  
Into themselves, but make their conscience sleep;  
Cleanse me O Lord, and then I shall surpass  
In beauty, and won't fear the looking glass.   

A Meditation on a Bird in a Cage.  
SEe how my little prisoner hops about  
Her wyrie Cage, and sweetly ditties out  
Her various tunes: and since she cannot flee  
Abroad, she looks for meat from none but me:  
But if I open my Cage, her lofty wings  
Supports her to the forest, where she sings  
Some rustic notes, and when my bird can see  
Some meat abroad, she seeks for none to me.  
'tis thus, (good God) whilst thou on us dost bring  
Thy great afflictions, O how well we sing  
Thy praise, whilst we thus imprisoned be,  
Our faiths more active and our hops on thee:  
But if thou let us lose, we quickly fly  
Abroad, and lose our wonted harmony.  
Our faiths more useless, if elsewhere we see  
Some food, we seldom come for meat to thee,  
If thou wilt feed, and teach me Lord to praise,  
Then let me be thy prisoner all my days.   

A Meditation on the fire.  
Keep but an equal distance, than the fire  
Will give thee warmth unto thine heart's desire,  
But if thy daring spirit once presumes  
To cronch too nigh, it warms not, but consumes,  
'tis thus in things divine: Search thou God's will  
Revealed, and then 'twill warm, but never kill:  
But pry into his secrets, than the ire  
Of God will burn thee like consuming sire:  
O Lord so warm me with thy sacred breath,  
That I may neither burn nor freeze to death.   

A meditation on boys swimming with bladders.  
SEe what extreme delight some boys have took  
Playing the wantons in some gliding brook  
Upon their bladders tumbling up and down  
Though ne'er so deep, in spite of Neptune's frown:  
They seldom learn to swim: do but unlincke  
Them from their bladders, than they quickly sink,  
This Worlds a tossing Sea, filled to the brim  
With waves, where every man doth sink or swim,  
These Bladderd Lads are such that still rely  
Upon the creature, which gone, by and by  
Their drooping spirits fail: the faithful man  
Is he that swims aright, and always can  
Support himself, and with his art outbraves  
The fretful Sea, though filled with angry waves:  
Lord give me faith, that I may still depend  
On thee, and sw●●●, what ever storms thou send.   

On Cain and Abel's offerings.  
ARt angry Cain? what do thy thoughts repine?  
Is Abel's offering better took than thine?  
Didst not thou bring thy God a lovely prize  
And crown his Altar with a sacrifice,  
Art not thou elder? did not thy offering too  
Come from thy God? what more could Abel do?  
I'll tell thee Cain how Abel got the start,  
He with his offering, offered up his heart.   

On an Apprentices box.  
THe prentice after all his yearly painens,  
Filleth his small mouthed box with Christmas gains,  
Yet though he fill his box unto the brim  
Unless he break it up, what's all to him?  
A miser's such a box, that's nothing worth,  
Till death doth break it up, than all comes forth:  
Convert good God, or strike with some disease,  
break up such small mouthed boxes, Lord as these.   

On Eve's Apple.  
EVE for thy fruit thou gav'st too dear a price,  
What? for an Apple give a Paradise?  
If now a days of fruit such gains were made  
A Costermonger were a devilish trade.   

On a fair house having ill passage to it.  
A House to which the builders did impart  
The full perfection of their curious art,  
Most bravely furnished, in whose rooms did lie,  
Foot clothes of Velvet, and of tapestry;  
I wondered at (as who could not but do it)  
To see so rough so hard a passage to it:  
So Lord I know thy heaven's a glorious place,  
Wherein the beauty of thy glistering face  
Inlightens all: thou in the walls dost fix,  
The Jasper and the purest sardonyx,  
Thy gates are pearls, and every door beset  
With Saphires, Emeralds, and the Chrysolet:  
Each Subject wears a crown, the which he brings  
And flings it down to thee, the King of Kings.  
But why's the way so thorny? 'tis great pity  
The passage is no wider to thy city,  
Poor Daniel through his den and Shadrake's driven  
With his associates through the fire to Heaven,  
But yet we can't complain, we may recall  
The time to mind when there was none at all,  
'Twas Christ that made this way, and shall we be  
Who are his Servants, far more nice than he?  
No, I'll adventure too, nay, I'll get in,  
I'll track my captain thorough thick and thin.  
FINIS.