ANNO DNI. 1591.  
AETATIS SVAE 18  
ANTS MVI●TO QVE MUDADO  
This was for youth, Strength, Mirth, and wit that Time  
Most count their golden Age; but 'twas not thine.  
Thine was thy later years, so much refined  
From youth's Dross, Mirth, & wit; as thy pure mind  
Thought (like the Angels) nothing but the Praise  
Of thy Creator, in those last, best Days.  
Wimes this Book, (thy Emblem) which begins  
With Love; but ends, with Sighs, & Tears for sins.  
Will: Martial. sculpsit.  
IZ: WA:    

POEMS, By J. D. WITH ELEGIES ON THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.  
LONDON. Printed by M. F. for JOHN MARRIOT, and are to be sold at his shop in St Dunstan's Churchyard in Fleetstreet. 1633.   

INFINITATI SACRUM, 16. Augusti 1601. METEMPSYCHOSIS. Poêma Satyricon.  
EPISTLE.  
OThers at the Porches and entries of their Buildings set their Arms; I, my picture; if any colours can deliver a mind so plain, and flat, and through light as mine. Naturally at a new Author, I doubt, and stick, and do not say quickly, good. I censure much and tax; And this liberty costs me more than others, by how much my own things are worse than others. Yet I would not be so rebellious against myself, as not to do it, since I love it; nor so unjust to others, to do it sine talione. As long as I give them as good hold upon me, they must pardon me my bitings. I forbid no reprehender, but him that like the Trent Council forbids not books, but Authors, damning what ever such a name hath or shall write. None writes so ill, that he gives not some thing exemplary, to follow, or fly. Now when I begin this book, I have no purpose to come into any man's debt, how my stock will hold out I know not; perchance waste, perchance increase in use; if I do borrow any thing of Antiquity, besides that I make account that I pay it to posterity, with as much and as good: You shall still find me to acknowledge it, and to thank not him only that hath digged out treasure for me, but that hath lighted me a candle to the place. All which I will bid you remember, (for I will have no such Readers as I can teach) is, that the Pithagorian doctrine doth not only carry one soul from man to man, nor man to beast, but indifferently to plants also: and therefore you must not grudge to find the same soul in an Emperor, in a Post-horse, and in a Mucheron, since no unreadiness in the soul, but an indisposition in the organs works this. And therefore though this soul could not move when it was a Melon, yet it may remember, and now tell me, at what lascivious banquet it was served. And though it could not speak, when it was a spider, yet it can remember, and now tell me, who used it for poison to attain dignity. How ever the bodies have dulled her other faculties, her memory hath ever been her own, which makes me so seriously deliver you by her relation all her passages from her first making when she was that apple which Eve eat, to this time when she is he, whose life you shall find in the end of this book.   

THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL.  

First Song. I.  
I Sing the progress of a deathless soul,  
Whom Fate, which God made, but doth not control,  
Placed in most shapes; all times before the law  
Yoked us, and when, and since, in this I sing.  
And the great world to his aged evening;  
From infant morn, through manly noon I draw.  
What the gold Chaldee, or silver Persian saw,  
Greek brass, or Roman iron, is in this one;  
A work t'outweare Seths pillars, brick and stone,  
And (holy writs excepted) made to yield to none.   

II.  
Thee, eye of heaven, this great Soul envies not,  
By thy male force, is all we have, begot,  
In the first east, thou now begins to shine,  
Suckest early balm, and Island spices there,  
And wilt anon in thy loose-reined career  
At Tagus, Po, Seine, Thames, and Danon dine.  
And see at night thy Western land of mine,  
Yet hast thou not more nations seen then she,  
That before thee, one day began to be,  
And thy frail light being quenched, shall long, long out live thee.   

III.  
Nor holy janus in whose sovereign boat  
The Church, and all the Monarchies did float;  
That swimming College, and free Hospital  
Of all mankind, that cage and vivarie,  
Of fowls, and beasts, in whose womb, Destiny  
Us, and our latest nephews did install  
(From thence are all derived, that fill this All)  
Didst thou in that great stewardship embark  
So divers shapes into that floating park,  
As have been moved, and informed by this heavenly spark.   

IV.  
Great Destiny the commissary of God,  
That hast marked out a path and period  
For every thing, who, where we offspring took,  
Our ways and ends seest at one instant. Thou  
Knot of all causes, thou whose changeless brow  
ne'er smiles nor frowns, O vouchsafe thou to look  
And show my story, in thy eternal book.  
That (if my prayer be fit) I may ' understand  
So much myself, as to know with what hand,  
How scant, or liberal this my life's race is spanned.   

V.  
To my six lustres almost now outwore,  
Except thy book owe me so many more,  
Except my legend be free from the lets  
Of steep ambition, sleepy poverty,  
Spirit-quenching sickness, dull captivity,  
Distracting business, and from beauty's nets,  
And all that calls from this, and to others whets,  
O let me not launch out, but let me save  
Th'expense of brain and spirit; that my grave  
His right and due, a whole unwasted man may have.   

VI  
But if my days be long, and good enough,  
In vain this sea shall enlarge, or enrough  
Itself; for I will through the wave, and foam,  
And shall in sad love ways, a lively spirit  
Make my dark heavy Poem light, and light.  
For though through many straits, & lands I roam,  
I launch at paradise, and I sail towards home;  
The course I there began, shall here be stayed,  
Sailes hoist there, struck here, and anchors laid  
In Thames, which were at Tigrys, and Euphrates weighed.   

VII.  
For the great soul which here amongst us now  
Doth dwell, and moves that hand, and tongue, & brow,  
Which as the Moon the sea, moves us, to hear  
Whose story, with long patience you will long;  
(For 'tis the crown, and last strain of my song)  
This soul to whom Luther, and Mahomet were  
Prisons of flesh; this soul which oft did tear,  
And mend the wracks of th'Empire, and late Rome,  
And lived when every great change did come,  
Had first in paradise, a low, but fatal room.   

VIII.  
Yet no low room, nor then the greatest, less,  
If (as devout and sharp men fitly guess)  
That Cross, our joy, and grief, where nails did tie  
That All, which always was all, every where  
Which could not sin, and yet all sins did bear;  
Which could not die, yet could not choose but die;  
Stood in the self same room in calvary,  
Where first grew the forbidden learned tree,  
For on that tree hung in security.  
This Soul, made by the Maker's will from pulling free.   

IX.  
Prince of the orchard, fair as dawning morn,  
Fenced with the law, and ripe as soon as borne  
That apple grew, which this Soul did  
Till the then climbing serpent, that now creeps  
For that offence, for which all mankind weeps,  
took it, and t'her whom the first man did wive  
(Whom and her race, only forbiddings drive)  
He gave it, she, t'her husband, both did eat;  
So perished the eaters, and the meat:  
And we (for treason taints the blood) thence die and sweat.   

X.  
Man all at once was there by woman slain,  
And one by one weare here slain over again  
By them. The mother poisoned the wellhead,  
The daughters here corrupts us,  
No smallness escapes, no greatness break their nets,  
She thrust us out, and by them we are led  
Astray, from turning, to whence we are fled,  
Were prisoners Judges, 'twould seem rigorous,  
She sinned, we here, part of our pain is, thus  
To love them, whose fault to this painful love yoked us.   

XI.  
So fast in us doth this corruption grow,  
That now we dare ask why we should be so,  
Would God (disputes the curious Rebel) make  
A law, and would not have it kept? Or can  
His creatures will, cross his? Of every man  
For one, will God (and be just) vengeance take?  
Who sinned? 'twas not forbidden to the snake  
Nor her, who was not then made; nor is't writ  
That Adam cropped, or knew the apple; yet  
The worm and she, and he, and we endure for it.   

XII.  
But snatch me heavenly Spirit, from this vain  
Reckoning their vanities, less is their gain  
Then hazard still, to meditate on ill,  
Though with good mind, their reasons like those toys  
Of glassy bubbles, with the gamesome boys  
Stretch to so nice a thinness through a quill  
That they themselves break, do themselves spill,  
Arguing is heretics game, and Exercise  
As wrestlers, perfect them; Not liberties  
Of speech, but silence; hands, not tongues, end heresies.   

XIII.  
Just in that instant when the serpent's gripe,  
Broke the slight veins, and tender conduit-pipe,  
Through which this soul from the trees root did draw  
Life, and growth to this apple, fled away  
This loose soul, old, one and another day.  
As lightning, which one scarce dares say, he saw,  
'Tis so soon gone, (and better proof the law  
Of sense, than faith requires) swiftly she flew  
To a dark and foggy Plot; Her, her fates threw  
There through th'earth-pores, and in a Plant housed her a new.   

XIV.  
The plant thus abled, to itself did force  
A place, where no place was; by nature's course  
As air from water, water fleets away  
From thicker bodies, by this root thronged so  
His spongy confines gave him place to grow,  
Just as in our streets, when the people stay  
To see the Prince, and so filled the way  
That weasels scarce could pass, when she comes ne'er  
They throng and cleave up, and a passage clear,  
As if, for that time, their round bodies flatned were.   

XV.  
His right arm he thrust out towards the East,  
Westward his left; th'ends did themselves digest  
Into ten lesser strings, these fingers were:  
And as a slumberer stretching on his bed;  
This way he this, and that way scattered  
His other leg, which feet with toes upbeare;  
Grew on his middle parts, the first day, hair,  
To show, that in love's business he should still  
A dealer be, and be used well, or ill:  
His apples kind, his leaves, force of conception kill.   

XVI.  
A mouth, but dumb, he hath; blind eyes, deaf ears,  
And to his shoulders dangle subtle hairs;  
A young Colossus there he stands upright,  
And as that ground by him were conquered  
A leafy garland wears he on his head  
Enchased with little fruits, so red and bright  
That for them you would call your Love's lips white;  
So, of alone unhaunted place possessed,  
Did this soul's second Inn, built by the guest  
This living buried man, this quiet mandrake, rest▪   

XVII.  
No lustful woman came this plant to grieve,  
But 'twas because there was none yet but Eve:  
And she (with other purpose) killed it quite;  
Her sin had now brought in infirmities,  
And so her cradled child, the moist red eyes  
Had never shut, nor steeped since it saw light,  
Poppy she knew, she knew the mandrakes might;  
And tore up both, and so cooled her child's blood;  
Unvirtuous weeds might long unvexed have stood;  
But he's short lived, that with his death can do most good.   

XVIII.  
To an unfetterd souls quick nimble haste  
Are falling stars, and hearts thoughts, but slow paced:  
Thinner then burnt air flies this soul, and she  
Whom four new coming, and four parting Suns  
Had found, and left the Mandrake's tenant, runs  
Thought less of change, when her firm destiny  
Confined, and enjayld her, that seemed so free,  
Into a small blue shell, the which a poor  
Warm bird o'erspread, and sat still evermore,  
Till her unclothed child kicked, and picked itself a door.   

XIX.  
Outcrept a sparrow, this souls moving Inn,  
On whose raw arms stiff feathers now begin,  
As children's teeth through gums, to break with pain,  
His flesh is jelly yet, and his bones threads,  
All downy a new mantle overspreads,  
A mouth he opes, which would as much contain  
As his late house, and the first hour speaks plain,  
And chirps aloud for meat. Meat fit for men  
His father steals for him, and so feeds then  
One, that within a month, will beat him from his hen.   

XX  
In this world's youth wise nature did make haste,  
Things ripened sooner, and did longer last;  
Already this hot cock in bush and tree  
In field and tent oreflutters his next hen,  
He asks her not, who did so taste, nor when,  
Nor if his sister, or his niece she be,  
Nor doth she pule for his inconstancy  
If in her sight he change, nor doth refuse  
The next that calls; both liberty do use;  
Where store is of both kinds, both kinds may freely choose.   

XXI.  
Men, till they took laws which made freedom less,  
Their daughters, and their sisters did ingress,  
Till now unlawful, therefore ill; 'twas not  
So jolly, that it can move this soul; Is  
The body so free of his kindnesses,  
That self preserving it hath now forgot,  
And slackneth so the souls, and body's knot,  
Which temperance streightens; freely on his she friends  
He blood, and spirit, pith, and marrow spends,  
Ill steward of himself, himself in three years' ends.   

XXII.  
Else might he long have lived; man did not know  
Of gummy blood, which doth in holly grow  
How to make birdlime, nor how to deceive  
With feigned calls, his nets, or enwrapping snare  
The free inhabitants of the Pliant air.  
Man to beget, and woman to conceive  
Asked not of roots, nor of cock-sparrows, leave:  
Yet chooseth he, though none of these he fears,  
Pleasantly three, then straightened twenty years  
To live, and to increase, himself outweares.   

XXIII.  
This coal with overblowing quenched and dead,  
The Soul from her too active organs fled  
T'a brook; a female fishes sandy Roe  
With the males jelly, newly lev'ned was,  
For they intertouched as they did pass,  
And one of those small bodies, fitted so,  
This soul informed, and abled it to roe  
Itself with finny oars, which she did fit,  
Her scales seemed yet of parchment, and as yet  
Perchance a fish, but by no name you could call it.   

XXIV.  
When goodly, like a ship in her full trim,  
A swan, so white that you may unto him  
Compare all whiteness, but himself to none,  
Glided along, and as he glided watched,  
And with his arched neck this poor fish catched.  
It moved with state, as if to look upon  
Low things it scorned, and yet before that one  
Could think he sought it, he had swallowed clear  
This, and much such, and unblamed devoured there  
All, but who too swift, too great, or well armed were   

XXV.  
Now swum a prison in a prison put,  
And now this Soul in double walls was shut,  
Till melted with the Swans digestive fire,  
She left her house the fish, and vapoured forth;  
Fate not affording bodies of more worth  
For her as yet, bids her again retire  
T'another fish, to any new desire  
Made a new prey; For, he that can to none  
Resistance make, nor complaint, sure is gone.  
Weakness invites, but silence feasts oppression.   

XXVI.  
Place with the native stream, this fish doth keep,  
And journeys with her, towards the glassy deep,  
But oft retarded, once with a hidden net  
Though with great windows, for when need first taught  
These tricks to catch food, then they were not wrought  
As now, with curious greediness to let  
None scape, but few, and fit for use to get,  
As, in this trap a ravenous pike was ta'en,  
Who, though himself distressed, would fain have slain  
This wretch; So hardly are ill habits left again.   

XXVII.  
Here by her smallness she two deaths orepast,  
Once innocence scaped, and left the oppressor fast;  
The net through-swome, she keeps the liquid path,  
And whether she leap up sometimes to breath  
And suck in air, or find it underneath,  
Or working parts like mills, or limbecks hath  
To make the wether thin, and airelike faith  
Cares not, but safe the Place she's come unto  
Where fresh, with salt waves meet, and what to do  
She knows not, but between both makes a board or two   

XXVIII.  
So far from hiding her guests, water is  
That she shows them in bigger quantities  
Than they are. Thus doubtful of her way,  
For game and not for hunger a sea Pie  
Spied through this traitorous spectacle, from high,  
The silly fish where it disputing lay,  
And th'end her doubts and her, bears her away,  
Exalted she's, but to the exalters good,  
As are by great ones, men which lowly stood.  
It's raised, to be the Raiser's instrument and food.   

XXIX.  
Is any kind subject to rape like fish?  
Ill unto man, they neither do, nor wish:  
Fishers they kill not, nor with noise awake,  
They do not hunt, nor strive to make a prey  
Of beasts, nor their young sons to bear away;  
Foules they pursue not, nor do undertake  
To spoil the nests industruous birds do make;  
Yet them all these unkind kinds feed upon,  
To kill them is an occupation,  
And laws make fasts, & lents for their destruction.   

XXX.  
A sudden stiff land-winde in that self hour  
To seaward forced this bird, that did devour  
The fish; he cares not, for with ease he flies,  
Fat gluttonies best orator: at last  
So long he hath flown, and hath flown so fast  
That leagues overpast at sea, now tired he lies,  
And with his prey, that till then languished, dies,  
The souls no longer foes, two ways did err,  
The fish I follow, and keep no calendar  
Of the other; he lives yet in some great officer.   

XXXI.  
Into an embryo fish, our Soul is thrown  
And in due time thrown out again, and grown  
To such vastness, as if unmanacled  
From Greece, Morea were, and that by some  
Earthquake unrooted, loose Morea swum,  
Or seas from Africks' body had severed  
And torn the hopeful Promontories head,  
This fish would seem these, and, when all hopes fail,  
A great ship overset, or without sail  
Hulling, might (when this was a whelp) be like this whale.   

XXXII.  
At every stroke his brazen fins do take  
More circles in the broken sea they make  
Then cannons voices, when the air they tear:  
His ribs are pillars, and his high arched roof  
Of bark that blunts best steel, is thunder-proof,  
Swim in him swallowed Dolphins, without fear,  
And feel no sides, as if his vast womb were  
Some Inland sea, and ever as he went  
He spouted rivers up, as if he meant  
To join our seas, with seas above the firmament.   

XXXIII.  
He hunts not fish, but as an officer,  
Stays in his court, at his own net, and there  
All suitors of all sorts themselves enthrall;  
So on his back lies this whale wantoning,  
And in his gulf-like throat, sucks every thing  
That passeth near. Fish chaseth fish, and all,  
Flyer and follower, in this whirlpool fall;  
O might not states of more equality  
Consist? and is it of necessity  
That thousand guiltless smals, to make one great, must die?   

XXXIV.  
Now drinks he up seas, and he eats up flocks,  
He justles Lands, and he shakes firm rocks.  
Now in a roomefull house this Soul doth float,  
And like a Prince she sends her faculties  
To all her limbs, distant as Provinces.  
The Sun hath twenty times both crab and goat  
Parched, since first launched forth this living boat.  
'Tis greatest now, and to destruction  
Nearest; There's no pause at perfection.  
Greatness a period hath, but hath no station.   

XXXV.  
Two little fishes whom he never harmed,  
Nor fed on their kind, two not throughly armed  
With hope that they could kill him, nor could do  
Good to themselves by his death: they did not eat  
His flesh, nor suck those oils, which thence outstreat,  
Conspired against him, and it might undo  
The plot of all, that the plotters were two,  
But that they fishes were, and could not speak.  
How shall a Tyrant wise strong projects break,  
If wretches can on them the common anger wreak?   

XXXVI.  
The flaile-find Thresher, and steel-beaked Swordfish  
Only attempt to do, what all do wish.  
The Thresher backs him, and to beat begins;  
The sluggard Whale yields to oppression,  
And t'hide himself from shame and danger, down  
Begins to sink; the Swordfish upward spins,  
And gores him with his beak; his staffe-like fins,  
So were the one, his sword the other plies,  
That now a scoff, and prey, this tyrant dies,  
And (his own dole) feeds with himself all companies.   

XXXVII.  
Who will revenge his death? or who will call  
Those to account, that thought, and wrought his fall?  
The heirs of slain kings, we see are often so  
Transported with the joy of what they get,  
That they, revenge, and obsequies forget,  
Nor will against such men the people go,  
Because he's now dead, to whom they should show  
Love in that act. Some kings by vice being grown  
So needy of subjects love, that of their won  
They think they lose, if love be to the dead Prince shown.   

XXXVIII.  
This Soul, now free from prison, and passion,  
Hath yet a little indignation  
That so small hammers should so soon down beat  
So great a castle. And having for her house  
Got the straight cloister of a wretched mouse  
(As basest men that have not what to eat,  
Nor enjoy aught, do far more hate the great  
Then they, who good reposed estates possess)  
This Soul, late taught that great things might by less  
Be slain, to gallant mischief doth herself address.   

XXXIX.  
Nature's great masterpiece, an Elephant,  
The only harmless great thing; the giant  
Of beasts; who thought, no more had gone, to make one wise  
But to be just, and thankful, loath to offend,  
(Yet nature hath given him no knees to bend)  
Himself he up-props, on himself relies  
And foe to none, suspects no enemies,  
Still sleeping stood; vexed not his fantasy  
Black dreams, like an unbent bow, carelessly  
His sinewy Proboscis did remissly lie.   

XL.  
In which as in a gallery this mouse  
Walked, and surveid the rooms of this vast house,  
And to the brain, the soul's bed chamber, went,  
And gnawed the life cords there; Like a whole town  
Clean undermined, the slain beast tumbled down,  
With him the murderer dies whom envy sent  
To kill, not scape, for, only he that meant  
To die, did ever kill a man of better room,  
And thus he made his foe, his prey, and tomb:  
Who cares not to turn back, may any whither come.   

XLI.  
Next, housed this Soul a Wolves yet unborn whelp,  
Till the best midwife, Nature, gave it help,  
To issue. It could kill, as soon as go,  
Abel, as white, and mild as his sheep were,  
(Who in that trade of Church, and kingdoms, there  
Was the first type) was still infested so,  
With this wolf, that it bred his loss and woe;  
And yet his bitch, his sentinel attends  
The flock so near, so well warns and defends,  
That the wolf, (hopeless else) to corrupt her, intends.   

XLII.  
He took a course, which since, successfully,  
Great men have often taken, to espy  
The counsels, or to break the plots of foes,  
To Abel's tent he stealeth in the dark,  
On whose skirts the bitch slept; ere she could bark,  
Attached her with straight gripes, yet he called those,  
Embracements of love; to love's work he goes,  
Where deeds move more than words; nor doth she show,  
Nor much resist, nor needs he straighten so  
His prey, for, were she lose, she would not bark, nor go.   

XLIII.  
He hath engaged her; his, she wholly bides;  
Who not her own, none others secrets hides,  
If to the flock he come, and Abel there,  
She feigns hoarse barkings, but she biteth not,  
Her faith is quite, but not her love forgot.  
At last a trap, of which some every where  
Abel had placed, ends all his loss, and fear,  
By the Wolves death; and now just time it was  
That a quick soul should give life to that mass  
Of blood in Abel's bitch, and thither this did pass.   

XLIV.  
Some have their wives, their sisters some begot,  
But in the lives of Emperors you shall not  
Read of a lust the which may equal this;  
This wolf begot himself, and finished  
What he began alive, when he was dead,  
Son to himself, and father too, he is  
A riddling lust, for which Schoolmen would miss  
A proper name. The whelp of both these lay  
In Abel's tent, and with soft Moaba,  
His sister, being young, it used to sport and play.   

XLV.  
He soon for her too harsh, and churlish grew,  
And Abel (the dam dead) would use this new  
For the field, being of two kinds made,  
He, as his dam, from sheep drove wolves away,  
And as his Sire, he made them his own prey.  
Five years he lived, and cozened with his trade,  
Then hopeless that his faults were hid, betrayed  
Himself by flight, and by all followed,  
From dogs, a wolf; from wolves, a dog he fled;  
And, like a spy to both sides false, he perished.   

XLVI.  
It quickened next a toyfull Ape, and so  
Gamesome it was, that it might freely go  
From tent to tent, and with the children play,  
His organs now so like theirs he doth find,  
That why he cannot laugh, and speak his mind,  
He wonders. Much with all, most he doth stay  
With Adam's fifth daughter Siphatecia,  
Doth gaze on her, and, where she passeth, pass,  
Gathers her fruits, and tumbles on the grass,  
And wisest of that kind, the first true lover was.   

XLVII.  
He was the first that more desired to have  
One than another; first that ere did crave  
Love by mute signs, and had no power to speak;  
First that could make love faces, or could do  
The valters' sombersalts, or used to woo  
With hoiting gambols, his own bones to break  
To make his mistress merry; or to wreak  
Her anger on himself. Sins against kind  
They easily do, that can let feed their mind  
With outward beauty, beauty they in boys and beasts do find.   

XLVIII.  
By this misled, too low things men have proved,  
And too high; beasts and angels have been loved;  
This Ape, though else through-vaine, in this was wise,  
He reached at things too high, but open way  
There was, and he knew not she would say nay;  
His toys prevail not, likelier means he tries,  
He gazeth on her face with teare-shot eyes,  
And up lifts subtly with his russet paw  
Her kidskinne apron without fear or awe  
Of nature; nature hath no gaol, though she hath law.   

XLIX.  
First she was silly and knew not what he meant,  
That virtue, by his touches, chafed and spent,  
Succeeds an itchy warmth, that melts her quite,  
She knew not first, now cares not what he doth,  
And willing half and more, more than half Tooth  
She neither pulls nor bushes, but outright  
Now cries, and now reputes; when Tethelemite  
Her brother, entered, and a great stone threw  
After the Ape, who, thus prevented, flew,  
This house thus battered down, the Soul possessed a new.   

L.  
And whether by this change she lose or win,  
She comes out next, where the Ape would have gone in,  
Adam and Eve had mingled bloods, and now  
Like Chimiques equal fires, her temperate womb  
Had stewed and formed it: and part did become  
A spongy liver, that did richly allow,  
Like a free conduit, on a high hills brow,  
Life keeping moisture unto every part,  
Part hardened itself to a thicker heart,  
Whose busy furnaces lives spirits do impart.   

LI.  
Another part became the well of sense,  
The tender well armed feeling brain, from whence,  
Those sinewy strings which do our bodies tie,  
Are raveld out, and fast there by one end,  
Did this Soul limbs, these limbs a soul attend,  
And now they joined: keeping some quality  
Of every past shape, she knew treachery,  
Rapine, deceit, and lust, and ills enough  
To be a woman. Themech she is now,  
Sister and wife to Cain, Cain that first did plow.   

LII.  
Who ere thou be'st that readest this sullen Writ,  
Which just so much courts thee, as thou dost it,  
Let me arrest thy thoughts, wonder with me,  
Why ploughing, building, ruling and the rest,  
Or most of those arts, whence our lives are blessed,  
By cursed cain's race invented be,  
And blessed Seth vexed us with Astronomy,  
there's nothing simply good, nor ill alone,  
Of every quality comparison,  
The only measure is, and judge, opinion.    

HOLY SONNETS.  

La Corona.  
1.  
Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise,  
Woven in my low devout melancholy,  
Thou which of good, haste, yea art treasury,  
All changing unchanged Ancient of days,  
But do not, with a vile crown of frail bays,  
Reward my muses white sincerity,  
But what thy thorny crown gained, that give me,  
A crown of Glory, which doth flower always;  
The ends crown our works, but thou crownest our ends,  
For, at our end begins our endless rest,  
The first last end, now zealously possessed,  
With a strong sober thirst, my soul attends.  
'Tis time that heart and voice be lifted high,  
Salvation to all that will is nigh,   

ANNUNCIATION.  
2  
Salvation to all that will is nigh,  
That All, which always is All every where,  
Which cannot sin, and yet all sins must bear,  
Which cannot die, yet cannot choose but die,  
Lo, faithful Virgin, yields himself to lie  
In prison, in thy womb; and though he there  
Can take no sin, nor thou give, yet he'will wear  
Taken from thence, flesh, which deaths force may try.  
Ere by the spheres time was created, thou  
Wast in his mind, who is thy Son, and Brother,  
Whom thou conceivest, conceived; yea thou art now  
Thy Maker's maker, and thy Father's mother,  
Thou'hast light in dark; and shutst in little room,  
Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb.   

NATIVITY.  
3  
Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb,  
Now leaves his well-beloved imprisonment,  
There he hath made himself to his intent  
Weak enough, now into our world to come;  
But Oh, for thee, for him, hath th'inn no room?  
Yet lay him in this stall, and from the Orient,  
Stars, and wisemen will travel to prevent  
Th'effects of Herod's jealous general doom;  
Seest thou, my Soul, with thy faith's eyes, how he  
Which fills all place, yet none holds him, doth lie?  
Was not his pity towards thee wondrous high,  
That would have need to be pitied by thee?  
Kiss him, and with him into Egypt go,  
With his kind mother, who partakes thy woe.   

TEMPLE.  
4  
With his kind mother who partakes thy woe,  
joseph turn back; see where your child doth sit,  
Blowing, yea blowing out those sparks of wit,  
Which himself on the Doctors did bestow;  
The Word but lately could not speak, and lo  
It suddenly speaks wonders, whence comes it,  
That all which was, and all which should be writ,  
A shallow seeming child, should deeply know?  
His Godhead was not soul to his manhood,  
Nor had time mellowed him to this ripeness,  
But as for one which hath a long task, 'Tis good,  
With the Sun to begin his business,  
He in his age's morning thus began  
By miracles exceeding power of man.   

CRUCIFYING.  
5  
By miracles exceeding power of man,  
He faith in some, envy in some begat,  
For, what weak spirits admire, ambitious, hate;  
In both affections many to him ran,  
But Oh! the worst are most, they will and can,  
Alas, and do, unto the immaculate,  
Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a Fate,  
Measuring selfe-lifes' infinity to span,  
Nay to an inch, lo, where condemned he  
Bears his own cross, with pain, yet by and by  
When it bears him, he must bear more and die;  
Now thou art lifted up, draw me to thee,  
And at thy death giving such liberal dole,  
Moist, with one drop of thy blood, my dry soul.   

RESURRECTION.  
6  
Moist with one drop of thy blood, my dry soul,  
Shall (though she now be in extreme degree  
Too stony hard, and yet too fleshly,) be  
Freed by that drop, from being starved, hard, or foul,  
And life, by this death abled, shall control  
Death, whom thy death slew; nor shall to me  
Fear of first or last death, bring misery,  
If in thy little book my name thou enrol,  
Flesh in that long sleep is not putrified,  
But made that there, of which, and for which 'twas;  
Nor can by other means be glorified.  
May then sins sleep, and death soon from me pass,  
That waked from both, I again risen may  
Salute the last, and everlasting day.   

ASCENTION.  
7  
Salute the last and everlasting day,  
Joy at the uprising of this Sun, and Son,  
Ye whose just tears, or tribulation  
Have purely washed, or burned your drossy clay;  
Behold the Highest, parting hence away,  
Lightens the dark clouds, which he treads upon,  
Nor doth he by ascending, show alone,  
But first he, and he first enters the way,  
O strong Ram, which hast battered heaven for me,  
Mild lamb which with thy blood, hast marked the path;  
Bright torch, which shinest, that I the way may see,  
Oh, with thy own blood quench thy own just wrath,  
And if thy holy Spirit, my Muse did raise,  
Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise.    

Holy Sonnets.  

I.  
AS due by many titles I resign  
Myself to thee, O God, first I was made  
By thee, and for thee, and when I was decayed  
Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine,  
I am thy son, made with thyself to shine,  
Thy servant, whose pains thou hast still repaid,  
Thy sheep, thine Image, and till I betrayed  
Myself, a temple of thy Spirit divine;  
Why doth the devil then usurp on me?  
Why doth he steal nay ravish that's thy right?  
Except thou rise and for thine own work fight,  
Oh I shall soon despair, when I do see  
That thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt'not choose me.  
And Satan hates me, yet is loath to lose me.   

II.  
Oh my black Soul! now thou art summoned  
By sickness, death's herald, and champion;  
Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done  
Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled,  
Or like a thief, which till death's doom be read,  
Wisheth himself delivered from prison;  
But damned and haled to execution,  
Wishes that still he might be imprisoned;  
Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack;  
But who shall give thee that grace to begin?  
Oh make thyself with holy mourning black,  
And red with blushing, as thou art with sin;  
Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might  
That being red, it dies red souls to white.   

III.  
This is my plays last scene, here heavens appoint  
My pilgrimages last mile; and my race  
Idly, yet quickly run, hath this last pace,  
My spans last inch, my minute's latest point,  
And gluttonous death, will instantly unjoint  
My body, and my soul, and I shall sleep a space,  
But my'ever-waking part shall see that face,  
Whose fear already shakes my every joint:  
Then, as my soul, to'heaven her first seat, takes flight,  
And earth borne body, in the earth shall dwell,  
So, fall my sins, that all may have their right,  
To where theyare bred, and would press me, to hell.  
Impute me righteous, thus purged of evil,  
For thus I leave the world, the flesh the devil.   

IV.  
At the round earth's imagined corners, blow  
Your trumpets, Angels, and arise, arise  
From death, you numberless infinities  
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,  
All whom the flood did, and fire shall overthrow,  
All whom war, death, age, agues, tyrannies,  
Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes,  
Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe,  
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space,  
For, if above all these, my sins abound,  
'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace,  
When we are there; here on this lowly ground,  
Teach me how to repent; for that's as good  
As if thou'hadst sealed my pardon, with thy blood.   

V.  
If poisonous minerals, and if that tree,  
Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us,  
If lecherous goats, if serpents envious  
Cannot be damned; Alas; why should I be?  
Why should intent or reason, borne in me,  
Make sins, else equal, in me, more heinous?  
And mercy being easy, and glorious  
To God, in his stern wrath, why threatens he?  
But who am I, that dare dispute with thee?  
O God, Oh! of thine only worthy blood,  
And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood,  
And drown in it my sins black memory,  
That thou remember them, some claim as debt,  
I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget,   

VI  
Death be not proud, though some have called thee  
Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,  
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,  
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me;  
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,  
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,  
And soon our best men with thee do go,  
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery  
Thou art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,  
And doth with poison, war, and sickness dwell.  
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,  
And better than thy stroke; why swellest thou then?  
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,  
And death shall be no more, death thou shalt die.   

VII.  
Spit in my face you Jews, and pierce my side,  
Buffet, and scoff, scourge, and crucify me,  
For I have sinned, and sinned, and only he,  
Who could do no iniquity, hath died:  
But by my death can not be satisfied  
My sins, which pass the Jews impiety:  
They killed once an inglorious man, but I  
Crucify him daily, being now glorified;  
Oh let me then, his strange love still admire:  
Kings pardon but he bore our punishment.  
And jacob came clothed in vile harsh attire  
But to supplant, and with gainful intent  
God clothed himself in vile man's flesh, that so  
He might be weak enough to suffer woe.   

VIII.  
Why are we by all creatures waited on?  
Why do the prodigal elements supply  
Life and food to me, being more pure than I,  
Simple, and further from corruption?  
Why brook'st thou, ignorant horse, subjection?  
Why dost thou bull, and bore so seelily  
Dissemble weakness, and by'one man's stroke die,  
Whose whole kind, you might swallow & feed upon?  
Weaker I am, woe is me, and worse than you,  
You have not sinned, nor need be timorous,  
But wonder at a greater wonder, for to us  
Created nature doth these things subdue,  
But their Creator, whom sin, nor nature tied,  
For us, his Creatures, and his foes, hath died.   

IX.  
What if this present were the world's last night?  
Mark in my heart, O Soul, where thou dost dwell,  
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell  
Whether his countenance can thee affright,  
Tears in his eyes quench the amasing light,  
Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell  
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,  
Which prayed forgiveness for his foes fierce spite?  
No, no; but as in my idolatry  
I said to all my profane mistresses,  
Beauty, of pity, foulness only is  
A sign of rigour: so I say to thee,  
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned,  
This beauteous form assumes a piteous mind.   

X.  
Batter my heart, three personed God; for, you  
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;  
That I may rise, and stand, overthrow me, ' and bend  
Your force, to break, blow, burn and make me new,  
I, like an usurped town, to'another due,  
Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,  
Reason your viceroy in me, me should defend,  
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue,  
Yet dearely'is love you, and would be loved fain,  
But am betrothed unto your enemy,  
Divorce me, ' untie, or break that knot again,  
Take me to you, imprison me, for I  
Except you'enthral me, never shall be free,  
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.   

XI.  
Wilt thou love God, as he thee! then digest,  
My Soul, this wholesome meditation,  
How God the Spirit, by Angels waited on  
In heaven, doth make his Temple in thy breast,  
The Father having begot a Son most blessed,  
And still begetting, (for he ne'er begun)  
Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption,  
Coheir to'his glory, ' and Sabbaths endless rest;  
And as a robbed man, which by search doth find  
His stolen stuff sold, must lose or buy'it again:  
The Son of glory came down, and was slain,  
Us whom he'had made, and Satan stolen, to unbind.  
'Twas much, that man was made like God before,  
But, that God should be made like man, much more.   

XII.  
Father, part of his double interest  
Unto thy kingdom, thy Son gives to me,  
His jointure in the knotty Trinity,  
He keeps, and gives to me his death's conquest,  
This Lamb, whose death, with life the world hath blessed,  
Was from the world's beginning slain, and he  
Hath made two Wills, which with the Legacy  
Of his and thy kingdom, do thy Sons invest,  
Yet such are these laws, that men argue yet  
Whether a man those statutes can fulfil;  
None doth, but thy all-healing grace and Spirit,  
Revive again what law and letter kill,  
Thy law's abridgement, and thy last command  
Is all but love; Oh let this last Will stand!    

EPIGRAMS.  

Hero and Leander.  
BOth robbed of air, we both lie in one ground,  
Both whom one fire had burnt, one water drowned.   

Pyramus and Thisbe.  
Two, by themselves, each other, love and fear  
Slain, cruel friends, by parting have joined here.   

Niobe.  
By children's births, and death, I am become  
So dry, that I am now mine own sad tomb.   

A burnt ship.  
Out of a fired ship, which, by no way  
But drowning, could be rescued from the flame,  
Some men leaped forth, and ever as they came  
Near the foes ships, did by their shot decay;  
So all were lost, which in the ship were found,  
They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt ship drowned.   

Fall of a wall.  
Under an undermined, and shot-bruised wall  
A too-bold Captain perished by the fall,  
Whose brave misfortune, happiest men envied,  
That had a town for tomb, his bones to hide.   

A lame beggar.  
I am unable, yonder beggar cries,  
To stand, or move; if he say true, he lies.   

A self accuser.  
Your mistress, that you follow whores, still taxeth you:  
'Tis strange that she should thus confess it, though'it be true.   

A licentious person.  
Thy sins and hairs may no man equal call,  
For, as thy sins increase, thy hairs do fall.   

Antiquary.  
If in his Study he hath so much care  
To'hang all old strange things, let his wife beware.   

Disinherited.  
Thy father all from thee, by his last Will  
Gave to the poor; Thou hast good title still,   

Phryne.  
Thy flattering picture, Phryne, is like thee,  
Only in this, that you both painted be.   

An obscure writer.  

Philo, with twelve years' study, hath been grieved,  
To'be understood, when will he be believed.   

Klockius so deeply hath sworn, ne'er more to come  
In bawdy house, that he dares not go home.    

Raderus.  
Why this man gelded Marshal I muse,  
Except himself alone his tricks would use,  
As Katherine, for the Courts sake, put down Stews.   

Mercurlus Gallo-Belgicus.  

Like Esop's fellow-slaves, O Mercury,  
Which could do all things, thy faith is; and I  
Like Esop's self, which nothing; I confess  
I should have had more faith, if thou hadst less;  
Thy credit lost thy credit: 'Tis sin to do,  
In this case, as thou wouldst be done unto,  
To believe all: Change thy name: thou art like  
Mercury in stealing, but liest like a Greek.   

Compassion in the world again is bred:  
Ralphius is sick, the broker keeps his bed.     


ELEGY. I.  
FOnd woman which wouldst have thy husband die,  
And yet complainest of his great jealousy;  
If swollen with poison, he lay in'his last bed,  
His body with a sere-barke covered,  
Drawing his breath, as thick and short, as can  
The nimblest crocheting Musician,  
Ready with loathsome vomiting to spew  
His Soul out of one hell, into a new,  
Made deaf with his poor kindreds howling cries,  
Begging with few feigned tears, great legacies,  
Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly, ' and frolic be,  
As a slave, which to morrow should be free,  
Yet weep'st thou, when thou seest him hungerly  
Swallow his own death, hearts-bane jealousy.  
O give him many thanks, he's courteous,  
That in suspecting kindly warneth us.  
We must not, as we used, flout openly,  
In scoffing riddles, his deformity;  
Nor at his board together being sat,  
With words, nor touch, scarce looks adulterate.  
Nor when he swollen, and pampered with great fare  
Sits down, and snorts, caged in his basket chair,  
Must we usurp his own bed any more,  
Nor kiss and play in his house, as before.  
Now I see many dangers; for it is  
His realm, his castle, and his diocese.  
But if, as envious men, which would revile  
Their Prince, or coin his gold, themselves exile  
Into another country, ' and do it there,  
We play'in another house, what should we fear?  
There we will scorn his household policies,  
His silly plots, and pensionary spies,  
As the inhabitants of Thames right side  
Do London's Major, or Germans, the Pope's pride.   

Elegy II.  
Marry, and love thy Flavia, for, she  
Hath all things, whereby others beauteous bee,  
For, though her eyes be small, her mouth is great,  
Though they be Ivory, yet her teeth be jeer,  
Though they be dim, yet she is light enough,  
And though her harsh hair fall, her skin is rough;  
What though her cheeks be yellow, her hair's red,  
Give her thine, and she hath a maidenhead.  
These things are beauties elements, where these  
Meet in one, that one must, as perfect, please.  
If red and white and each good quality  
Be in thy wench, ne'er ask where it doth lie.  
In buying things perfumed, we ask; if there  
Be musk and amber in it, but not where.  
Though all her parts be not in th'usual place,  
She'hath yet an Anagram of a good face.  
If we might put the letters but one way,  
In the lean dearth of words, what could we say?  
When by the Gamut some Musicians make  
A perfect song, others will undertake,  
By the same Gamut changed, to equal it.  
Things simply good, can never be unfit;  
She's fair as any, if all be like her,  
And if none be, than she is singular.  
All love is wonder; if we justly do  
Account her wonderful, why not lovely too?  
Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies,  
Choose this face, changed by no deformities;  
Women are all like Angels; the fair be  
Like those which fell to worse; but such as she,  
Like to good Angels, nothing can impair:  
'Tis less grief to be foul, then to'have been fair.  
For one nights revels, silk and gold we choose,  
But, in long journeys, cloth, and leather use.  
Beauty is barren oft; best husbands say  
There is best land, where there is foulest way.  
Oh what a sovereign Plaster will she be  
If thy past sins have taught thee jealousy!  
Here needs no spies, nor eunuchs; her commit  
Safe to thy foes; yea, to a Marmosit.  
When Belgiaes' cities, the round countries drown,  
That dirty foulness guards, and arms the town:  
So doth her face guard her; and so, for thee,  
Which, forced by business, absent oft must be,  
She, whose face, like clouds, turns the day to night,  
Who, mightier than the sea, makes Moores seem white,  
Who, though seven years, she in the Stews had laid,  
A Nunnery durst receive, and think a maid,  
And though in childbeds labour she did lie,  
Midwives would swear, 'twere but a tympany,  
Whom, if she accuse herself, I credit less  
Than witches, which impossibles confess.  
One like none, and liked of none, fittest were,  
For, things in fashion every man will wear.   

Elegy III.  
Although thy hand and faith, and good works too,  
Have sealed thy love which nothing should undo,  
Yea though thou fall back, that apostasy  
Confirm thy love; yet much, much I fear thee.  
Women, are like the Arts, forced unto none,  
Open to'all searchers, unprized, if unknown.  
If I have caught a bird, and let him fly,  
Another fouler using these means, as I,  
May catch the same bird; and, as these things be,  
Women are made for men, not him, nor me.  
Foxes and goats; all beasts change when they please,  
Shall women, more hot, wily, wild then these,  
Be bound to one man, and did Nature then  
Idly make them apt to'endure than men?  
theyare our clogs, not their own; if a man be  
Chained to a galley, yet the galley'is free;  
Who hath a plow-land, casts all his seed corn there,  
And yet allows his ground more corn should bear;  
Though Danuby into the sea must flow,  
The sea receives the Rhine, Volga, and Po.  
By nature, which gave it, this liberty  
Thou lov'st, but Oh! canst thou love it and me?  
Likeness glues love: and if that thou so do,  
To make us like and love, must I change too?  
More than thy hate, I hate'it, rather let me  
Allow her change, then change as oft as she,  
And so not teach, but force my'opinion  
To love not any one, nor every one.  
To live in one land, is captivity,  
To run all countries, a wild roguery;  
Waters stink soon, if in one place they bide,  
And in the vast sea are more putrified:  
But when they kiss one bank, and leaving this  
Never look back, but the next bank do kiss,  
Then are they purest; Change'is the nursery  
Of music, joy, life, and eternity.   

Elegy IU.  
Once, and but once found in thy company,  
All thy supposed escapes are laid on me;  
And as a thief at bar, is questioned there  
By all the men, that have been robbed that year,  
So am I, (by this traitorous means surprised)  
By thy Hydroptique father catechised.  
Though he hath oft sworn, that he would remove  
Thy beauty's beauty, and food of our love,  
Hope of his goods, if I with thee were seen,  
Yet close and secret, as our souls, we'have been.  
Though thy immortal mother which doth lie  
Still buried in her bed, yet will not dye,  
Takes this advantage to sleep out daylight,  
And watch thy entries, and returns all night,  
And, when she takes thy hand, and would seem kind,  
Doth search what rings, and armlets she can find,  
And kissing notes the colour of thy face,  
And fearing least thouart swollen, doth thee embrace;  
To try if thou long, doth name strange meats.  
And notes thy paleness, blushing, sighs, and sweats;  
And politicly will to thee confess  
The sins of her own youth's rank lustiness;  
Yet love these Sorceries did remove, and move  
Thee to gull thine own mother for my love.  
Thy little brethren, which like Fairy Sprights  
Oft skipped into our chamber, those sweet nights,  
And kissed, and ingled on thy father's knee,  
Were bribed next day, to tell what they did see.  
The grim-eight-foot-high-iron-bound servingman,  
That oft names God in oaths, and only than,  
He that to bar the first gate, doth as wide  
As the great Rhodian Colossus stride,  
Which, if in hell no other pains there were,  
Makes me fear hell, because he must be there:  
Though by thy father he were hired to this,  
Could never witness any touch or kiss;  
But Oh, too common ill, I brought with me  
That, which betrayed me to my enemy:  
A loud perfume, which at my entrance cried  
Even at thy father's nose, so were we spied.  
When, like a tyrant King, that in his bed  
Smelled gunpowder, the pale wretch shivered;  
Had it been some bad smell, he would have thought  
That his own feet, or breath, that smell had wrought  
But as we in our I'll imprisoned,  
Where cattle only, ' and divers dogs are bred,  
The precious Unicorns, strange monsters, call,  
So thought he good, strange, that had none at all.  
I taught my silks, their whistling to forbear,  
Even my oppressed shoes, dumb and speechless were,  
Only, thou bitter sweet, whom I had laid  
Next me, me traitorously hast betrayed,  
And unsuspected haste invisibly  
At once fled unto him, and stayed with me.  
Base excrement of earth, which dost confound  
Sense, from distinguishing the sick from sound;  
By thee the silly Amorous sucks his death  
By drawing in a leprous harlot's breath,  
By thee, the greatest stain to man's estate  
Falls on us, to be called effeminate;  
Though you be much loved in the Prince's hall,  
There, things that seem, exceed substantial.  
Gods, when ye fumed on altars, were pleased well,  
Because you'were burnt, not that they liked your smell,  
youare loathsome all, being taken simply alone,  
Shall we love ill things joined, and hate each one?  
If you were good, your good doth soon decay;  
And you are rare, that takes the good away.  
All my perfumes, I give most willingly  
To'embalme thy father's corpse; What? will he die?   

Elegy V.  
Here take my Picture, though I bid farewell;  
Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.  
'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more  
When we are shadows both, than 'twas before.  
When weatherbeaten I come back; my hand,  
Perhaps with rude oars torn, or Sun beams tanned,  
My face and breast of haircloth, and my head  
With cares rash sudden storms, being o'rspread,  
My body'a sack of bones, broken within,  
And powders blew stains scattered on my skin;  
If rival fools tax thee to'have loved a man,  
So foul, and course, as, Oh, I may seem than,  
This shall say what I was: and thou shalt say,  
Do his hurts reach me? doth my worth decay?  
Or do they reach his judging mind, that he  
Should now love less, what he did love to see?  
That which in him was fair and delicate,  
Was but the milk, which in loves childish state  
Did nurse it: who now is grown strong enough  
To feed on that, which to disused tastes seems tough.   

Elegy VI.  
Sorrow, who to this house scarce knew the way:  
Is, Oh, heir of it, our All is his prey.  
This strange chance claims strange wonder, and to us  
‛ Nothing can be so strange, as to weep thus;  
'Tis well his lifes loud speaking works deserve,  
And give praise too, our cold tongues could not serve:  
'Tis well, he kept tears from our eyes before,  
That to fit this deep ill, we might have store.  
Oh, if a sweet briar, climb up by'a tree,  
If to a paradise that transplanted be,  
Or felled, and burnt for holy sacrifice,  
Yet, that must wither, which by it did rise,  
As we for him dead: though no family  
Ere rigged a soul for heaven's discovery  
With whom more Venturers more boldly dare  
Venture their states, with him in joy to share  
We lose what all friends loved, him, he gains now  
But life by death, which worst foes would allow,  
If he could have foes, in whose practice grew  
All virtues, whose names subtle Schoolmen knew;  
What ease, can hope that we shall see'him, beget,  
When we must die first, and cannot dye yet?  
His children are his pictures, Oh they be  
Pictures of him dead, senseless, cold as he,  
Here needs no marble Tomb, since he is gone,  
He, and about him, his, are turned to stone.   

Elegy VII.  
Oh, let me not serve so, as those men serve  
Whom honours smokes at once fatten and starve;  
Poorly enriched with great men's words or looks;  
Nor so write my name in thy loving books  
As those Idolatrous flatterers, which still  
Their Prince's styles, which many Realms fulfil  
Whence they no tribute have, and where no sway.  
Such services I offer as shall pay  
Themselves, I hate dead names: Oh then let me  
Favourite in Ordinary, or no favourite be.  
When my Soul was in her own body sheathed,  
Nor yet by oaths betrothed, nor kisses breathed  
Into my Purgatory, faithless thee,  
Thy heart seemed wax, and steel thy constancy.  
So, careless flowers strowed on the water's face,  
The curled whirlpools suck, smack, and embrace,  
Yet drown them; so, the tapers beamy eye  
Amorously twinkling, beckons the giddy fly,  
Yet burns his wings; and such the devil is,  
Scarce visiting them, who are entirely his.  
When I behold a stream, which, from the spring,  
Doth with doubtful melodious murmuring,  
Or in a speechless slumber, calmly ride  
Her wedded channels bosom, and then chide  
And bend her brows, and swell if any bough  
Do but stoop down, or kiss her upmost brow:  
Yet, if her often gnawing kisses win  
The traitorous banks to gape, and let her in,  
She rusheth violently, and doth divorce  
Her from her native, and her long-kept course,  
And roars, and braves it, and in gallant scorn,  
In flattering eddies promising return,  
She flouts the channel, who thenceforth is dry;  
Then say I; that is she, and this am I.  
Yet let not thy deep bitterness beget  
Careless despair in me, for that will whet  
My mind to scorn; and Oh, love dulled with pain  
Was ne'er so wise, nor well armed as disdain.  
Then with new eyes I shall survey thee, ' and spy  
Death in thy cheeks, and darkness in thine eye;  
Though hope bred faith and love; thus taught, I shall  
As nations do from Rome, from thy love fall.  
My hate shall outgrow thine, and utterly  
I will renounce thy dalliance: and when I  
Am the Recusant, in that resolute state,  
What hurts it me to be'excommunicate?   

Elegy VIII.  
Nature's lay Idiot, I taught thee to love,  
And in that sophistry, Oh, thou dost prove  
Too subtle: Fool, thou didst not understand  
The mystique language of the eye nor hand:  
Nor couldst thou judge the difference of the air  
Of sighs, and say, this lies, this sounds despair.  
Nor by the'eyes' water call a malady  
Desperately hot, or changing feaverously.  
I had not taught thee then, the Alphabet  
Of flowers, how they devisefully being set  
And bound up, might with speechless secrecy  
Deliver errands mutely, and mutually.  
Remember since all thy words used to be  
To every suitor; I, if my friends agree.  
Since, household charms, thy husband's name to teach,  
Were all the love tricks, that thy wit could reach;  
And since, an hour's discourse could scarce have made  
One answer in thee, and that ill arrayed  
In broken proverbs, and torn sentences.  
Thou art not by so many duties his,  
That from the world's Common having severed thee,  
Inlaid thee, neither to be seen, nor see,  
As mine: who have with amorous delicacies  
Refined thee'into a blissful paradise.  
Thy graces and good words my creatures be,  
I planted knowledge and life's tree in thee,  
Which Oh, shall strangers taste? Must I alas  
Frame and enamel Plate, and drink inglasse?  
Chafe wax for others seals? break a colts force  
And leave him then, being made a ready horse?    

THE STORM.  
To Mr Christopher Brooke.  
THou which art I, ('tis nothing to be so)  
Thou which art still thyself, by these shalt know  
Part of our passage; And, a hand, or eye  
By Hilliard drawn, is worth an history,  
By a worse painter made; and (without pride)  
When by thy judgement they are dignified,  
My lines are such. 'Tis the pre-eminence  
Of friendship only to'impute excellence.  
England to whom we'owe, what we be, and have,  
Sad that her sons did seek a foreign grave  
(For, Fates, or Fortune's drifts none can Southsay,  
Honour and misery have one face and way.)  
From out her pregnant entrails sighed a wind  
Which at th'airs middle marble room did find  
Such strong resistance, that itself it threw  
Downward again; and so when it did view  
How in the port, our fleet dear time did lose,  
Withering like prisoners, which lie but for fees,  
Mildly it kissed our sails, and, fresh, and sweet,  
As, to a stomach starved, whose insides meet,  
Meat comes, it came; and swelled our sails, when we  
So joyed, as Sara ' her swelling joyed to see.  
But 'twas, but so kind, as our countrymen,  
Which bring friends one days way, and leave them then.  
Then like two mighty Kings, which dwelling far blue,  
Asunder, meet against a third to war,  
The South and West winds joined, and, as they blew,  
Waves like a rolling trench before them threw.  
Sooner than you read this line, did the gale,  
Like shot, not feared, till felt, our sails assail;  
And what at first was called a gust, the same  
Hath now a storms, a non a tempests name.  
jonas, I pity thee, and curse those men,  
Who when the storm raged most, did wake thee then;  
Sleep is pains easiest salve, and doth fulfil  
All offices of death, except to kill.  
But when I waked, I saw, that I saw not.  
ay, and the Sun, which should teach mee'had forgot  
East, West, day, night, and I could only say,  
If the world had lasted, now it had been day.  
Thousands our noises were, yet we 'mongst all  
Could none by his right name, but thunder call:  
Lightning was all our light, and it reigned more  
Than if the Sun had drunk the sea before;  
Some coffined in their cabins lie, ' equally  
Grieved that they are not dead, and yet must dye.  
And as sin-burd'ned souls from grave will creep,  
At the last day, some forth their cabins peep:  
And tremblingly'aske what news, and do hear so,  
Like jealous husbands, what they would not know.  
Some sitting on the hatches, would seem there,  
With hideous gazing to fear away fear.  
Then note they the ships sicknesses, the Mast  
Shaked with this ague, and the Hold and Waste  
With a salt dropsy clogged, and all our tackle  
Snapping, like too-high-stretched treble strings.  
And from our tottered sails, rags drop down so,  
As from one hanged in chains, a year ago.  
Even our Ordinance placed for our defence,  
Strive to break loose, and scape away from thence.  
Pumping hath tired our men, and what's the gain?  
Seas into seas thrown, we suck in again;  
Hearing hath deafed our sailors; and if they  
Knew how to hear, there's none knows what to say.  
Compared to these storms, death is but a qualm,  
Hell somewhat lightsome, and the Bermuda calm.  
Darkness, lights eldest brother, his birthright  
Claimed o'er this world, and to heaven hath chased light.  
All things are one, and that one none can be,  
Since all forms, uniform deformity  
Doth cover, so that we, except God say  
Another Fiat, shall have no more day.  
So violent, yet long these furies be,  
That though thine absence starve me, ' I wish not thee.   

THE CALM.  
OUr storm is past, and that storms tyrannous rage,  
A stupid calm, but nothing it, doth suage.  
The fable is inverted, and far more  
A block afflicts, now, than a stork before.  
Storms chafe, and soon wear out themselves, or us;  
In calms, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus.  
As steady'as I can wish, that my thoughts were,  
Smooth as thy mistress glass, or what shines there,  
The sea is now. And, as the Isles which we  
Seek, when we can move, our ships rooted be.  
As water did in storms, now pitch runs out  
As lead, when a fired Church becomes one spout.  
And all our beauty, and our trim, decays,  
Like courts removing, or like ended plays.  
The fight place now seaman's rags supply;  
And all the tackling is a frippery.  
No use of lanterns; and in one place lay  
Feathers and dust, to day and yesterday.  
Earth's hollownesses, which the world's lungs are,  
Have no more wind than the upper vault of air.  
We can nor lost friends, nor sought foes recover,  
But meteorlike, save that we move not, hover.  
Only the Calenture together draws  
Dear friends, which meet dead in great fishes jaws:  
And on the hatches as on Altars lies  
Each one, his own Priest, and own Sacrifice.  
Who live, that miracle do multiply  
Where walkers in hot Ovens, do not dye.  
If in despite of these, we swim, that hath  
No more refreshing, than our brimstone Bath,  
But from the sea, into the ship we turn,  
Like parboiled wretches, on the coals to burn.  
Like Bajazet encaged, the shepherd's scoff,  
Or like-slacke sinewed Samson, his hair off,  
Languish our ships. Now, as a Miriade  
Of Ants, durst th' Emperor's loved snake invade,  
The crawlin▪ Galleys, Sea-goales, finny chips,  
Might brave our venices, now bed-ridde ships.  
Whether a rotten state, and hope of gain,  
Or, to disuse me from the queasy pain  
Of being beloved, and loving, or the thirst  
Of honour, or fair death, out pushed me first,  
I lose my end: for here as well as I  
A desperate may live, and a coward die.  
Stag, dog, and all which from, or towards flies,  
Is paid with life, or pray, or doing dies.  
Fate grudges us all, and doth subtly lay  
A scourge, 'gainst which we all forget to pray,  
He that at sea prays for more wind, as well  
Under the poles may beg cold, heat in hell.  
What are we then? How little more alas  
Is man now, then before he was? he was  
Nothing; for us, we are for nothing fit;  
Chance, or ourselves still disproportion it.  
We have no power, no will, no sense; I lie,  
I should not then thus feel this misery.   

To Sr Henry Wotton.  
SIr, more than kisses, letters mingle Souls;  
For, thus friends absent speak. This ease controls  
The tediousness of my life: But for these  
I could ideate nothing, which could please,  
But I should wither in one day, and pass  
To'a botle'of Hay, that am a lock of Grass.  
Life is a voyage, and in our life's ways  
Countries, Courts, Towns are Rocks, or Remoraes';  
They break or stop all ships, yet our state's such,  
That though then pitch they stain worse, we must touch.  
If in the furnace of the raging line,  
Or under th'adverse icy pole thou pine,  
Thou knowst two temperate Regions girded in,  
Dwell there: But Oh, what refuge canst thou win  
Parched in the Court, and in the country frozen?  
Shall cities built of both extremes be chosen?  
Can dung, and garlic be'a perfume? or can  
A Scorpion, or Torpedo cure a man?  
Cities are worst of all three; of all three  
(O knotty riddle) each is worst equally.  
Cities are Sepulchers; they who dwell there  
Are carcases, as if no such they were.  
And Courts are theatres, where some men play  
Princes, some slaves, all to one end, and of one clay▪  
The Country is a desert, where no good,  
Gained, as habits, not borne, is understood.  
There men become beasts, and prone to more evils;  
In cities blocks, and in a lewd court, devils.  
As in the first Chaos confusedly  
Each elements qualities were in the'other three;  
So pride, lust, covetise, being several  
To these three places, yet all are in all,  
And mingled thus, their issue incestuous.  
Falshood is denizoned. Virtue is barbarous.  
Let no man say there, Virtues flinty wall  
Shall lock vice in me, I'll do none, but know all.  
Men are sponges, which to pour out, receive,  
Who know false play, rather than lose, deceive.  
For in best understandings, sin began,  
Angels sinned first, than Devils, and then man.  
Only perchance beasts sin not; wretched we  
Are beasts in all, but white integrity.  
I think if men, which in these places live  
Durst look in themselves, and themselves retrieve,  
They would like strangers greet themselves, seeing then  
Utopian youth, grown old Italian.  
Be thou thine own home, and in thyself dwell;  
Inn any where, continuance maketh hell.  
And seeing the snail, which every where doth room,  
Carrying his own house still, still is at home.  
Follow (for he is easy paced) this snail,  
Be thine own Palace, or the world's thy goal;  
And in the world's sea, do not like cork sleep  
Upon the water's face; nor in the deep  
Sink like a lead without a line: but as  
Fishes glide, leaving no print where they pass,  
Nor making sound; so, closely thy course go,  
Let men dispute, whether thou breath, or no:  
Onely'in this one thing, be no Galenist. To make  
Courts hot ambitions wholesome, do not take  
A dram of Country's dulness; do not add  
Correctives, but as chymiques, purge the bad.  
But, Sir, I advise not you, I rather do  
Say o'er those lessons, which I learned of you.  
Whom, free from Germane schisms, and lightness  
Of France, and fair Italy's faithlesness,  
Having from these sucked all they had of worth,  
And brought home that faith, which you carried forth,  
I throughly love. But if myself, I'have won  
To know my rules, I have, and you have  DONNE:  

The Cross.  
SInce Christ embraced the Cross itself, dare I  
His image, th'image of his Cross deny?  
Would I have profit by the sacrifice,  
And dare the chosen Altar to despise?  
It bore all other sins, but is it fit  
That it should bear the sin of scorning it?  
Who from the picture would avert his eye,  
How would he fly his pains, who there did dye?  
From me, no Pulpit, nor misgrounded law,  
Nor scandal taken, shall this Cross withdraw,  
It shall not, for it cannot; for, the loss  
Of this Cross, were to me another Cross.  
Better were worse, for, no affliction  
No Cross is so extreme, as to have none;  
Who can blot out the Cross, which th'instrument  
Of God, dewed on me in the Sacrament?  
Who can deny me power, and liberty  
To stretch mine arms, and mine own Cross to be?  
Swim, and at every stroke, thou art thy Cross,  
The Mast and yard make one, where seas do toss.  
Look down, thou spiest out Crosses in small things;  
Look up, thou seest birds raised on crossed wings;  
All the Globes frame, and spheres, is nothing else  
But the Meridian's crossing Parallels.  
Material Crosses then, good physic be,  
But yet spiritual have chief dignity.  
These for extracted chimique medicine serve,  
And cure much better, and as well preserve;  
Then are you your own physic, or need none,  
When Stilled, or purged by tribulation.  
For when that Cross ungrudged, unto you sticks,  
Then are you to yourself, a Crucifix.  
As perchance, Carvers do not faces make:  
But that away, which hid them there, do take.  
Let Crosses, so, take what hid Christ in thee,  
And be his image, or not his, but he.  
But, as oft, Alchemists do coiners prove,  
So may a selfe-dispising, get self-love.  
And then as worst surfeits, of best meats be,  
So is pride, issued from humility,  
For, 'tis no child, but monster; therefore Cross  
Your joy in crosses, else, 'tis double loss,  
And cross thy senses, else, both they, and thou  
Must perish soon, and to destruction bow.  
For if the'eye seek good objects, and will take  
No cross from bad, we cannot scape a snake.  
So with harsh, hard, sour, stinking, cross the rest,  
Make them indifferent; call nothing best.  
But most the eye needs crossing, that can room,  
And move; To th'other th'objects must come home.  
And cross thy heart: for that in man alone  
Pants downwards, and hath palpitation.  
Cross those dejections, when it downward tends,  
And when it to forbidden heights pretends.  
And as the brain through bony walls doth vent  
By sutures, which a Crosses form present,  
So when thy brain works, ere thou utter it,  
Cross and correct concupiscence of wit.  
Be covetous of Crosses, let none fall.  
Cross no man else, but cross thyself in all.  
Then doth the Cross of Christ work faithfully  
Within our hearts, when we love harmlessly  
The Crosses pictures much, and with more care  
That Crosses children, which our Crosses are.   

Elegy on the Lady Marckham.  
MAn is the World, and death th'Ocean,  
To which God gives the lower parts of man.  
This Sea environs all, and though as yet  
God hath set marks, and bounds, 'twixt us and it,  
Yet doth it roar, and gnaw, and still pretend,  
And breaks our bank, when ere it takes a friend.  
Then our land waters (tears of passion) vent;  
Our waters, then, above our firmament.  
(Tears which our Soul doth for her sins let fall)  
Take all a brackish taste, and Funeral.  
And even those tears, which should wash sin, are sin.  
We, after God's No, drown the world again.  
Nothing but man of all envenomed things  
Doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.  
Tears are false Spectacles, we cannot see  
Through passions missed, what we are, or what she.  
In her this sea of death hath made no breach,  
But as the tide doth wash the slimy beach,  
And leaves embroidered works upon the sand,  
So is her flesh refined by deaths cold hand.  
As men of China, ' after an ages stay  
Do take up Porcelain, where they buried Clay;  
So at this grave, her limbeck, which refines  
The Diamonds, Rubies, Saphires, Pearls, & Mines,  
Of which, this flesh was, her soul shall inspire  
Flesh of such stuff, as God, when his last fire  
Annuls this world, to recompense it, shall,  
Make and name then, th'elixir of this All.  
They say, the sea, when it gains, loseth too;  
If carnal Death (the younger brother) do  
Usurp the body, our soul, which subject is  
To th'elder death, by sin, is freed by this;  
They perish both, when they attempt the just;  
For, graves our trophies are, and both, death's dust.  
So, unobnoxious now, she'hath buried both;  
For, none to death sins, that to sin is loath.  
Nor do they die, which are not loath to die,  
So hath she this, and that virginity.  
Grace was in her extremely diligent,  
That kept her from sin, yet made her repent.  
Of what small spots pure white complains! Alas,  
How little poison cracks a crystal glass?  
She sinned, but just enough to let us see  
That, extreme truth lacked little of a lie,  
Making omissions, acts; laying the touch  
Of sin, on things that sometimes may be such.  
As Moses Cherubins, whose natures do  
Surpass all speed, by him are winged too:  
So would her soul, already'in heaven, seem then,  
To climb by tears, the common stairs of men.  
How fit she was for God, I am content  
To speak, that death his vain haste may repent.  
How fit for us, how even and how sweet,  
How good in all her titles, and how meet,  
To have reformed this forward heresy,  
That woman can no parts of friendship be;  
How Moral, how Divine shall not be told,  
Lest they that hear her virtues, think her old.  
And lest we take Death's part, and make him glad  
Of such a prey, and to his triumph add.   

Elegy on Mris Boulstred.  
DEath I recant, and say, unsaid by me  
What ere hath slipped, that might diminish thee.  
Spiritual treason, atheism 'tis, to say,  
That any can thy Summons disobey.  
Th'earth's face is but thy Table; there are set  
Plants, cattle, men, dishes for Death to eat.  
In a rude hunger now he millions draws  
Into his bloody, or plaguy, or starved jaws.  
Now he will seem to spare, and doth more waist,  
Eating the best first, well preserved to last.  
Now wantonly he spoils, and eats us not,  
But breaks off friends, and lets us piecemeal rot.  
Nor will this earth serve him; he sinks the deep  
Where harmless fish monastique silence keep.  
Who (were Death dead) by Roes of living sand,  
Might sponge that element, and make it land.  
He rounds the air, and breaks the hymnique notes  
In birds, Heavens choristers, organique throats,  
Which (if they did not dye) might seem to be  
A tenth rank in the heavenly hierarchy.  
O strong and long-lived death, how cam'st thou in?  
And how without Creation didst begin?  
Thou hast, and shalt see dead, before thou diest,  
All the four Monarchies, and Antichrist.  
How could I think thee nothing, that see now  
In all this All, nothing else is, but thou.  
Our births and life, vices, and virtues, be  
Wasteful consumptions, and degrees of thee.  
For, we to live, our bellowes wear, and breath,  
Nor are we mortal, dying, dead, but death.  
And though thou be'st, O mighty bird of prey,  
So much reclaimed by God, that thou must lay  
All that thou killest at his feet, yet doth he  
Reserve but few, and leaves the most to thee.  
And of those few, now thou hast overthrown  
One whom thy blow, maketh, not ours, nor thine own.  
She was more stories high: hopeless to come  
To her Soul, thou'hast offered at her lower room.  
Her Soul and body was a King and Court:  
But thou hast both of Captain mist and fort.  
As houses fall not, though the King remove,  
Bodies of Saints rest for their souls above.  
Death gets'twixt souls and bodies such a place  
As sin insinuates 'twixt just men and grace,  
Both work a separation, no divorce.  
Her Soul is gone to usherup her corpse,  
Which shall be'almost another soul, for there  
Bodies are purer, than best Souls are here.  
Because in her, her virtues did outgo  
Her years, wouldst thou, O emulous death, do so?  
And kill her young to thy loss? must the cost  
Of beauty, ' and wit, apt to do harm, be lost?  
What though thou found'st her proofe'gainst sins of youth?  
Oh, every age a divers sin pursueth.  
Thou shouldst have stayed, and taken better hold,  
Shortly ambitious, covetous, when old,  
She might have proved: and such devotion  
Might once have strayed to superstition.  
If all her virtues must have grown, yet might  
Abundant virtue'have bred a proud delight.  
Had she persevered just, there would have been  
Some that would sin, mis-thinking she did sin.  
Such as would call her friendship, love, and fain  
To sociableness, a name profane.  
Or sin, by tempting, or, not daring that,  
By wishing, though they never told her what.  
Thus mightst thou'have slain more souls, hadst thou not crossed  
Thyself, and to triumph, thine army lost.  
Yet though these ways be lost, thou hast left one,  
Which is, immoderate grief that she is gone.  
But we may scape that sin, yet weep as much,  
Our tears are due, because we are not such.  
Some tears, that knot of friends, her death must cost,  
Because the chain is broke, but no link lost.   

To Sr Henry Goodyere.  

WHo makes the Past, a pattern for next year,  
Turns no new leaf, but still the same things reads,   

Seen things, he sees again, heard things doth hear,  
And makes his life, but like a pair of beads.   

A Palace, when 'tis that, which it should be,  
Leaves growing, and stands such, or else decays,  
But he which dwells there, is not so; for he  
Strives to urge upward, and his fortune raise;   

So had your body'her morning, hath her noon,  
And shall not better; her next change is night:  
But her fair larger guest, to'whom Sun and Moon  
Are sparks, and short lived, claims another right.   

The noble Soul by age grows lustier,  
Her appetite, and her digestion mend,  
We must not starve, nor hope to pamper her  
With women's milk, and pap unto the end.   

Provide you manlyer diet, you have seen  
All libraries, which are Schools, Camps, & Courts;  
But ask your Garners if you have not been  
In harvests, too indulgent to your sports.   

Would you redeem it? then yourself transplant  
A while from hence. Perchance outlandish ground  
Bears no more wit, than ours, but yet more scant  
Are those diversions there, which here abound.   

To be a stranger hath that benefit,  
We can beginnings, but not habits choke.  
Go, whither? hence; you get, if you forget;  
New faults, till they prescribe in us, are smoke.   

Our soul, whose country'is heaven, & God her father,  
Into this world, corruptions sink, is sent,  
Yet, so much in her travail she doth gather,  
That she returns home, wiser than she went;   

It pays you well, if it teach you to spare,  
And make you'ashamed, to make your hawks praise, yours,  
Which when herself she lessens in the air,  
You then first say, that high enough she towers.   

However, keep the lively taste you hold  
Of God, love him as now, but fear him more,  
And in your afternoons think what you told  
And promised him, at morning prayer before.   

Let falsehood like a discord anger you,  
Else be not froward; But why do I touch  
Things, of which none is in your practice new,  
And Tables, or fruit-trenchers teach as much;   

But thus I make you keep your promise Sir,  
Riding I had you, though you still stayed there,  
And in these thoughts, although you never stir,  
You came with me to Micham, and are here.    

To Mr Rowland Woodward.  

LIke one who'in her third widowhood doth profess,  
Herself a Nun, tied to retiredness,  
So'affects my muse now, a chaste fallownesse.   

Since she to few, yet to too many'hath shown  
How lovesong weeds, and Satyrique thorns are grown  
Where seeds of better Arts, were early sown.   

Though to use, and love poetry, to me,  
Betrothed to no'one Art, be no'adulterie;  
Omissions of good, ill, as ill deeds be.   

For though to us it seem, ' and be light and thin,  
Yet in those faithful scales, where God throws in  
men's works, vanity weighs as much as sin.   

If our Souls have stained their first white, yet we  
May clothe them with faith, and dear honesty,  
Which God imputes, as native purity,   

There is no Virtue, but Religion,  
Wise, valiant, sober, just, are names, which none  
Want, which want not Vice-covering discretion.   

Seek we than ourselves in ourselves; for as  
Men force the Sun with much more force to pass,  
By gathering his beams with a crystal glass;   

So we, If we into ourselves will turn,  
Blowing our sparks of virtue, may outburne  
The straw, which doth about our hearts sojourn.   

You know, Physicians, when they would infuse  
Into any'oyle, the Souls of Simples, use  
Places, where they may lie still warm, to choose.   

So works retiredness in us; to room  
Giddily and be every where, but at home,  
Such freedom doth a banishment become.   

We are but termers of ourselves, yet may,  
If we can stock ourselves, and thrive, uplay  
Much, much dear treasure for the great rend day.   

Manure thyself then, to thyself be'approved,  
And with vain outward things be no more moved,  
But to know, that I love thee'and would be loved.    

To Sr Henry Wootton.  

HEre's no more news, than virtue, ' I may as well  
Tell you Calis, or St michael's tale for news, as tell  
That vice doth here habitually dwell.   

Yet, as to'get stomaches, we walk up and down,  
And toil to sweeten rest, so, may God frown,  
If, but to loath both, I haunt Court, or Town.   

For here no one is from the'extremitie  
Of vice, by any other reason free,  
But that the next to'him, still, is worse than he.   

In this world's warfare, they whom rugged Fate,  
(God's Commissary,) doth so throughly hate,  
As in'the Courts Squadron to marshal their state   

If they stand armed with silly honesty,  
With wishing prayers, and neat integrity,  
Like Indians 'gainst Spanish hosts they be.   

Suspicious boldness to this place belongs,  
And to'have as many ears as all have tongues;  
Tender to know, tough to acknowledge wrongs.   

Believe me Sir, in my youths giddiest days,  
When to be like the Court, was a plays praise,  
Plays were not so like Courts, as Courts'are like plays.   

Then let us at these mimic antiques jest,  
Whose deepest projects, and egregious gests  
Are but dull Morals of a game at Chests.   

But now 'tis incongruity to smile,  
Therefore I end; and bid farewell a while,  
At Court, though from Court, were the better style▪    

To the Countess of Bedford.  
MADAM,  

REason is our Souls left hand, Faith her right,  
By these we reach divinity, that's you;  
Their loves, who have the blessings of your light,  
Grew from their reason, mine from fair faith grew.   

But as, although a squint lefthandednesse  
Be'ungracious, yet we cannot want that hand,  
So would I, not to increase, but to express  
My faith, as I believe, so understand.   

Therefore I study you first in your Saints,  
Those friends, whom your election glorifies,  
Then in your deeds, accesses, and restraints,  
And what you read, and what yourself devise.   

But soon, the reasons why youare loved by all,  
Grow infinite, and so pass reasons reach,  
Then back again to'implicite faith I fall,  
And rest on what the Catholic faith doth teach;   

That you are good: and not one Heretic  
Denies it: if he did, yet you are so.  
For, rocks, which high topped and deep rooted stick,  
Waves wash, not undermine, nor overthrow.   

In every thing there naturally grows  
A Balsamum to keep it fresh, and new,  
If 'twere not injured by extrinsique blows;  
Your birth and beauty are this Balm in you.   

But, you of learning and religion,  
And virtue, ' and such ingredients, have made  
A mithridate, whose operation  
Keeps off, or cures what can be done or said.   

Yet, this is not your physic, but your food,  
A diet fit for you; for you are here  
The first good Angel, since the world's frame stood,  
That ever did in woman's shape appear.   

Since you are then God's masterpiece, and so  
His Factor for our loves; do as you do,  
Make your return home gracious; and bestow  
Thy life on that; so make one life of two.  
For so God help me, ' I would not miss you there  
For all the good which you can do me here.    

To the Countess of Bedford.  
MADAM,  

YOu have refined me, and to worthiest things  
Virtue, Art, Beauty, Fortune, now I see  
Rareness, or use, not nature value brings;  
And such, as they are circumstanced, they be.  
Two ills can ne'er perplex us, sin to'excuse;  
But of two good things, we may leave and choose.   

Therefore at Court, which is not virtues climb,  
(Where a transcendent height, (as, lowness me)  
Makes her not be, or not show: all my rhyme  
Your virtue's challenge, which there rarest bee;  
For, as dark texts need notes: there some must be  
To usher virtue, and say, This is she.   

So in the country'is beauty; to this place  
You are the season (Madam) you the day,  
'Tis but a grave of spices, till your face  
Exhale them, and a thick close bud display.  
Widowed and reclused else, her sweets she'enshrines  
As China, when the Sun at Brasill dines.   

Out from your chariot, morning breaks at night,  
And falsifies both computations so;  
Since a new world doth rise here from your light,  
We your new creatures, by new reckon go.  
This shows that you from nature loathly stray,  
That suffer not an artificial day.   

In this youhave made the Court the Antipodes,  
And willed your Delegate, the vulgar Sun,  
To do profane autumnal offices,  
Whilst here to you, we sacrificers run;  
And whether Priests, or Organs, you wee'obey,  
We sound your influence, and your Dictates say▪   

Yet to that Deity which dwells in you,  
Your virtuous Soul, I now not sacrifice;  
These are Petitions, and not Hymns; they sue  
But that I may survey the edifice.  
In all Religions as much care hath been  
Of Temples frames, and beauty, ' as Rites within.   

As all which go to Rome, do not thereby  
Esteem religions, and hold fast the best,  
But serve discourse, and curiosity,  
With that which doth religion but invest,  
And shun th'entangling labyrinths of Schools,  
And make it wit, to think the wiser fools▪   

So in this pilgrimage I would behold  
You as youare virtues temple, not as she,  
What walls of tender crystal her enfold,  
What eyes, hands, bosom, her pure Altars be;  
And after this survey, oppose to all  
Babblers of Chapels, you th'escurial.   

Yet not as consecrate, but merely'as fair;  
On these I cast a lay and country eye.  
Of past and future stories, which are rare,  
I find you all record, and prophesy.  
Purge but the book of Fate, that it admit  
No sad nor guilty legends, you are it.   

If good and lovely were not one, of both  
You were the transcript, and original,  
The Elements, the Parent, and the Growth  
And every piece of you, is both their All,  
So'intire are all your deeds, and you, that you  
Must do the same things still: you cannot two.   

But these (as nice thin School divinity  
Serves heresy to further or repress)  
Taste of Poëtique rage, or flattery,  
And need not, where all hearts one truth profess;  
Oft from new proofs, and new phrase, new doubts grow,  
As strange attire aliens the men we know.   

Leaving then busy praise, and all appeal,  
To higher Courts, senses decree is true,  
The Mine, the Magazine, the Commonweal,  
The story of beauty ', in Twicknam is, and you.  
Who hath seen one, would both; As, who had been  
In Paradise, would seek the Cherubin.    

To Sr Edward Herbert. at julyers.  
MAn is a lump, where all beasts kneaded be,  
Wisdom makes him an Ark where all agree;  
The fool, in whom these beasts do live at jar,  
Is sport to others, and a Theatre,  
Nor escapes he so, but is himself their prey;  
All which was man in him, is eat away,  
And now his beasts on one another feed,  
Yet couple'in anger, and new monsters breed;  
How happy'is he, which hath due place assigned  
To'his beasts, and disafforested his mind?  
Empailed himself to keep them out, not in;  
Can sow, and dares trust corn, where they have been;  
Can use his horse, goat, wolf, and every beast,  
And is not Ass himself to all the rest.  
Else, man not only is the heard of swine,  
But he's those devil's too, which did incline  
Them to a headlong rage, and made them worse:  
For man can add weight to heaven's heaviest curse.  
As Souls (they say) by our first touch, take in  
The poisonous tincture of Original sin,  
So, to the punishments which God doth fling,  
Our apprehension contributes the sting.  
To us, as to his chickens, he doth cast  
Hemlock, and we as men, his hemlock taste.  
We do infuse to what he meant for meat,  
corrosiveness, or intense cold or heat.  
For, God no such specifique poison hath  
As kills we know not how; his fiercest wrath  
Hath no antipathy, but may be good  
At lest for physic, if not for our food.  
Thus man, that might be'his pleasure, is his rod,  
And is his devil, that might be his God.  
Since then our business is, to rectify  
Nature, to what she was, wee'are led awry  
By them, who man to us in little show,  
Greater than due, no form we can bestow  
On him; for Man into himself can draw  
All, All his faith can swallow, ' or reason chaw.  
All that is filled, and all that which doth fill,  
All the round world, to man is but a pill,  
In all it works not, but it is in all  
Poisonous, or purgative, or cordial,  
For, knowledge kindles Calentures in some,  
And is to others jcy Opium.  
As brave as true, is that profession than  
Which you do use to make; that you know man.  
This makes it credible, you have dwelled upon  
All worthy books; and now are such an one.  
Actions are authors, and of those in you  
Your friends find every day a mart of new.   

To the Countess of Bedford.  
T'Have written then, when you writ, seemed to me  
Worst of spiritual vices, Simony,  
And not t'have written then, seems little less  
Than worst of civil vices, thanklessenesse.  
In this, my doubt I seemed loath to confess,  
In that, I seemed to shun beholdingness.  
But 'tis not so, nothing, as I am, may,  
Pay all they have, and yet have all to pay.  
Such borrow in their payments, and owe more  
By having leave to write so, then before.  
Yet since rich mines in barren grounds are shown,  
May not I yield (not gold) but coal or stone?  
Temples were not demolished, though profane:  
Here Peter joves', there Paul have Diana's Fane.  
So whether my hymns you admit or choose,  
In me youhave hallowed a Pagan Muse,  
And denizend a stranger, who mistaught  
By blamers of the times they marred, hath sought  
Virtues in corners, which now bravely do  
Shine in the world's best part, or all, in you.  
I have been told, that vertue'in Courtiers hearts  
Suffers an Ostracism, and departs.  
Profit, ease, fitness, plenty, bid it go,  
But whither, only knowing you, I know;  
Your, or you virtue, two vast uses serves,  
It ransoms one sex, and one Court preserves;  
There's nothing but your worth, which being true,  
Is known to any other, not to you.  
And you can never know it; To admit  
No knowledge of your worth, it some of it.  
But since to you, your praises discords be,  
Stop others ills, to meditate with me.  
Oh! to confess we know not what we sold,  
Is half excuse, we know not what we would.  
Lightness depresseth us, emptiness fills,  
We sweat and faint, yet still go down the hills;  
As new Philosophy arrests the Sun,  
And bids the passive earth about it run,  
So we have dulled our mind, it hath no ends;  
Only the body's busy, and pretends;  
As dead low earth eclipses and controls  
The quick high Moon: so doth the body, Souls.  
In none but us, are such mixed engines found,  
As hands of double office: For, the ground  
We till with them; and them to heaven we raise;  
Who prayerlesse labours, or, without this, prays,  
Doth but one half, that's none; He which said, Plough  
And look not back, to look up doth allow.  
Good sced degenerates, and oft obeys  
The soils disease, and into cockle strays.  
Let the minds thoughts be but transplanted so,  
Into the body, ' and bastardly they grow.  
What hate could hurt our bodies like our love?  
We but no foreign tyrants could remove,  
These not engraved, but inborn dignities  
Caskets of souls; Temples, and Palaces:  
For, bodies shall from death redeemed be,  
Souls but preserved, not naturally free;  
As men to'our prisons, new souls to us are sent,  
Which learn it there, and come in innocent.  
First seeds of every creature are in us,  
What ere the world hath bad, or precious,  
Man's body can produce, hence hath it been  
That stones, worms, frogs, and snakes in man are seen:  
But who ere saw, though nature can work so,  
That, pearl, or gold, or corn in man did grow.  
We'have added to the world Virginia, ' and sent  
Two new stars lately to the firmament;  
Why grudge we us (not heaven) the dignity  
T'increase with ours, those fair soul's company.  
But I must end this letter, though it do  
Stand on two truths, neither is true to you.  
Virtue hath some perverseness; For she will  
Neither believe her good, nor others ill,  
Even in your virtue's best paradise,  
Virtue hath some, but wise degrees of vice.  
Too many virtues, or too much of one  
Begets in you unjust suspicion.  
And ignorance of vice, makes virtue less,  
Quenching compassion of our wretchedness.  
But these are riddles; Some aspersion  
Of vice becomes well some complexion.  
Statesmen purge vice with vice, and may corrode  
The bad with bad, a spider with a toad:  
For so, ill thralls not them, but they tame ill  
And make her do much good against her will,  
But in your Commonwealth or world in you  
Vice hath no office, or good work to do.  
Take then no vicious purge, but be content  
With cordial virtue, your known nourishment.   

To the Countess of Bedford.  
On New-year's day.  

THis twilight of two years, not past nor next,  
Some emblem is of me, or I of this,  
Who Meteor-like, of stuff and form perplexed,  
Whose what, and where, in disputation is,  
If I should call me any thing, should miss.   

I sum the years, and me, and find me not  
Debtor to th'old, nor Creditor to th'new,  
That cannot say, My thanks I have forgot,  
Nor trust I this with hopes, and yet scarce true,  
This bravery is since these time showed me you.   

In recompense I would show future times  
What you were, and teach them to'urge towards such,  
Verse embalmes virtue; ' and Tombs, or Thrones of rhymes,  
Preserve frail transitory fame, as much  
As spice doth bodies from corrupt airs touch.   

Mine are short lived; the tincture of your name  
Creates in them, but dissipates as fast,  
New spirit: for, strong agents with the same  
Force that doth warm and cherish, us do waist;  
Kept hot with strong extracts, no bodies last:   

So, my verse built of your just praise, might want  
Reason and likelihood, the firmest Base,  
And made of miracle, now faith is scant,  
Will vanish soon, and so possess no place,  
And you, and it, too much grace might disgrace.   

When all (as truth commands assent) confess  
All truth of you, yet they will doubt how I  
One corn of one low anthills dust, and less,  
Should name know or express a thing so high,  
And not an inch, measure infinity.   

I cannot tell them, nor myself, nor you,  
But leave, lest truth b'endangered by my praise,  
And turn to God, who knows I think this true,  
And useth oft, when such a heart missayes,  
To make it good, for, such a prayer prays.   

He will best teach you, how you should lay out  
His stock of beauty, learning, favour, blood,  
He will perplex security with doubt,  
And clear those doubts, hide from you, ' and show you good,  
And so increase your appetite and food;   

He will teach you, that good and bad have not  
One latitude in cloisters, and in Court,  
Indifferent there the greatest space hath got,  
Some pitty'is not good there, some vain disport,  
On this side, sin; with that place may comport.   

Yet he as he bounds seas, will fix your hours,  
With pleasure, and delight may not ingress,  
And though what none else lost, be truliest yours,  
He will make you, what you did not, possess,  
By using others, not vice, but weakness.   

He will make you speak truths, and credibly,  
And make you doubt, that others do not so:  
He will provide you keys, and locks, to spy,  
And scape spies, to good ends, and he will show  
What you may not acknowledge, what not know.   

For your own conscience, he gives innocence,  
But for your fame, a discreet wariness,  
And though to scape, then to revenge offence  
Be better, he shows both, and to repress  
joy, when your state swells, sadness when 'tis less.   

From need of tears he will defend your soul,  
Or make a rebaptising of one tear;  
He cannot, (that's, he will not) dis-inroule  
Your name; and when with active joy we hear  
This private Gospel, then 'tis our new year,    

To the Countess of Huntingdon.  
MADAM,  

MAn to God's image, Eve, to man's was made,  
Nor find we that God breathed a soul in her,  
Canons will not Church functions you invade,  
Nor laws to civil office you prefer.   

Who vagrant transitory Comets sees,  
Wonders, because theyare rare; But a new star  
Whose motion with the firmament agrees,  
Is miracle; for, there no new things are;   

In woman so perchance mild innocence  
A seldom comet is, but active good  
A miracle, which reason escapes, and sense;  
For, Art and Nature this in them withstood.   

As such a star, which Magis led to view  
The manger-cradled infant, God below.  
By virtue's beams by fame derived from you,  
May apt souls, and the worst may virtue know.   

If the world's age, and death be argued well  
By the Sun's fall, which now towards earth doth bend,  
Then we might fear that virtue, since she fell  
So low as woman, should be near her end.   

But she's not stooped, but raised; exiled by men,  
She fled to heaven, that's heavenly things that's you,  
She was in all men, thinly scattered then,  
But now amassed, contracted in a few.   

She guilded us: But you are gold, and She,  
Us she informed, but transubstantiates you,  
Soft dispositions which ductile bee,  
Elixarlike, she makes not clean, but new.   

Though you a wives and mother's name retain,  
'Tis not as woman, for all are not so,  
But virtue having made you virtue, ' is fain  
T'adhere in these names, her and you to show,   

Else, being alike pure, we should neither see,  
As, water being into air rarified,  
Neither appear, till in one cloud they be,  
So, for our sakes you do low names abide;   

Taught by great constellations, which being framed,  
Of the most stars, take low names, Crab, and Bull,  
When single planets by the Gods are named,  
You covet not great names, of great things full.   

So you, as woman, one doth comprehend,  
And in the veil of kindred others see;  
To some ye are revealed, as in a friend,  
And as a virtuous Prince far off, to me.   

To whom, because from you all virtues flow,  
And 'tis not none, to dare contemplate you,  
ay, which to you as your true subject owe  
Some tribute for that, so these lines are due,   

If you can think these flatteries, they are,  
For then your judgement is below my praise,  
If they were so, oft, flatteries work as far,  
As Counsels, and as far th'endeavour raise.   

So my ill reaching you might there grow good,  
But I remain a poisoned fountain still;  
But not your beauty, virtue, knowledge, blood  
Are more above all flattery, than my will.   

And if I flatter any, 'tis not you  
But my own judgement, who did long ago  
Pronounce, that all these praises should be true,  
And virtue should your beauty, ' and birth outgrow.   

Now that my prophecies are all fulfilled,  
Rather than God should not be honoured too,  
And all these gifts confessed, which he instilled,  
Yourself were bound to say that which I do.   

So I, but your Recorder am in this,  
Or mouth, or Speaker of the universe,  
A ministerial notary, for 'tis  
Not I, but you and fame, that make this verse;   

I was your Prophet in your younger days,  
And now your Chaplain, God in you to praise.    

To M. I. W.  

ALl hail sweet Poet, more full of more strong fire,  
Then hath or shall enkindle any spirit,  
I loved what nature gave thee, but this merit  
Of wit and Art I love not but admire;  
Who have before or shall write after thee,  
Their works, though toughly laboured, will be  
Like infancy or age to man's firm stay,  
Or early and late twilights to midday.   

Men say, and truly, that they better be  
Which be envied then pitied: therefore I,  
Because I wish thee best, do thee envy:  
O wouldst thou, by like reason, pity me,  
But care not for me, I, that ever was  
In Natures, and in fortunes gifts, (alas,  
Before thy grace got in the Muse's School)  
A monster and a beggar, am a fool.   

Oh how I grieve, that late borne modesty  
Hath got such root in easy waxen hearts,  
That men may not themselves, their own good parts  
Extol, without suspect of surquedry,  
For, but thyself, no subject can be found  
Worthy thy quill, nor any quill resound  
Thy work but thine: how good it were to see  
A Poem in thy praise, and writ by thee.   

Now if this song be too'harsh for rhyme, yet, as  
The Painters bad god made a good devil,  
'Twill be good prose, although the verse be evil.  
If thou forget the rhyme as thou dost pass,  
Then write, than I may follow, and so be  
Thy debtor, thy'eccho, thy foil, thy zanee.  
I shall be thought, if mine like thine I shape,  
All the world's Lion, though I be thy Ape.    

To M. T. W.  
HAst thee harsh verse as fast as thy lame measure  
Will give thee leave, to him; My pain, & pleasure  
I have given thee, and yet thou art too weak,  
Feet and a reasoning soul and tongue to speak.  
Tell him, all questions, which men have defended  
Both of the place and pains of hell, are ended;  
And 'tis decreed our hell is but privation  
Of him, at least in this earth's habitation:  
And 'tis where I am, where in every street  
Infections follow, overtake, and meet:  
Live I or die, by you my love is sent,  
And youare my pawns, or else my Testament.   

To M. T. W.  

PRegnant again with th'old twins Hope, and Fear,  
Oft have I asked for thee, both how and where  
Thou wert, and what my hopes of letters were;   

As in our streets sly beggars narrowly  
Watch motions of the giver's hand or eye,  
And evermore conceive some hope thereby.   

And now thy Alms is given, thy letter'is read,  
The body risen again, the which was dead,  
And thy poor starveling bountifully fed.   

After this banquet my Soul doth say grace,  
And praise thee for'it, and zealously embrace  
Thy love, though I think thy love in this case  
To be as gluttons, which say 'midst their meat,  
They love that best of which they most do eat.   

At once, from hence, my lines and I depart,  
I to my soft still walks, they to my Heart;  
I to the Nurse, they to the child of Art;   

Yet as a firm house, though the Carpenter  
Perish, doth stand: as an Ambassador  
Lies safe, how e'er his king be in danger:   

So, though I languish, pressed with Melancholy,  
My verse, the strict Map of my misery,  
Shall live to see that, for whose want I dye.   

Therefore I envy them, and do repent,  
That from unhappy me, things happy'are sent;  
Yet as a Picture, or bare Sacrament,  
Accept these lines, and if in them there be  
Merit of love bestow that love on me.    

To M. C. B.  
THy friend, whom thy deserts to thee enchain,  
Urged by this unexcusable occasion,  
Thee and the Saint of his affection  
Leaving behind, doth of both wants complain;  
And let the love I bear to both sustain  
No blot nor maim by this division,  
Strong is this love which ties our hearts in one,  
And strong that love pursued with amorous pain▪  
But though besides thyself I leave behind  
Heavens liberal and earth's thrice-faire Sun,  
Going to where stern winter aye doth won,  
Yet, loves hot fires, which martyr my sad mind,  
Do send forth scalding sighs, which have the Art  
To melt all Ice, but that which walls her heart.   

To M. S. B.  
O Thou which to search out the secret parts  
Of the India, or rather Paradise  
Of knowledge, hast with courage and advise  
Lately launched into the vast Sea of Arts,  
Disdain not in thy constant travailing  
To do as other Voyagers, and make  
Some turns into less Creeks, and wisely take  
Fresh water at the Heliconian spring;  
I sing not, Siren like, to tempt; for I  
Am harsh, nor as those schismatic with you,  
Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew;  
But seeing in you bright sparks of Poetry,  
I, though I brought no fuel, had desire  
With these Articulate blasts to blow the fire.   

To M. B. B.  

IS not thy sacred hunger of science  
Yet satisfied? Is not thy brains rich hive  
Fulfilled with honey which thou dost derive  
From the Arts spirits and their Quintessence?  
Then wean thyself at last, and thee withdraw  
From Cambridge thy old nurse, and, as the rest,  
Here toughly chew, and sturdily digest  
Th' immense vast volumes of our common law;  
And begin soon, lest my grief grieve thee too,  
Which is, that that which I should have begun  
In my youth's morning, now late must be done;  
And I, as Giddy Travellers, must do,  
Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost  
Light and strength, dark and tired must then ride post.   

If thou unto thy Muse be married,  
Embrace her ever, ever multiply,  
Be far from me that strange Adultery  
To tempt thee and procure her widowhood,  
My nurse, (for I had one,) because I'm cold,  
Divorced herself, the cause being in me,  
That I can take no new in Bigamye,  
Not my will only but power doth withhold.  
Hence comes it, that these Rhymes which never had  
Mother, want matter, and they only have  
A little form, the which their Father gave;  
They are profane, imperfect, oh, too bad  
To be counted Children of Poetry  
Except confirmed and Bishoped by thee.    

To M. R. W.  

IF, as mine is, thy life a slumber be,  
Seem, when thou readest these lines, to dream of me,  
Never did Morpheus nor his brother wear  
Shapes so like those Shapes, whom they would appear,  
As this my letter is like me, for it  
Hath my name, words, hand, feet, heart, mind and wit;  
It is my deed of gift of me to thee,  
It is my Will, myself the Legacy.  
So thy retyring I love, yea envy,  
Bred in thee by a wise melancholy,  
That I rejoice, that unto where thou art,  
Though I stay here, I can thus send my heart,  
As kindly'as any enamoured Patiented  
His Picture to his absent Love hath sent.   

All news I think sooner reach thee then me;  
Havens are Heavens, and Ships winged Angels be,  
The which both Gospel, and stern threatenings bring;  
Guyanaes' harvest is nipped in the spring,  
I fear; And with us (me thinks)▪ Fate deals so  
As with the Jews guide God did; he did show  
Him the rich land, but barred his entry in,  
Our slowness is our punishment and sin;  
Perchance, these Spanish business being done,  
Which as the Earth between the Moon and Sun  
Eclipse the light which Guyana would give,  
Our discontinued hopes we shall retrieve:  
But if (as All th' All must) hopes smoke away,  
Is not Almighty Vertue'an India?   

If men be worlds, there is in every one  
Some thing to answer in some proportion  
All the world's riches: And in good men, this  
Virtue, our form's form and our soul's soul is.    

To M. I. L.  
OF that short Roll of friends writ in my heart  
Which with thy name begins, since their depart,  
Whether in the English Provinces they be,  
Or drink of Po, Sequan, or Danubie,  
There's none that sometimes greets us not, and yet  
Your Trent is Lethe ', that past, us you forget,  
You do not duties of Societies,  
If from the'embrace of a loved wife you rise,  
View your fat Beasts, stretched Barns, and laboured fields,  
Eat, play, ride, take all joys which all day yields,  
And then again to your embracements go:  
Some hours on us your friends, and some bestow  
Upon your Muse, else both we shall repent,  
I that my love, she that her gifts on you are spent   

To M. I. P.  
Blessed are your North parts, for all this long time  
My Sun is with you, cold and darke'is our Clime▪  
Heaven Sun, which stayed so long from us this year,  
Stayed in your North (I think) for she was there,  
And hither by kind nature drawn from thence,  
Here rages chafes and threatens pestilence;  
Yet I, as long as she from hence doth stay,  
Think this no South, no Summer, nor no day.  
With thee my kind and unkind heart is run,  
There sacrifice it to that beauteous Sun:  
So may thy pastures with their flowery feasts,  
As suddenly as Lard, fat thy lean beasts;  
So may thy woods oft polled, yet ever wear  
A green, and when thee list a golden hair;  
So may all thy sheep bring forth Twins; and so  
In chase and race may thy horse all out go;  
So may thy love and courage ne'er be cold;  
Thy Son ne'er Ward; Thy loved wife ne'er seem old▪  
But mayst thou wish great things, and them attain,  
As thou tellest her and none but her my pain.   

To E. of D. with six holy Sonnets.  
SEE Sir, how as the Sun's hot Masculine flame  
Begets strange creatures on Nile's dirty slime,  
In me, your fatherly yet lusty Rhyme  
(For, these songs are their fruits) have wrought the same;  
But though the engendering force from whence they came  
Be strong enough, and nature do admit  
Seven to be borne at once, I send as yet  
But six, they say, the seaventh hath still some maim;  
I choose your judgement, which the same degree  
Doth with her sister, your invention, hold,  
As fire these drossy Rhymes to purify,  
Or as Elixir, to change them to gold;  
You are that Alchemist which always had  
Wit, whose one spark could make good things of bad.   

To Sir H. W. at his going Ambassador to Venice.  

AFter those reverend papers, whose soul is  
Our good and great Kings loved hand and feared name▪  
By which to you he derives much of his,  
And (how he may) makes you almost the same,   

A Taper of his Torch, a copy writ  
From his Original, and a fair beam  
Of the same warm, and dazzling Sun, though it  
Must in another Sphere his virtue stream:   

After those learned papers which your hand  
Hath stored with notes of use and pleasures too,  
From which rich treasury you may command  
Fit matter whether you will write or do:   

After those loving papers, where friends send  
With glad grief, to your Seaward steps, farewel,  
Which thicken on you now, as prayers ascend  
To heaven in troops at'a good man's passing bell:   

Admit this honest paper, and allow  
It such an audience as yourself would ask;  
What you must say at Venice this means now,  
And hath for nature, what you have for task.   

To swear much love, not to be changed before  
Honour alone will to your fortune fit;  
Nor shall I then honour your fortune, more  
Than I have done your honour wanting it.   

But'tis an easier load (though both oppress)  
To want, then govern greatness, for we are  
In that, our own and only business,  
In this, we must for others vices care;   

'Tis therefore well your spirits now are placed  
In their last Furnace, in activity;  
Which fits them (Schools and Courts and wars o'rpast  
To touch and test in any best degree.   

For me, (if there be such a thing as I)  
Fortune (if there be such a thing as she)  
Spies that I bear so well her tyranny,  
That she thinks nothing else so fit for me;   

But though she part us, to hear my oft prayers  
For your increase, God is as near me here;  
And to send you what I shall beg, his stairs  
In length and ease are alike every where.    

To M. M. H.  

MAd paper stay, and grudge not here to burn  
With all those sons whom my brain did create,  
At lest lie hid with me, till thou return.  
To rags again, which is thy native state.   

What though thou have enough unworthiness  
To come unto great place as others do,  
That's much, emboldens, pulls, thrusts I confess,  
But 'tis not all, thou shouldst be wicked too.   

And, that thou canst not learn, or not of me;  
Yet thou wilt go, Go, since thou goest to her  
Who lacks but faults to be a Prince, for she,  
Truth, whom they dare not pardon, dares prefer.   

But when thou comest to that perplexing eye  
Which equally claims love and reverence.  
Thou wilt not long dispute it, thou wilt die;  
And, having little now, have then no sense.   

Yet when her warm redeeming hand, which is  
A miracle; and made such to work more,  
Doth touch thee (sapless leaf) thou growest by this  
Her creature; glorified more than before.   

Then as a mother which delights to hear  
Her early child misspeak half uttered words,  
Or, because majesty doth never fear  
Ill or bold speech, she Audience affords.   

And then, cold speechless wretch, thou diest again,  
And wisely; what discourse is left for thee?  
For, speech of ill, and her thou must abstain,  
And is there any good which is not she?   

Yet mayst thou praise her servants, though not her,  
And wit, and virtue, ' and honour her attend,  
And since theyare but her clothes, thou shalt not err  
If thou her shape and beauty'and grace commend.   

Who knows thy destiny? when thou hast done,  
Perchance her Cabinet may harbour thee,  
Whither all noble ambitious wits do run,  
A nest almost as full of Good as she.   

When thou art there, if any, whom we know,  
Were saved before, and did that heaven partake,  
When she revolves his papers, mark what show  
Of favour, she alone, to them doth make.   

Mark, if to get them, she o'er skip the rest,  
Mark, if she read them twice, or kiss the name;  
Mark, if she do the same that they protest,  
Mark, if she mark whether her woman came.   

Mark, if slight things be'objected, and o'er blown,  
Mark, if her oaths against him be not still  
Reserved, and that she grieves she's not her own,  
And chides the doctrine that denies Freewill.   

Ibid thee not do this to be my spy;  
Nor to make myself her familiar;  
But so much I do love her choice, that I  
Would fain love him that shall be loved of her.    

To the Countess of Bedford.  

HOnour is so sublime perfection,  
And so refined; that when God was alone  
And creaturelesse at first, himself had none;   

But as of the elements, these which we tread,  
Produce all things with which wee'are joyed or fed,  
And, those are barren both above our head:   

So from low persons doth all honour flow;  
Kings, whom they would have honoured, to us show,  
And but direct our honour, not bestow.   

For when from herbs the pure part must be won  
From gross, by Stilling, this is better done  
By despised dung, then by the fire or Sun.   

Care not then, Madam, ' how low your praises lie;  
In labourer's ballads oft more piety  
God finds, then in To Deums melody.   

And, ordinance raised on Towers so many mile  
Send not their voice, nor last so long a while  
As fires from th'earth's low vaults in Sicil Isle.   

Should I say I lived darker than were true,  
Your radiation can all clouds subdue,  
But one, 'tis best light to contemplate you.   

You, for whose body God made better clay,  
Or took Souls stuff such as shall late decay,  
Or such as needs small change at the last day.   

This, as an Amber drop enwraps a Bee,  
Covering discovers your quick Soul; that we  
May in your through-shine front our hearts thoughts see.   

You teach (though we learn not) a thing unknown  
To our late times, the use of specular stone,  
Through which all things within without were shown.   

Of such were Temples; so and such you are;  
Being and seeming is your equal care,  
And virtues whole sum is but know and dare.   

But as our Souls of growth and Souls of sense  
Have birthright of our reason's Soul, yet hence  
They fly not from that, nor seek presidence.   

Nature's first lesson, so, discretion,  
Must not grudge zeal a place, nor yet keep none,  
Not banish itself, nor religion.   

Discretion is a wiseman's Soul, and so  
Religion is a Christians, and you know  
How these are one, her yea, is not her no.   

Nor may we hope to sodder still and knit  
These two, and dare to break them; nor must wit  
Be colleague to religion, but be it.   

In those poor types of God (round circles) so  
Religions tips, the peeclesse centres flow,  
And are in all the lines which always go.   

If either ever wrought in you alone  
Or principally, than religion  
Wrought your ends, and your ways discretion.   

Go thither still, go the same way you went,  
Who so would change, do covet or repent;  
Neither can reach you, great and innocent.    

To the Countess of Bedford.  
Begun in France but never perfected.  
THough I be dead, and buried, yet I have  
(Living in you,) Court enough in my grave,  
As oft as there I think myself to be,  
So many resurrections waken me.  
That thankfulness your favours have forgot  
In me, embalmes me; that I do not rot;  
This season as'tis Easter, as'tis spring,  
Must both to growth and to confession bring  
My thoughts disposed unto your influence, so,  
These verses bud, so these confessions grow;  
First I confess I have to others lent  
Your stock, and over prodigally spent  
Your treasure, for since I had never known  
Virtue or beauty, but as they are grown  
In you, I should not think or say they shine,  
(So as I have) in any other Mine;  
Next I confess this my confession,  
For, 'tis some fault thus much to touch upon,  
Your praise to you, where half rights seem too much,  
And make your minds sincere complexion blush.  
Next I confess my'impenitence, for I  
Can scarce repent my first fault, since thereby  
Remote low Spirits, which shall ne'er read you,  
May in less lessons find enough to do,  
By studying copies, not Originals,  
Desunt caetera.   

A Letter to the Lady Carey, and Mrs Essex rich, From Amiens.  
MADAM,  

HEre where by All All Saints invoked are,  
'Twere too much schism to be singular,  
And 'gainst a practice general to war.   

Yet turning to Saints, should my'humility  
To other Saint than you directed be,  
That were to make my schism, heresy.   

Nor would I be a Convertite so cold,  
As not to tell it; If this be too bold,  
Pardons are in this market cheaply sold.   

Where, because Faith is in too low degree,  
I thought it some Apostleship in me  
To speak things which by faith alone I see.   

That is, of you, who is a firmament  
Of virtues, where no one is grown, or spent,  
theyare your materials, not your ornament.   

Others whom we call virtuous, are not so  
In their whole substance, but, their virtues grow  
But in their humours, and at seasons show.   

For when through tastlesse flat humility  
In dough baked men some harmelessenes we see,  
'Tis but his phlegm that's Virtuous, and not He:   

So is the Blood sometimes; who ever ran  
To danger unimportuned, he was than  
No better than a sanguine Virtuous man.   

So cloysterall men, who, in pretence of fear  
All contributions to this life forbear,  
Have Virtue in Melancholy, and only there.   

Spiritual Choleric Crytiques, which in all  
Religions find faults, and forgive no fall,  
Have, through their zeal, Virtue but in their Gall.   

We are thus but parcel guilt; to Gold weare grown  
When Virtue is our Souls complexion;  
Who knows his Virtue's name or place, hath none.   

Vertue'is but aguish, when 'tis several,  
By occasion waked, and circumstantial.  
True virtue is Soul, Always in all deeds All.   

This Virtue thinking to give dignity  
To your soul, found there no infirmity,  
For, your soul was as good Virtue, as she;   

She therefore wrought upon that part of you  
Which is scarce less than soul, as she could do,  
And so hath made your beauty, Virtue too.   

Hence comes it, that your Beauty wounds not hearts,  
As Others, with profane and sensual Darts,  
But as an influence, virtuous thoughts imparts.   

But if such friends by the honour of your sight  
Grow capable of this so great a light,  
As to partake your virtues, and their might,   

What must I think that influence must do,  
Where it finds sympathy and matter too,  
Virtue, and beauty of the same stuff, as you?   

Which is, your noble worthy sister, she  
Of whom, if what in this my Ecstasy  
And revelation of you both I see,   

I should write here, as in short Galleries  
The Master at the end large glasses ties,  
So to present the room twice to our eyes,   

So I should give this letter length, and say  
That which I said of you; there is no way  
From either, but by the other not to stray.   

May therefore this be enough to testify  
My true devotion, free from flattery;  
He that believes himself, doth never lie.    

To the Countess of Salisbury. August. 1614  
Fair, great, and good, since seeing you, we see  
What Heaven can do, and what any Earth can be:  
Since now your beauty shines, now when the Sun  
Grown stale, is to so low a value run,  
That his dissheveled beams and scattered fires  
Serve but for Lady's Periwigs and Tires  
In lovers Sonnets: you come to repair  
God's book of creatures, teaching what is fair.  
Since now, when all is withered, shrunk, and dried,  
All Virtues ebbed out to a dead low tide,  
All the world's frame being crumbled into sand,  
Where every man thinks by himself to stand,  
Integrity, friendship, and confidence,  
(Ciments of greatness) being vapoured hence,  
And narrow man being filled with little shares,  
Court, City, Church, are all shops of small-wares,  
All having blown to sparks their noble fire,  
And drawn their sound gold-ingot into wire;  
All trying by a love of littleness  
To make abridgements, and to draw to less,  
Even that nothing, which at first we were;  
Since in these times, your greatness doth appear,  
And that we learn by it, that man to get  
Towards him, that's infinite, must first be great.  
Since in an age so ill, as none is fit  
So much as to accuse, much less mend it,  
(For who can judge, or witness of those times  
Where all alike are guilty of the crimes?)  
Where he that would be good, is thought by all  
A monster, or at best fantastical:  
Since now you durst be good, and that I do  
Discern, by daring to contemplate you,  
That there may be degrees of fair, great, good,  
Through your light, largeness, virtue understood▪  
If in this sacrifice of mine, be shown  
Any small spark of these, call it your own.  
And if things like these, have been said by me  
Of others; call not that Idolatry.  
For had God made man first, and man had seen  
The third day's fruits, and flowers, and various green  
He might have said the best that he could say  
Of those fair creatures, which were made that day:  
And when next day he had admired the birth  
Of Sun, Moon, Stars, fairer than late-praised earth,  
He might have said the best that he could say,  
And not be chid for praising yesterday:  
So though some things are not together true,  
As, that another is worthiest, and, that you:  
Yet, to say so, doth not condemn a man,  
If when he spoke them, they were both true than.  
How fair a proof of this, in our soul grows?  
We first have souls of growth, and sense, and those,  
When our last soul, our soul immortal came,  
Were swallowed into it, and have no name.  
Nor doth he injure those souls, which doth cast  
The power and praise of both them, on the last;  
No more do I wrong any; I adore  
The same things now, which I adored before,  
The subject changed, and measure; the same thing  
In a low constable, and in the King  
I reverence; His power to work on me;  
So did I humbly reverence each degree  
Of fair, great, good, but more, now I am come  
From having found their walks, to find their home.  
And as I owe my first soul's thanks, that they  
For my last soul did fit and mould my clay,  
So am I debtor unto them, whose worth,  
Enabled me to profit, and take forth  
This new great lesson, thus to study you;  
Which none, not reading others, first, could do.  
Nor lack I light to read this book, though I  
In a dark Cave, yea in a Grave do lie;  
For as your fellow Angels, so you do  
Illustrate them who come to study you.  
The first whom we in Histories do find  
To have professed all Arts, was one borne blind:  
He lacked those eyes beasts have as well as we,  
Not those, by which Angels are seen and see;  
So, though I'm borne without those eyes to live,  
Which fortune, who hath none herself, doth give,  
Which are, fit means to see bright courts and you,  
Yet may I see you thus, as now I do;  
I shall by that, all goodness have discerned,  
And though I burn my library, be learned.   

An Epithalamion, Or marriage Song on the Lady Elizabeth, and Count Palatine being married on St. Valentine's day.  

I.  
Hail Bishop Valentine, whose day this is,  
All the Air is thy Diocis,  
And all the chirping Choristers  
And other birds are thy Parishioners,  
Thou marryest every year  
The Lirique Lark, and the grave whispering Dove,  
The Sparrow that neglects his life for love,  
The household Bird, with the red stomacher,  
Thou mak'st the black bird speed as soon,  
As doth the Goldfinch, or the Halcyon;  
The husband cock looks out, and strait is sped,  
And meets his wife, which brings her featherbed.  
This day more cheerfully than ever shine.  
This day, which might enflane thyself, Old Valentine,   

II.  
Till now, Thou warmd'st with multiplying loves  
Two larks, two sparrows, or two Doves,  
All that is nothing unto this,  
For thou this day couplest two Phoenixes,  
Thou mak'st a Taper see  
What the sun never saw, and what the Ark  
(Which was of fowls, and beasts, the cage, and park,)  
Did not contain, one bed contains, through Thee,  
Two Phoenixes, whose joined breasts  
Are unto one another mutual nests,  
Where motion kindles such fires, as shall give  
Young Phoenixes, and yet the old shall live.  
Whose love and courage never shall decline,  
But make the whole year through, thy day, O Valentine.   

III.  
Up then fair Phoenix Bride, frustrate the Sun,  
Thyself from thine affection  
Takest warmth enough, and from thine eye  
All lesser birds will take their Jollity.  
Up, up, fair Bride, and call,  
Thy stars, from out their several boxes, take  
Thy Rubies, Pearls, and Diamonds forth, and make  
Thyself a constellation, of them All,  
And by their blazing, signify,  
That a Great Princess falls, but doth not die;  
Be thou a new star, that to us portends  
Ends of much wonder; And be Thou those ends,  
Since thou dost this day in new glory shine,  
May all men date Records, from this thy Valentine.   

FOUR  
Come forth, come forth, and as one glorious flame  
Meeting Another, grows the same,  
So meet thy Frederick, and so  
To an unseparable union go,  
Since separation  
Falls not on such things as are infinite,  
Nor things which are but one, can disunite.  
youare twice inseparable, great, and one;  
Go then to where the Bishop stays,  
To make you one, his way, which diverse ways  
Must be effected; and when all is past,  
And that youare one, by hearts and hands made fast,  
You two have one way left, yourselves to'entwine,  
Besides this Bishop's knot, O Bishop Valentine.   

V.  
But oh, what ails the Sun, that here he stays,  
Longer to day, than other days?  
Stays he new light from these to get?  
And finding here such store, is loath to set?  
And why do you two walk,  
So slowly paced in this procession?  
Is all your care but to be looked upon,  
And be to others spectacle, and talk?  
The feast, with gluttonous delays,  
Is eaten, and too long their meat they praise,  
The maskers come too late, and ' I think, will stay,  
Like Fairies, till the Cock crow them away.  
Alas, did not Antiquity assign  
A night, as well as day, to thee, O Valentine?   

VI  
They did, and night is come; and yet we see  
Formalities retarding thee.  
What mean these Ladies, which (as though  
They were to take a clock in pieces,) go  
So nicely about the Bride;  
A Bride, before a good night could be said,  
Should vanish from her clothes, into her bed,  
As Souls from bodies steal, and are not spied.  
But now she is laid; What though she be?  
Yet there are more delays, For, where is he?  
He comes, and passes through Sphere after Sphere.  
First her sheets, than her Arms, than any where,  
Let not this day, then, but this night be thine,  
Thy day was but the eve to this, O Valentine.   

VII.  
Here lies a she Sun, and a he Moon here,  
She gives the best light to his Sphere,  
Or each is both, and all, and so  
They unto one another nothing owe,  
And yet they do, but are  
So just and rich in that coin which they pay,  
That neither would, nor needs forbear nor stay,  
Neither desires to be spared, nor to spare,  
They quickly pay their debt, and then  
Take no acquittance, but pay again;  
They pay, they give, they lend, and so let fall,  
No such occasion to be liberal.  
More truth, more courage in these two do shine,  
Then all thy turtles have, and sparrows, Valentine.   

VIII.  
And by this act of these two Phenixes  
Nature again restored is,  
For since these two are two no more,  
there's but one Phoenix still, as was before.  
Rest now at last, and we  
As Satyrs watch the Sun's uprise, will stay  
Waiting, when your eyes opened, let out day.  
Only desired, because your face we see;  
Others near you shall whispering speak,  
And wagers lay, at which side day will break,  
And win by'observing, then, whose hand it is  
That opens first a curtain, hers or his;  
This will be tried to morrow after nine,  
Till which hour, we thy day enlarge, O Valentine.    

ECCLOGUE.  
1613. December 26.  Allophanes finding Idios in the country in Christmas time, reprehends his absence from court, at the marriage Of the Earl of Somerset, Idios gives an account of his purpose therein, and of his absence thence. Allophanes. 
Unseasonable man, statue of ice,  
What could to country's solitude entice  
Thee, in this years cold and decrepit time?  
Nature's instinct draws to the warmer clime  
Even small birds, who by that courage dare,  
In numerous fleets, sail through their Sea, the air.  
What delicacy can in fields appear,  
Whilst Flora ' herself doth a freeze jerkin wear?  
Whilst winds do all the trees and hedges strip  
Of leaves, to furnish rods enough to whip  
Thy madness from thee; and all springs by frost  
Have taken cold, and their sweet murmurs lost;  
If thou thy faults or fortunes wouldst lament  
With just solemnity, do it in Lent;  
At Court the spring already advanced is,  
The Sun stays longer up; and yet not his  
The glory is, far other, other fires.  
First, zeal to Prince and State; then loves desires  
Burn in one breast, and like heavens two great lights,  
The first doth govern days, the other nights.  
And then that early light, which did appear  
Before the Sun and Moon created were;  
The Prince's favour is defused o'er all,  
From which all Fortunes, Names, and Nature's fall;  
Then from those wombs of stars, the Bride's bright eyes,  
At every glance, a constellation flies,  
And sows the Court with stars, and doth prevent  
In light and power, the alleyed firmament;  
First her eyes kindles other Lady's eyes,  
Then from their beams their jewels lustres rise,  
And from their jewels torches do take fire,  
And all is warmth, and light, and good desire;  
Most other Courts, alas, are like to hell,  
Where in dark places, fire without light doth dwell:  
Or but like Stoves, for lust and envy get  
Continual, but artificial heat;  
Here zeal and love grown one, all clouds digest,  
And make our Court an everlasting East.  
And canst thou be from thence?  Idios. 
No, I am there  
As heaven, to men disposed, is every where,  
So are those Courts, whose Princes animate,  
Not only all their house, but all their State,  
Let no man think, because he is full, he hath all,  
Kings (as their pattern, God) are liberal  
Not only in fullness, but capacity,  
Enlarging narrow men, to feel and see,  
And comprehend the blessings they bestow.  
So, reclused hermits often times do know  
More of heaven's glory, than a worldling can.  
As man is of the world, the heart of man,  
Is an epitome of God's great book  
Of creatures, and man need no farther look;  
So is the Country of Courts, where sweet peace doth,  
As their one common soul, give life to both,  
I am not then from Court.  Allophanes. 
Dreamer, thou art,  
Think'st thou fantastic that thou hast a part  
In the Indian fleet, because thou hast  
A little spice, or Amber in thy taste?  
Because thou art not frozen, art thou warm?  
Seest thou all good because thou seest no harm?  
The earth doth in her inner bowels hold  
Stuffe well disposed▪ and which would fain be gold,  
But never shall, except it chance to lie,  
So upward, that heaven gilled it with his eye;  
As, for divine things, faith comes from above,  
So, for best civil use, all tinctures move  
From higher powers; From God religion springs,  
Wisdom, and honour from the use of Kings.  
Then unbeguile thyself, and know with me,  
That Angels, though on earth employed they be,  
Are still in heaven, so is he still at home  
That doth, abroad, to honest actions come.  
Chide thyself then, O fool, which yesterday  
Mightst have read more than all thy books bewray;  
Hast thou a history, which doth present  
A Court, where all affections do assent  
Unto the Kings, and that, that Kings are just?  
And where it is no levity to trust.  
Where there is no ambition, but to'obey,  
Where men need whisper nothing, and yet may;  
Where the King's favours are so placed, that all  
Find that the King therein is liberal  
To them, in him, because his favours bend  
To virtue, to the which they all pretend.  
Thou hast no such; yet here was this, and more,  
An earnest lover, wise then, and before,  
Our little Cupidhath sued Livery,  
And is no more in his minority,  
He is admitted now into that breast  
Where the King's Counsels and his secrets rest▪  
What haste thou lost, O ignorant man?  Idios. 
I knew,  
All this, and only therefore I withdrew  
To know and feel all this, and not to have  
Words to express it, makes a man a grave  
Of his own thoughts; I would not therefore stay  
At a great feast, having no grace to say,  
And yet I scaped not here; for being come  
Full of the common joy; I uttered some,  
Read then this nuptial song, which was not made  
Either the Court or men's hearts to invade,  
But since I'm dead, and buried I could frame  
No Epitaph, which might advance my fame,  
So much as this poor song, which testifies  
I did unto that day some sacrifice.  

I.  
The time of the Marriage.  
THou art reprieved old year, thou shalt not die,  
Though thou upon thy death bed lie,  
And shouldst within five days expire  
Yet thou art rescued by a mightier fire,  
Then thy old Soul, the Sun,  
When he doth in his largest circle run.  
The passage of the West or East would thaw,  
And open wide their easy liquid jaw  
To all our ships, could a Promethean art  
Either unto the Northern Pole impart  
The fire of these inflaming eyes, or of this loving heart.   

II.  
Equality of persons.  
But undiscerning Muse, which heart, which eyes,  
In this new couple, dost thou prise,  
When his eye as inflaming is  
As hers, and her heart loves as well as his?  
Be tried by beauty, and than  
The bridegroom is a maid, and not a man,  
If by that manly courage they be tried,  
Which scorns unjust opinion; then the bride  
Becomes a man. Should chance or envies Art  
Divide these two, whom nature scarce did part?  
Since both have th'inflaming eye, and both the loving heart.   

III.  
Raising of the Bridegroom.  
Though it be some divorce to think of you  
Single, so much one are you two,  
Let me here contemplate thee,  
First, cheerful Bridegroom, and first let me see,  
How thou prevent'st the Sun,  
And his red foaming horses dost outrun,  
How, having laid down in thy Sovereign's breast  
All businesses, from thence to reinvest  
Them, when these triumphs cease, thou forward art  
To show to her, who doth the like impart,  
The fire of thy inflaming eyes, and of thy loving heart.   

FOUR  
Raising of the Bride.  
But now, to Thee, fair Bride, it is some wrong,  
To think thou wert in Bed so long,  
Since Soon thou liest down first, 'tis fit  
Thou in first rising shouldst allow for it,  
Powder thy Radiant hair,  
Which if without such ashes thou wouldst wear,  
Thou, which, to all which come to look upon,  
Are meant for, Phoebus, wouldst be Phaethon,  
For our ease, give thine eyes, th'unusual part  
Of joy, a Tear; so quenched, thou mayst impart,  
To us that come, thy inflaming eyes, to him, thy loving heart.   

V.  
Her Appareling.  
Thus thou descend'st to our infirmity,  
Who can the Sun in water see.  
So dost thou, when in silk and gold,  
Thou cloudst thyself; since we which do behold,  
Are dust, and worms, 'tis just  
Our objects be the fruits of worms and dust;  
Let every Jewel be a glorious star,  
Yet stars are not so pure, as their spheres are.  
And though thou stoop, to'appear to us, in part,  
Still in that Picture thou entirely art,  
Which thy inflaming eyes have made within his loving heart.   

VI  
Going to the Chapel.  
Now from your Easts you issue forth, and we,  
As men which through a Cypress see  
The rising sun, do think it two,  
So, as you go to Church, do think of you,  
But that veil being gone,  
By the Church rites you are from thenceforth one.  
The Church Triumphant made this match before,  
And now the Militant doth strive no more,  
Then, reverend Priest, who Gods Recorder art,  
Do, from his Dictates, to these two impart  
All blessings, which are seen, Or thought, by Angel's eye or heart.   

VII:  
The Benediction.  
Blessed pair of Swans, Oh may you interbring  
Daily new joys, and never sing,  
Live, till all grounds of wishes fail,  
Till honour, yea till wisdom grow so stale,  
That, new great heights to try,  
It must serve your ambition, to die;  
Raise heirs, and may here, to the world's end, live  
Heirs from this King, to take thanks, you, to give,  
Nature and grace do all, and nothing Art,  
May never age, or error overthwart  
With any West, these radiant eyes, with any North, this heart,   

VIII.  
Feasts and Revels.  
But you are over-blest. Plenty this day  
Injures; it causeth time to stay;  
The table's groan, as though this feast  
Would, as the flood, destroy all fowl and beast.  
And were the doctrine new  
That the earth moved, this day would make it true;  
For every part to dance and revel goes.  
They tread the air, and fall not where they rose.  
Though six hours since, the Sun to bed did part,  
The masks and banquets will not yet impart  
A sunset to these weary eyes, A Centre to this heart.   

IX.  
The Brides going to bed.  
What meanest thou Bride, this company to keep?  
To sit up, till thou fain wouldst sleep?  
Thou mayst not, when thou art laid, do so.  
Thyself must to him a new banquet grow,  
And you must entertain  
And do all this days dances o'er again.  
Know that if Sun and Moon together do  
Rise in one point, they do not set so to.  
Therefore thou mayst, fair Bride, to bed depart,  
Thou art not gone, being gone, where e'er thou art,  
Thou leav'st in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy loving heart.   

X.  
The Bridegroom's coming.  
As he that sees a star fall, runs apace,  
And finds a jelly in the place,  
So doth the Bridegroom hast as much,  
Being told this star is fall'n, and finds her such,  
And as friends may look strange,  
By a new fashion, or apparels change,  
Their souls, though long acquainted they had been,  
These clothes, their bodies, never yet had seen.  
Therefore at first she modestly might start,  
But must forthwith surrender every part,  
As freely, as each to each before, gave either eye or heart.   

XI.  
The good night.  
Now, as in Tullia's tomb, one lamp burnt clear▪  
Unchanged for fifteen hundred year,  
May these love-lamps we here enshrine,  
In warmth, light, lasting, equal the divine;  
Fire ever doth aspire,  
And makes all like itself, turns all to fire,  
But ends in ashes, which these cannot do,  
For none of these is fuel, but fire too.  
This is joys bonfire, then, where loves strong Arts  
Make of so noble individual parts  
One fire of four inflaming eyes, and of two loving hearts.  Idios. 
As I have brought this song, that I may do  
A perfect sacrifice, I'll burn it too.  Allophanes. 
No Sr. This paper I have justly got,  
For, in burnt incense, the perfume is not  
His only that presents it, but of all,  
What ever celebrates this Festival  
Is common, since the joy thereof is so.  
Nor may yourself be Priest: But let me go,  
Back to the Court, and I will lay'it upon  
Such Altars, as prise your devotion.    

Epithalamion made at Lincoln's Inn.  

THe Sunbeams in the East are spread,  
Leave, leave, fair Bride, your solitary bed,  
No more shall you return to it alone,  
It nourseth sadness, and your body's print,  
Like to a grave, the yielding down doth dint;  
You and your other you meet there anon;  
Put forth, put forth that warm balme-breathing thigh,  
Which when next time you in these sheets will smother  
There it must meet another,  
Which never was, but must be, oft, more nigh;  
Come glad from thence, go gladder than you came,  
To day put on perfection, and a woman's name.   

Daughters of London, you which be  
Our Golden Mines, and furnished Treasury,  
You which are Angels, yet still bring with you  
Thousands of Angels on your marriage days,  
Help with your presence, and devise to praise  
These rites, which also unto you grow due;  
Conceitedly dress her, and be assigned,  
By you, fit place for every flower and jewel,  
Make her for love fit fuel  
As gay as Flora, and as rich as Ind;  
So may she fair and rich, in nothing lame,  
To day put on perfection, and a woman's name.   

And you frolic Patricians  
Some of these Senators wealths deep oceans,  
Ye painted courtiers, barrels of others wits,  
Ye country men, who but your beasts love none,  
Ye of those fellowships whereof he's one,  
Of study and play made strange Hermaphrodits,  
Here shine; This Bridegroom to the Temple bring  
Lo, in yond path which store of strawed flowers graceth,  
The sober virgin paceth;  
Except my sight fail, 'tis no other thing;  
Weep not nor blush, here is no grief nor shame,  
To day put on perfection, and a woman's name.   

Thy two-leaved gates fair Temple unfold,  
And these two in thy sacred bosom hold,  
Till, mystically joined, but one they be;  
Then may thy lean and hungerstarved womb  
Long time expect their bodies and their tomb,  
Long after their own parents fatten thee;  
All elder claims, and all cold barrenness,  
All yielding to new loves be far for ever,  
Which might these two dissever,  
Always, all th'other may each one possess;  
For, the best Bride, best worthy of praise and fame,  
To day puts on perfection, and a woman's name.   

Winter days bring much delight,  
Not for themselves, but for they soon bring night;  
Other sweets wait thee then these divers meats,  
Other disports then dancing jollities,  
Other love tricks then glancing with the eyes;  
But that the Sun still in our half Sphere sweats;  
He flies in winter, but he now stands still,  
Yet shadows turn; Noon point he hath attained,  
His steeds will be restrained,  
But gallop lively down the Western hill;  
Thou shalt, when he hath come the world's half frame,  
To night but on perfection, and a woman's name.   

The amorous evening star is rose,  
Why then should not our amorous star enclose  
Herself in her wished bed? Release your strings  
Musicians, and dancers take some truce  
With these your pleasing labours, for great use  
As much weariness as perfection brings;  
You, and not only you, but all toiled beasts  
Rest duly; at night all their toils are dispensed;  
But in their beds commenced  
Are other labours, and more dainty feasts;  
She goes amaid, who, lest she turn the same,  
To night puts on perfection, and a woman's name.   

Thy virgin's girdle now untie,  
And in thy nuptial bed [loves alter] lie  
A pleasing sacrifice; now dispossess  
Thee of these chains and robes which were put on  
T'adorn the day, not thee; for thou, alone,  
Like virtue ' and truth, art best in nakedness;  
This bed is only to virginity  
A grave, but, to a better state, a cradle;  
Till now thou wast but able  
To be what now thou art; then that by thee  
No more be said, I may be, but, I am,  
To night put on perfection, and a woman's name.   

Even like a faithful man content,  
That this life for a better should be spent;  
So, she a mother's rich style doth prefer,  
And at the Bridegroom's wished approach doth lie,  
Like an appointed lamb, when tenderly  
The priest comes on his knees t'embowell her;  
Now sleep or watch with more joy; and O light  
Of heaven, to morrow rise thou hot, and early;  
This Sun will love so dear  
Her rest, that long, long we shall want her sight;  
Wonders are wrought, for she which had no maim,  
To night puts on perfection, and a woman's name.    

To the Countess of Bedford.  
MADAM,  
I Have learned by those laws wherein I am a little conversant, that he which bestows any cost upon the dead, obliges him which is dead, but not the heir; I do not therefore send this paper to your Ladyship, that you should thank me for it, or think that I thank you in it; your favours and benefits to me are so much above my merits, that they are even above my gratitude, if that were to be judged by words which must express it: But, Madam, since your noble brother's fortune being yours, the evidences also concerning it are yours, so his virtue being yours, the evidences concerning it, belong also to you, of which by your acceptance this may be one piece, in which quality I humbly present it, and as a testimony how entirely your family possesseth  
Your Ladyship's most humble and thankful servant JOHN DONNE.   

Obsequies to the Lord harrington's brother.  
To the Countess of Bedford.  
Fair soul, which waist, not only, as all souls be,  
Then when thou wast infused, harmony,  
But didst continue so; and now dost bear  
A part in God's great organ, this whole Sphere:  
If looking up to God; or down to us,  
Thou find that any way is pervious,  
'twixt heaven and earth, and that man's actions do  
Come to your knowledge, and affections too,  
See, and with joy, me to that good degree  
Of goodness grown, that I can study thee,  
And, by these meditations refined,  
Can unapparell and enlarge my mind,  
And so can make by this soft ecstasy,  
This place a map of heaven, myself of thee.  
Thou seest me here at midnight, now all rest;  
Times dead-low water; when all minds divest  
To morrows business, when the labourers have  
Such rest in bed, that their last Churchyard grave,  
Subject to change, will scarce be'a type of this,  
Now when the client, whose last hearing is  
To morrow, sleeps, when the condemned man,  
(Who when he opes his eyes, must shut them than  
Again by death,) although sad watch he keep,  
Doth practice dying by a little sleep,  
Thou at this midnight seest me, and as soon  
As that Sun rises to me, midnight's noon,  
All the world grows transparent, and I see  
Through all, both Church and State, in seeing thee;  
And I discern by favour of this light,  
Myself, the hardest object of the sight.  
God is the glass; as thou when thou dost see  
Him who sees all, seest all concerning thee,  
So, yet unglorified, I comprehend  
All, in these mirrors of thy ways, and end;  
Though God be our true glass, through which we see  
All, since the being of all things is he,  
Yet are the trunks which do to us derive  
Things, in proportion fit by perspective,  
Deeds of good men, for by their living here,  
Virtues, indeed remote, seem to be ne'er;  
But where can I affirm, or where arrest  
My thoughts on his deeds? which shall I call best?  
For fluid virtue cannot be looked on,  
Nor can endure a contemplation;  
As body's change, and as I do not wear  
Those Spirits, humours, blood I did last year,  
And, as if on a stream I fix mine eye,  
That drop, which I looked on, is presently  
Pushed with more waters from my sight, and gone,  
So in this sea of virtues, can no one  
Bee'insisted on, virtues, as rivers, pass,  
Yet still remains that virtuous man there was;  
And as if man feeds on man's flesh, and so  
Part of his body to another owe,  
Yet at the last two perfect bodies rise,  
Because God knows where every Atom lies;  
So, if one knowledge were made of all those,  
Who knew his minutes well, he might dispose  
His virtues into names, and ranks; but I  
Should injure Nature, Virtue, and Destiny,  
Should I divide and discontinue so,  
Virtue, which did in one entireness grow.  
For as, he that would say, spirits are framed  
Of all the purest parts that can be named,  
Honours not spirits half so much, as he  
Which says, they have no parts, but simple be;  
So is't of virtue; for a point and one  
Are much entirer than a million.  
And had Fate meant to have his virtues told,  
It would have let him live to have been old,  
So then, that virtue in season, and then this,  
We might have seen, and said, that now he is  
Witty, now wise, now temperate, now just:  
In good short lives, virtues are fain to thrust,  
And to be sure betimes to get a place,  
When they would exercise, lack time, and space.  
So was it in this person, forced to be  
For lack of time, his own epitome.  
So to exhibit in few years as much,  
As all the long breathed Chronicles can touch;  
As when an Angel down from heaven doth fly,  
Our quick thought cannot keep him company,  
We cannot think, now he is at the Sun,  
Now through the Moon, now he through th'air doth run,  
Yet when he's come, we know he did repair  
To all 'twixt Heaven and Earth, Sun, Moon, and Air.  
And as this Angel in an instant, knows,  
And yet we know, this sudden knowledge grows  
By quick amassing several forms of things,  
Which he successively to order brings;  
When they, whose slow-paced lame thoughts cannot go  
So fast as he, think that he doth not so;  
Just as a perfect reader doth not dwell,  
On every syllable, nor stay to spell,  
Yet without doubt, he doth distinctly see  
And lay together every A, and B;  
So, in short lived good men, is'not understood  
Each several virtue, but the compound good.  
For, they all virtue's paths in that pace tread,  
As Angels go, and know, and as men read.  
O why should then these men, these lumps of Balm  
Sent hither, the world's tempest to becalm,  
Before by deeds they are diffused and spread,  
And so make us alive, themselves be dead?  
O Soul, O circle, why so quickly be  
Thy ends, thy birth and death closed up in thee?  
Since one foot of thy compass still was placed  
In heaven, the other might securely'have paced  
In the most large extent, through every path,  
Which the whole world, or man, the abridgement hath.  
Thou know'st, that though the tropic circle's have  
(Yea and those small ones which the Poles engrave,)  
All the same roundness, evenness, and all  
The endlessness of the equinoctial;  
Yet, when we come to measure distances,  
How here, how there, the Sun affected is,  
When he doth faintly work, and when prevail,  
Only great circles, then, can be our scale:  
So, though thy circle to thyself express  
All, tending to thy endless happiness,  
And we, by our good use of it may try,  
Both how to live well young, and how to die,  
Yet, since we must be old, and age endures  
His Torrid Zone at Court, and calentures  
Of hot ambitions, irrelegions ice,  
Zeals agues; and hydroptique avarice,  
Infirmities which need the scale of truth,  
As well, as lust and ignorance of youth;  
Why didst thou not for these give medicines too,  
And by thy doing tell us what to do?  
Though as small pocket-clocks, whose every wheel  
Doth each mismotion and distemper feel,  
Whose hands get shaking palsies, and whose string  
(His sinews) slackens, and whose Soul, the spring,  
Expires, or languishes, whose pulse, the fly,  
Either beats not, or beats unevenly,  
Whose voice, the Bell, doth rattle, or grow dumb,  
Or idle, ' as men, which to their last hours come,  
If these clocks be not wound, or be wound still,  
Or be not set, or set at every will;  
So, youth is easiest to destruction,  
If then we follow all, or follow none;  
Yet, as in great clocks, which in steeples chime,  
Placed to inform whole towns, to'imploy their time,  
An error doth more harm, being general,  
When, small clocks faults, only'on the wearer fall.  
So work the faults of age, on which the eye  
Of children, servants, or the State rely.  
Why wouldst not thou then, which hadst such a soul,  
A clock so true, as might the Sun control,  
And daily hadst from him, who gave it thee,  
Instructions, such as it could never be  
Disordered, stay here, as a general  
And great Sundial, to have set us All?  
O why wouldst thou be any instrument  
To this unnatural course, or why consent  
To this, not miracle, but Prodigy,  
That when the ebbs, longer than flow be,  
Virtue, whose flood did with thy youth begin,  
Should so much faster ebb out, then flow'in?  
Though her flood was blown in, by thy first breath,  
All is at once sunk in the whirlpool death.  
Which word I would not name, but that I see  
Death, else a desert, grown a Court by thee.  
Now I grow sure, that if a man would have  
Good company, his entry is a grave.  
Me thinks all Cities, now, but Anthills be,  
Where, when the several labourers I see,  
For children, house, Provision, taking pain,  
theyare all but Ants, carrying eggs, straw, and grain;  
And Churchyards are our cities, unto which  
The most repair, that are in goodness rich.  
There is the best concourse, and confluence,  
There are the holy suburbs, and from thence  
Begins God's City, New Jerusalem,  
Which doth extend her utmost gates to them;  
At that gate then Triumphant soul, dost thou  
Begin thy Triumph; But since laws allow  
That at the Triumph day, the people may,  
All that they will, 'gainst the Triumpher say,  
Let me here use that freedom, and express  
My grief, though not to make thy Triumph less.  
By law, to Triumphs none admitted be,  
Till they as Magistrates get victory,  
Though then to thy force, all youth's foes did yield,  
Yet till fit time had brought thee to that field,  
To which thy rank in this state destined thee,  
That there thy counsels might get victory,  
And so in that capacity remove,  
All jealousies, 'twixt Prince and subjects love,  
Thou couldst no title, to this triumph have,  
Thou didst intrude on death, usurpest a grave.  
That (though victoriously) thou hadst fought as yet  
But with thine own affections, with the heat  
Of youths desires, and colds of ignorance,  
But till thou shouldst successfully advance  
Thine armes'gainst foreign enemies, which are  
Both Envy, and acclamation popular,  
(For, both these engines equally defeat,  
Though by a diverse Mine, those which are great,)  
Till then thy War was but a civil War,  
For which to Triumph, none admitted are;  
No more are they, who though with good success,  
In a defensive war▪ their power express,  
Before men triumph, the dominion  
Must be enlarged, and not preserved alone;  
Why shouldst thou then, whose battles were to win  
Thyself, from those straits nature put thee in,  
And to deliver up to God that state,  
Of which he gave thee the vicariate.  
(Which is thy soul and body) as entire  
As he, who takes endeavours, doth require,  
But didst not stay, t'enlarge his kingdom too,  
By making others; what thou didst, to do;  
Why shouldst thou Triumph now, when Heaven no more  
Hath got, by getting thee, than 't'had before?  
For, Heaven and thou, even when thou livedst here,  
Of one another in possession were;  
But this from Triumph most disables thee,  
That, that place which is conquered, must be  
Left safe from present war, and likely doubt  
Of imminent commotions to break out.  
And hath he left us so? or can it be  
His territory was no more than He?  
No, we were all his charge, the Diocis  
Of every exemplar man, the whole world is,  
And he was joined in commission  
With Tutelar Angels, sent to every one.  
But though this freedom to upbraid, and chide  
Him who Triumphed, were lawful, it was tied  
With this, that it might never reference have  
Unto the Senate, who this triumph gave;  
Men might at Pompey jest, but they might not  
At that authority, by which he got  
Leave to Triumph, before, by age, he might;  
So, though triumphant soul, I dare to write,  
Moved with a reverential anger, thus,  
That thou so early wouldst abandon us;  
Yet I am far from daring to dispute  
With that great sovereignty, whose absolute  
Prerogative hath thus dispensed with thee,  
'Gainst natures laws, which just impugners be  
Of early triumphs; And I (though with pain)  
Lessen our loss, to magnify thy gain  
Of triumph, when I say, It was more fit,  
That all men should lack thee, than thou lack it.  
Though then in our time, be not suffered  
That testimony of love, unto the dead,  
To die with them, and in their graves be hid,  
As Saxon wives, and French soldarii did;  
And though in no degree I can express,  
Grief in great Alexander's great excess,  
Who at his friend's death, made whole towns divest  
Their walls and bulwarks which became them best:  
Do not, fair soul, this sacrifice refuse,  
That in thy grave I do inter my Muse,  
Who, by my grief, great as thy worth, being cast  
Behind hand, yet hath spoke, and spoke her last.   

Elegy.  
AS the sweet sweat of Roses in a Still,  
As that which from chafed muskats pores doth trill,  
As the Almighty Balm of th'early East,  
Such are the sweat drops of my Mistress breast.  
And on her neck her skin such lustre sets,  
They seem no sweat drops, but pearl coronets.  
Rank sweaty froth thy Mistress' brow defiles,  
Like spermatique issue of ripe menstruous boiles.  
Or like the scum, which, by needs lawless law  
Enforced, Sanserras starved men did draw  
From parboiled shoes, and boots, and all the rest  
Which were with any sovereign fatness blessed,  
And like vile stones lying in saffrond tin,  
Or warts, or weals, it hangs upon her skin.  
Round as the world's her head, on every side,  
Like to the fatal Ball which fell on Ide,  
Or that whereof God had such jealousy,  
As, for the ravishing thereof we die.  
Thy head is like a rough-hewne statue of jet,  
Where marks for eyes, nose, mouth, are yet scarce set;  
Like the first Chaos, or flat seeming face  
Of Cynthia, when th'earth's shadows her embrace.  
Like Proserpina's white beauty-keeping chest,  
Or Jove's best fortunes urn, is her fair breast.  
Thine's like worm eaten trunks, clothed in seals skin,  
Or grave, that's dust without, and stink within.  
And like that slender stalk, at whose end stands  
The wood-bine quivering, are her arms and hands,  
Like rough barked elmboughes, or the russet skin  
Of men late scourged for madness, or for sin,  
Like Sun-parched quarters on the city gate,  
Such is thy tanned skins lamentable state.  
And like a bunch of ragged carrots stand  
The short swollen fingers of her gouty hand;  
Then like the Chemics masculine equal fire,  
Which in the Lymbecks warm womb doth inspire  
Into th'earth's worthless part a soul of gold,  
Such cherishing heat her best loved part doth hold.  
Thine's like the dread mouth of a fired gun,  
Or like hot liquid metals newly run  
Into clay moulds, or like to that Aetna  
Where round about the grass is burnt away.  
Are not your kisses then as filthy, and more,  
As a worm sucking an envenomed sore?  
Doth not thy fearful hand in feeling quake,  
As one which gathering flowers, still fears a snake?  
Is not your last act harsh, and violent,  
As where a Plough a stony ground doth rend?  
So kiss good Turtles, so devoutly nice  
Are Priests in handling reverend sacrifice,  
And nice in searching wounds the Surgeon is  
As we, when we embrace, or touch, or kiss.  
Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus,  
She, and comparisons are odious.   

Elegy.  
The Autumnal.  
NO Spring, nor Summer Beauty hath such grace,  
As I have seen in one Autumnal face,  
Young Beauties force our love, and that's a Rape,  
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.  
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame,  
Affections here take Reverences name.  
Were her first years the Golden Age; That's true,  
But now theyare gold oft tried, and ever new.  
That was her torrid and inflaming time,  
This is her tolerable Tropic climb.  
Fair eyes, who asks more heat, then comes from hence,  
He in a fever wishes pestilence.  
Call not these wrinkles, graves; If graves they were,  
They were Loves graves; for else he is no where.  
Yet lies not love dead here, but here doth sit  
Vowed to this trench, like an Anachorit.  
And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,  
He doth not dig a Grave, but build a Tomb.  
jere dwells he, though he sojourn every where;  
In Progress, yet his standing house is here.  
jere, where still Evening is; not noon, nor night;  
Where no voluptuousness,, yet all delight.  
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,  
You may at Revels, you at counsel, sit.  
This is love's timber, youth his under-wood;  
There he, as wine in june, enrages blood,  
Which then comes seasonabliest, when our taste  
And appetite to other things, is passed;  
Xerxes strange Lydian love, the Platane tree,  
Was loved for age, none being so large as she,  
Or else because, being young, nature did bless  
Her youth with age's glory, Barrenness.  
If we love things long sought, Age is a thing  
Which we are fifty years in compassing.  
If transitory things, which soon decay,  
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.  
But name not Winter-faces, whose skin's slack;  
Lank, as an unthrifts purse; but a soul's sack;  
Whose Eyes seek light within, for all here's shade;  
Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out, then made  
Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,  
To vex their souls at Resurrection;  
Name not these living Deaths-heads unto me,  
For these, not Ancient, but Antique be;  
I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay  
With Tombs, than Cradles, to wear out a day.  
Since such love's motion natural is, may still  
My love descend, and journey down the hill,  
Not panting after growing beauties, so,  
I shall ebb out with them, who homeward go.   

Elegy.  
IMage of her whom I love, more than she,  
Whose fair impression in my faithful heart,  
Makes me her Medal, and makes her love me,  
As Kings do coins, to which their stamps impart  
The value: go, and take my heart from hence,  
Which now is grown too great and good for me:  
Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense,  
Strong objects dull, the more, the less we see.  
When you are gone, and Reason gone with you,  
Then Fantasy is Queen and Soul, and all;  
She can present joys meaner than you do;  
Convenient, and more proportional.  
So, if I dream I have you, I have you,  
For, all our joys are but fantastical.  
And so I scape the pain, for pain is true;  
And sleep which locks up sense, doth lock out all.  
After a such fruition I shall wake,  
And, but the waking, nothing shall repent;  
And shall to love more thankful Sonnets make,  
Then if more honour, tears, and pains were spent.  
But dearest heart, and dearer image stay;  
Alas, true joys at best are dream enough;  
Though you stay here you pass too fast away:  
For even at first life's Taper is a snuff.  
Filled with her love, may I be rather grown  
Mad with much heart, then ideott with none.   

Elegy on Prince Henry.  
Look to me faith, and look to my faith, God;  
For both my centres feel this period.  
Of weight one centre, one of greatness is;  
And Reason is that centre, Faith is this;  
For into'our reason flow, and there do end  
All, that this natural world doth comprehend:  
Quotidian things, and equidistant hence,  
Shut in, for man, in one circumference.  
But for th'enormous greatnesses, which are  
So disproportioned, and so angulare,  
As is God's essence, place and providence,  
Where, how, when, what souls do, departed hence,  
These things (eccentrique else) on faith do strike;  
Yet neither all, nor upon all, alike.  
For reason, put to'her best extension,  
Almost meets faith, and makes both centres one.  
And nothing ever came so ne'er to this,  
As contemplation of that Prince, we miss.  
For all that faith might credit mankind could,  
Reason still seconded, that this prince would.  
If then least moving of the centre, make  
More, then if whole hell belched, the world to shake.  
What must this do, centres distracted so,  
That we see not what to believe or know?  
Was it not well believed till now, that he,  
Whose reputation was an ecstasy,  
On neighbour States, which knew not why to wake,  
Till he discovered what ways he would take;  
For whom, what Princes angled, when they tried,  
Met a Torpedo, and were stupefied;  
And others studies, how he would be bend,  
Was his great father's greatest instrument,  
And activ'st spirit, to convey and tie  
This soul of peace, through Christianity;  
Was it not well believed, that he would make  
This general peace, th'eternal overtake,  
And that his times might have stretched out so far,  
As to touch those, of which they emblems are?  
For to confirm this just belief, that now  
The last days came, we saw heaven did allow,  
That, but from his aspect and exercise,  
In peaceful times, Rumours of war did rise.  
But now this faith is heresy: we must  
Still stay, and vex our great grand mother, Dust.  
Oh, is God prodigal? hath he spent his store  
Of plagues, on us, and only now, when more  
Would ease us much, doth he grudge misery;  
And will not let's enjoy our curse; to die.  
As, for the earth thrown lowest down of all,  
'Twere an ambition to desire to fall,  
So God, in our desire to dye, doth know  
Our plot for ease, in being wretched so.  
Therefore we live; though such a life we have,  
As but so many mandrakes on his grave.  
What had his growth, and generation done,  
When, what we are, his putrefaction  
Sustains in us; Earth, which griefs animate;  
Nor hath our world now, other Soul then that.  
And could grief get so high as heaven, that Choir,  
Forgetting this their new joy, would desire  
(With grief to see him) he had stayed below,  
To rectify our errors, They foreknow.  
Is th'other centre, Reason, faster then?  
Where should we look for that, now weare not men?  
For if our Reason be'our connexion  
Of causes, now to us there can be none.  
For, as if all the substances were spent,  
'Twere madness, to inquire of accident,  
So is't to look for reason, he being gone,  
The only subject reason wrought upon.  
If Fate have such a chain, whose diverse links  
Industrious man discerneth, as he thinks,  
When miracle doth come, and so steal in  
A new link, man knows not, where to begin▪  
At a much deader fault must reason be,  
Death having broke off such a link as he.  
But now, for us, with busy proof to come,  
That we'have no reason, would prove we had some.  
So would just lamentations: Therefore we  
May safelier say, that we are dead, than he.  
So, if our griefs we do not well declare,  
We'have double excuse; he's not dead; and we are.  
Yet I would not die yet; for though I be  
Too narrow, to think him, as he is he,  
(Our Souls best baiting, and midd-period,  
In her long journey, of considering God)  
Yet, (no dishonour) I can reach him thus,  
As he embraced the fires of love, with us.  
Oh may I, (since I live) but see, or hear,  
That she-Intelligence which moved this sphere,  
I pardon Fate, my life: who ere thou be,  
Which hast the noble conscience, thou art she,  
I conjure thee by all the charms he spoke,  
By th'oaths, which only you two never broke,  
By all the souls ye sighed, that if you see  
These lines, you wish, I knew your history.  
So much, as you, two mutual heavens were here,  
I were an Angel, singing what you were.   

Psalm 137.  

I.  
BY Euphrates flowery side  
We did bide,  
From dear Juda far absented,  
Tearing the air with our cries,  
And our eyes,  
With their streams his stream augmented.   

II.  
When, poor Zion's doleful state,  
Desolate;  
Sacked, burned, and enthralled,  
And the Temple spoiled, which we  
Ne'er should see,  
To our mirthless minds we called▪   

III.  
Our mute harps, untuned, unstrung,  
Up we hung  
On green willows near beside us,  
Where, we sitting all forlorn;  
Thus, in scorn,  
Our proud spoilers began deride us.   

IV.  
Come, sad Captives, leave your moans,  
And your groans  
Under Zion's ruins bury;  
Tune your harps, and sing us lays  
In the praise  
Of your God, and let's be merry,   

V.  
Can, ah, can we leave our moans?  
And our groans  
Under Zion's ruins bury?  
Can we in this Land sing Lays  
In the praise  
Of our God, and here be merry?   

VI  
No; dear Zion, if I yet  
Do forget  
Thine affliction miserable,  
Let my nimble joints become  
Stiff and numb,  
To touch warbling harp unable.   

VII.  
Let my tongue lose singing skill,  
Let it still  
To my parched roof be glued,  
If in either harp or voice  
I rejoice,  
Till thy joys shall be renewed   

VIII.  
Lord, curse Edom's traitorous kind,  
Bear in mind  
In our ruins how they revealed,  
Sack, kill, burne, they cried out still,  
Sack, burn, kill,  
Down with all, let all be levelled.   

IX.  
And, thou Babel, when the tide  
Of thy pride  
Now a flowing, grows to turning;  
Victor now, shall then be thrall,  
And shall fall  
To as low an ebb of mourning.   

X.  
Happy he who shall thee waste,  
As thou hast  
Us, without all mercy, wasted,  
And shall make thee taste and see  
What poor we  
By thy means have seen and tasted.   

XI.  
Happy, who, thy tender barns  
From the arms  
Of their wailing mothers tearing,  
'Gainst the walls shall dash their bones,  
Ruthless stones  
With their brains and blood besmearing.    

Resurrection, imperfect.  
SLeep sleep old Sun, thou canst not have repast  
As yet, the wound thou took'st on friday last;  
Sleep then, and rest; The world may bear thy stay,  
A better Sun rose before thee to day,  
Who, not content to'enlighten all that dwell  
On the earth's face, as thou, enlightened hell,  
And made the dark fires languish in that vale,  
As, at thy presence here, our fires grow pale.  
Whose body having walked on earth, and now  
Hasting to Heaven, would, that he might allow  
Himself unto all stations, and fill all,  
For these three days become a mineral;  
He was all gold when he lay down, but rose  
All tincture, and doth not alone dispose  
Leaden and iron wills to good, but is  
Of power to make even sinful flesh like his.  
Had one of those, whose credulous piety  
Thought, that a Soul one might discern and see▪  
Go from a body, ' at this sepulchre been,  
And, issuing from the sheet, this body seen,  
He would have justly thought this body a soul,  
If, not of any man, yet of the whole.  
Desunt caetera.   

An hymn to the Saints, and to marquis Hamylton.  
Whither that soul which now comes up to you  
Fill any former rank or make a new,  
Whither it take a name named there before,  
Or be a name itself, and order more  
Than was in heaven till now; (for may not he  
Be so? if every several Angel be  
A kind alone;) What ever order grow  
Greater by him in heaven, we do not so;  
One of your orders grows by his access;  
But, by his loss grow all our orders less;  
The name of Father, Master, Friend, the name  
Of Subject and of Prince, in one are lame;  
Fair mirth is dampt, and conversation black,  
The household widowed, and the garter slack;  
The Chapel wants an ear, Council a tongue;  
Story, a theme; and Music lacks a song;  
Blessed order that hath him, the loss of him  
Gangred all Orders here; all lost a limb.  
Never made body such haste to confess  
What a soul was; All former comeliness▪  
Fled, in a minute, when the soul was gone,  
And, having lost that beauty, would have none,  
So fell our Monasteries, in one instant grown  
Not to less houses, but, to heaps of stone;  
So sent this body that fair form it wore,  
Unto the sphere of forms, and doth (before  
His soul shall fill up his sepulchral stone,)  
Anticipate a Resurrection;  
For, as in his fame, now, his soul is here,  
So, in the form thereof his body's there;  
And if, fair soul, not with first Innocents'  
Thy station be, but with the Paenitents,  
(And, who shall dare to ask then when I am  
Died scarlet in the blood of that pure Lamb,  
Whether that colour, which is scarlet then,  
Were black or white before in eyes of men?)  
When thou rememb'rest what sins thou didst find  
Amongst those many friends now left behind,  
And seest such sinners as they are, with thee  
Got thither by repentance, Let it be  
Thy wish to wish all there, to wish them clean;  
Wish him a David, her a Magdalen.   

SIR,  
I Presume you rather try what you can do in me, than what I can do in verse, you know my uttermost when it was best, and even then I did best when I had least truth for my subjects, In this present case there is so much truth as it defeats all Poetry. Call therefore this paper by what name you will, and, if it be not worthy of you nor of him, we will smother it, and be it your sacrifice. If you had commanded me to have waited on his body to Scotland and preached there, I would have embraced your obligation with much alacrity; But, I thank you that you would command me that which I was loather to do, for, even that hath given a tincture of merit to the obedience of  
Your poor friend and servant in Christ Jesus I. D.   

An Epitaph upon Shakespeare.  
REnowned Chaucer lie a thought more nigh  
so rare Beaumond; and learned Beaumond lie  
A little nearer Spencer, to make room  
For Shakespeare in your threefold fourfold tomb.  
To lie all four in one bed make a shift,  
For, until doomsday hardly will a fifth  
Betwixt this day and that be slain,  
For whom your curtains need be drawn again;  
But, if precedency of death doth bar  
A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre,  
Under this curled marble of thine own  
Sleep rare Tragedian Shakespeare, sleep alone,  
That, unto Us and others it may be  
Honour, hereafter to be laid by thee.   

Sappho to Philaenis.  
Where is that holy fire, which Verse is said  
To have, is that enchanting force decayed?  
Verse that draws Nature's works, from Nature's law,  
Thee, her best work, to her work cannot draw.  
Have my tears quenched my old Poetic fire;  
Why quenched they not as well, that of desire?  
Thoughts, my minds creatures, often are with thee,  
But I, their maker; want their liberty.  
Only thine image, in my heart, doth sit,  
But that is wax, and fires environ it.  
My fires have driven, thine have drawn it hence;  
And I am robbed of Picture, Heart, and Sense.  
Dwells with me still mine irksome Memory,  
Which, both to keep, and lose, grieves equally.  
That tells me'how fair thou art: Thou art so fair,  
As, gods, when gods to thee I do compare,  
Are graced thereby; And to make blind men see,  
What things gods are, I say theyare like to thee.  
For, if we justly call each silly man  
A little world, What shall we call thee than?  
Thou art not soft, and clear, and straight, and fair,  
As Down, as Stars, Cedars, and Lilies are,  
But thy right hand, and cheek, and eye, only  
Are like thy other hand, and cheek, and eye.  
Such was my Phao awhile, but shall be never,  
As thou, wast, art, and, oh, mayst be ever.  
Here lovers swear in their Idolatry,  
That I am such; but Grief discolors me.  
And yet I grieve the less, lest Grief remove  
My beauty, and make me'unworthy of thy love.  
Plays some soft boy with thee, oh there wants yet  
A mutual feeling which should sweeten it.  
His chin, a thorny hairy unevenness  
Doth threaten, and some daily change possess.  
Thy body is a natural Paradise,  
In whose self, unmanured, all pleasure lies,  
Nor needs perfection; why shouldst thou than  
Admit the tillage of a harsh rough man?  
Men leave behind them that which their sin shows▪  
And are, as thiefs traced, which rob when it snows.  
But of our dalliance no more signs there are,  
Then fishes leave in streams, or Birds in air.  
And between us all sweetness may be had;  
All, all that Nature yields, or Art can add.  
My two lips, eyes, thighs, differ from thy two,  
But so, as thine from one another do;  
And, oh, no more; the likeness being such,  
Why should they not alike in all parts touch?  
Hand to strange hand, lip to lip none denies;  
Why should they breast to breast, or thighs to thighs?  
Likeness begets such strange self flattery,  
That touching myself, all seems done to thee.  
Myself I embrace, and mine own hands I kiss,  
And amorously thank myself for this.  
Me, in my glass, I call thee; But alas,  
When I would kiss, tears dim mine eyes, and glass.  
O cure this loving madness, and restore  
Me to me; she, my half, my all, my more▪  
So may thy cheeks red outwear scarlet die,  
And their white, whiteness of the Galaxy,  
So may thy mighty amazing beauty move  
Envy ' in all women, and in all men▪ love,  
And so be change, and sickness, far from thee,  
As thou by coming near, keep'st them from me.   

The Annunciation and Passion.  
TAmely frail body'abstaine to day; to day  
My soul eats twice, Christ hither and away.  
She sees him man, so like God made in this,  
That of them both a circle emblem is,  
Whose first and last concur; this doubtful day  
Of feast or fast, Christ came, and went away;  
She sees him nothing twice at once, who'is all;  
She sees a Cedar plant itself, and fall,  
Her Maker put to making, and the head  
Of life, at once, not yet alive, yet dead;  
She sees at once the virgin mother stay  
Reclused at home, Public at Golgotha.  
Sad and rejoiced she's seen at once, and seen  
At almost fifty, and at scarce fifteen.  
At once a Son is promised her, and gone,  
Gabriel gives Christ to her, He her to John;  
Not fully a mother, she's in orbity,  
At once receiver and the legacy;  
All this, and all between, this day hath shown,  
Th'Abridgement of Christ's story, which makes one  
(As in plain Maps, the furthest West is East)  
Of the'Angels Ave, ' and Consummatum est.  
How well the Church, God's Court of faculties  
Deals, in some times, and seldom joining these;  
As by the selfe-fixed Pole we never do  
Direct our course, but the next star thereto,  
Which shows where the'other is, and which we say  
(Because it strays not far) doth never stray;  
So God by his Church, nearest to him, we know,  
And stand firm, if we by her motion go;  
His Spirit, as his fiery Pillar doth  
Lead, and his Church, as cloud; to one end both:  
This Church, by letting those days join, hath shown  
Death and conception in mankind is one.  
Or 'twas in him the same humility,  
That he would be a man, and leave to be:  
Or as creation he hath made, as God,  
With the last judgement, but one period,  
His imitating Spouse would join in one  
Manhoods extremes: He shall come, he is gone:  
Or as though one blood drop, which thence did fall,  
Accepted, would have served, he yet shed all;  
So though the least of his pains, deeds, or words,  
Would busy a life, she all this day affords;  
This treasure then, in gross, my Soul uplay,  
And in my life retail it every day.   

Goodfriday, 1613. Riding Westward.  
LEt man's Soul be a Sphere, and then, in this,  
The intelligence that moves, devotion is,  
And as the other Spheres, by being grown  
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,  
And being by others hurried every day,  
Scarce in a year their natural form obey:  
Pleasure or business, so, our Souls admit  
For their first mover, and are whirled by it.  
Hence is't, that I am carried towards the West  
This day, when my Souls form bends toward the East.  
There I should see a Sun, by rising set,  
And by that setting endless day beget;  
But that Christ on this Cross, did rise and fall,  
Sin had eternally benighted all.  
Yet dare I'almost be glad, I do not see  
That spectacle of too much weight for me.  
Who sees God's face, that is self life, must dye;  
What a death were it then to see God dye?  
It made his own Lieutenant Nature shrink,  
It made his footstool crack, and the Sun wink.  
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,  
And tune all spheres at once pierced with those holes?  
Could I behold that endless height which is  
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,  
Humbled below us? or that blood which is  
The seat of all our Souls, if not of his,  
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn  
By God, for his apparel, raged, and torn?  
If on these things I durst not look, durst I  
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,  
Who was God's partner here, and furnished thus  
Half of that Sacrifice, which ransomed us?  
Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,  
theyare present yet unto my memory,  
For that looks towards them; & thou look'st towards me,  
O Saviour, as thou hangest upon the tree;  
I turn my back to thee, but to receive  
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.  
O think me worth thine anger, punish me,  
Burn off my rusts, and my deformity,  
Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace,  
That thou may'st know me, and I'll turn my face.   

THE LITANIE.  

I.  
The FATHER.  
FAther of Heaven, and him, by whom  
It, and us for it, and all else, for us  
Thou madest, and governest ever, come  
And recreate me, now grown ruinous:  
My heart is by dejection, clay,  
And by selfe-murder, red.  
From this red earth, O Father, purge away  
All vicious tinctures, that new fashioned  
I may rise up from death, before I'm dead.   

II.  
The SON.  
O Son of God, who seeing two things,  
Sin, and death crept in, which were never made,  
By bearing one, tryed'st with what stings  
The other could thine heritage invade;  
O be thou nailed unto my heart,  
And crucified again,  
Part not from it, though it from thee would part,  
But let it be by applying so thy pain,  
Drowned in thy blood, and in thy passion slain.   

III.  
The HOLY GHOST.  
O Holy Ghost, whose temple I  
Am, but of mud walls, and condensed dust,  
And being sacrilegiously  
Half wasted with youths fires, of pride and lust,  
Must with new storms be weatherbeat;  
Double in my heart thy flame,  
Which let devout sad tears intent; and let  
(Though this glass lantern, flesh, do suffer maim)  
Fire, Sacrifice, Priest, Altar be the same.   

IV.  
The TRINITY.  
O Blessed glorious Trinity,  
Bones to Philosophy, but milk to faith,  
Which, as wise serpents diversely  
Most slipperiness, yet most entanglings hath,  
As you distinguished undistinct  
By power, love, knowledge be,  
Give me a such self different instinct  
Of these let all me elemented bee,  
Of power, to love, to know, you unnumbered three.   

V.  
The Virgin MARY.  
For that fair blessed Mother-maid,  
Whose flesh redeemed us; That she-Cherubin,  
Which unlocked Paradise, and made  
One claim for innocence, and disseized sin,  
Whose womb was a strange heaven, for there  
God clothed himself, and grew,  
Our zealous thanks we pour. As her deeds were  
Our helps, so are her prayers; nor can she sue  
In vain, who hath such titles unto you.   

VI  
The Angels.  
And since this life our nonage is,  
And we in Wardship to thine Angels be,  
Native in heavens fair Palaces  
Where we shall be but denizened by thee,  
As th'earth conceiving by the Sun,  
Yields fair diversity,  
Yet never knows which course that light doth run,  
So let me study, that mine actions be  
Worthy their sight, though blind in how they see.   

VII.  
The patriarchs.  
And let thy patriarchs Desire  
(Those great Grandfathers, of thy Church, which saw  
More in the cloud, than we in fire,  
Whom Nature cleared more, than us grace and law,  
And now in Heaven still pray, that we  
May use our new helps right,)  
Be sanctified, and fructify in me;  
Let not my mind be blinder by more light  
Nor Faith by Reason added, lose her sight.   

VIII.  
The Prophets.  
Thy Eagle-sighted Prophets too,  
Which were thy Church's Organs, and did sound  
That harmony, which made of two  
One law, and did unite, but not confound;  
Those heavenly Poets which did see  
Thy will, and it express  
In rythmique feet, in common prey for me,  
That I by them excuse not my excess  
In seeking secrets, or Poëtiquenesse.   

IX.  
The Apostles.  
And thy illustrious Zodiac  
Of twelve Apostles, which engird this All,  
From whom whosoever do not take  
Their light, to dark deep pits, throw down, and fall,  
As through their prayers, thou'hast let me know  
That their books are divine;  
May they pray still, and be heard, that I go  
Th'old broad way in applying; O decline  
Me, when my comment would make thy word mine.   

X.  
The Martyrs.  
And since thou so desirously  
Didst long to die, that long before thou couldst,  
And long since thou no more couldst dye,  
Thou in thy scattered mystique body wouldst  
In Abel die, and ever since  
In thine, let their blood come  
To beg for us, a discreet patience  
Of death, or of worse life: for Oh, to some  
Not to be Martyrs, is a martyrdom.   

XI.  
The Confessors.  
Therefore with thee triumpheth there  
A Virgin Squadron of white Confessors,  
Whose bloods betrothed, not married were;  
Tendered, not taken by those Ravishers:  
They know, and pray, that we may know,  
In every Christian  
Hourly tempestuous persecutions grow,  
Tentations martyr us alive; A man  
Is to himself a Dioclesian.   

XII.  
The Virgins.  
The cold white snowy Nunnery,  
Which, as thy mother, their high Abbess, sent  
Their bodies back again to thee,  
As thou hadst lent them, clean and innocent,  
Though they have not obtained of thee,  
That or thy Church, or I,  
Should keep, as they, our first integrity;  
Divorce thou sin in us, or bid it die,  
And call chaste widowhood Virginity.   

XIII.  
The Doctors.  
Thy sacred Academy above  
Of Doctors, whose pains have unclasped, and taught  
Both books of life to us (for love  
To know thy Scriptures tells us, we are wrought  
In thy other book) pray for us there  
That what they have misdone  
Or missaid, we to that may not adhere,  
Their zeal may be our sin. Lord let us run  
Mean ways, and call them stars, but not the Sun.   

XIV.  
And whilst this universal Choir,  
That Church in triumph, this in warfare here,  
Warmed with one all-partaking fire  
Of love, that none be lost, which cost thee dear,  
Prays ceaslesly, ' and thou hearken too  
(Since to be gracious  
Our task is treble, to pray, bear, and do)  
Hear this prayer Lord, O Lord deliver us  
Fron trusting in those prayers, though poured out thus.   

XV.  
From being anxious, or secure,  
Dead clods of sadness, or light squibs of mirth,  
From thinking, that great courts immure  
All, or no h●ppinesse, or that this earth  
Is only for our prison framed,  
Or that thou art covetous  
To them whom thou lovest, or that they are maimed  
From reaching this world's sweet, who seek thee thus,  
With all their might, Good Lord deliver us.   

XVI.  
From needing danger, to be good,  
From owing thee yesterday tears to day,  
From trusting so much to thy blood,  
That in that hope, we wound our soul away,  
From bribing thee with Alms, to excuse  
Some sin more burdenous,  
From light affecting, in religion, news,  
From thinking us all soul, neglecting thus  
Our mutual duties, Lord deliver us.   

XVII.  
From tempting Satan to tempt us,  
By our connivance, or slack company,  
From measuring ill by vicious,  
Neglecting to choke sins spawn, Vanity,  
From indiscreet humility,  
Which might be scandalous,  
And cast reproach on Christianity,  
From being spies, or to spies pervious,  
From thirst, or scorn of flame, deliver us.   

XVIII.  
Deliver us for thy descent  
Into the Virgin, whose womb was a place  
Of middle kind▪ and thou being sent  
To'ungratious us, staid'st at her full of grace,  
And through thy poor birth, where first thou  
Glorifiedst Poverty,  
And yet soon after riches didst allow,  
By accepting Kings gifts in the Epiphanie,  
Deliver, and make us, to both ways free.   

XIX.  
And though that bitter agony,  
Which is still the agony of pious wits,  
Disputing what distorted thee,  
And interrupted evenness, with fits,  
And through thy free confession  
Though thereby they were then  
Made blind, so that thou mightst from them have gone,  
Good Lord deliver us, and teach us when  
We may not, and we may blind unjust men.   

XX.  
Through thy submitting all, to blows  
Thy face, thy clothes to spoil; thy fame to scorn,  
All ways, which rage, or Justice knows,  
And by which thou couldst show, that thou wast born,  
And through thy gallant humbleness  
Which thou in death didst show,  
Dying before thy soul they could express,  
Deliver us from death, by dying so,  
To this world, ere this world do bid us go.   

XXI.  
When senses, which thy soldiers are,  
We arm against thee, and they fight for sin,  
When want, sent but to tame, doth war  
And work despair a breach to enter in,  
When plenty, God's image, and seal  
Makes us Idolatrous,  
And love it, not him, whom it should reveal,  
When we are moved to seem religious  
Only to vent wit, Lord deliver us.   

XXII.  
In Churches, when the'infirmitie  
Of him which speaks, diminishes the Word,  
When Magistrates do misapply  
To us, as we judge, lay or ghostly sword,  
When plague, which is thine Angel, reigns,  
Or wars, thy Champions, sway,  
When Heresy, thy second deluge, gains;  
In th'hour of death, the'Eve of last judgement day,  
Deliver us from the sinister way.   

XXIII.  
Hear us, O hear us Lord; to thee  
A sinner is more music, when he prays,  
Then spheres, or Angels praises be,  
In Panegyrique Allelujaes,  
Hear us, for till thou hear us, Lord  
We know not what to say.  
Thine ear to'our sighs, tears, thoughts gives voice and word.  
O Thou who Satan heard'st in Jobs sick day,  
Hear thyself now, for thou in us dost pray.   

XXIV.  
That we may change to evenness  
This intermitting aguish Piety,  
That snatching cramps of wickedness  
And Apoplexies of fast sin, may die;  
That music of thy promises,  
Not threats in Thunder may  
Awaken us to our just offices,  
What in thy book, thou dost, or creatures say,  
That we may hear, Lord hear us, when we pray.   

XXV.  
That our ears sickness we may cure,  
And rectify those Labyrinths aright,  
That we by harkening, not procure  
Our praise, nor others dispraise so invite,  
That we get not a slipperiness,  
And senslesly decline,  
From hearing bold wits jest at King's excess,  
To'admit the like of majesty divine,  
That we may lock our ears, Lord open thine.   

XXVI.  
That living law, the Magistrate,  
Which to give us, and make us physic, doth  
Our vices often aggravate,  
That Preachers taxing sin, before her growth,  
That Satan, and envenomed men  
Which well, if we starve, dine,  
When they do most accuse us, may see then  
Us, to amendment, hear them; thee decline;  
That we may open our ears, Lord lock thine.   

XXVII.  
That learning, thine Ambassador,  
From thine allegiance we never tempt,  
That beauty, paradises flower  
For physic made, from poison be exempt,  
That wit, borne apt, high good to do  
By dwelling lazily  
On Nature's nothing, be not nothing too,  
That our affections kill us not, nor dye,  
Hear us, weak echoes, O thou ear, and cry.   

XXVIII.  
Son of God hear us, and since thou  
By taking our blood, owest it us again  
Gain to thyself, or us allow;  
And let not both us and thyself be slain;  
O lamb of God, which took'st our sin  
Which could not stick to thee,  
O let it not return to us again,  
But Patient and Physician being free,  
As sin is nothing, let it no where be.    


SEnd home my long strayed eyes to me,  
Which (Oh) too long have dwelled on thee,  
Yet since there they have learned such ill,  
Such forced fashions,  
And false passions,  
That they be  
Made by thee  
Fit for no good sight, keep them still.   

Send home my harmless heart again,  
Which no unworthy thought could stain,  
Which if it be taught by thine  
To make jestings  
Of protestings,  
And break both  
Word and oath,  
Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine.   

Yet send me back my heart and eyes,  
That I may know, and see thy lies,  
And may laugh and joy, when thou  
Art in anguish  
And dost languish  
For some one  
That will none,  
Or prove as false as thou art now.    

A nocturnal upon S. Lucy's day, Being the shortest day.  

'tIs the year's midnight, and it is the days,  
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmaskes,  
The Sun is spent, and now his flasks  
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;  
The world's whole sap is sunk:  
The general balm th'hydcroptic earth hath drunk,  
Whither, as to the beds-feet life is shrunk,  
Dead and interred; yet all these seem to laugh,  
Compared with me, who am their Epitaph.   

Study me then, you who shall lovers be  
At the next world, that is, at the next Spring:  
For I am every dead thing,  
In whom love wrought new Alchemy.  
For his art did express  
A quintessence even from nothingness,  
From dull privations, and lean emptiness  
He ruined me, and I am re-begot  
Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.   

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,  
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have,  
ay, by love's limbeck, am the grave  
Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood  
Have we two wept, and so  
Drowned the whole world, us two; oft did we grow  
To be two Chaosses, when we did show  
Care to aught else; and often absences  
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcases.   

But I am by her death, (which word wrongs her)  
Of the first nothing, the Elixir grown;  
Were I a man, that I were one,  
I needs must know, I should prefer,  
If I were any beast,  
Some ends, some means; Yea plants, yea stones detest,  
And love, all, all some properties invest,  
If I an ordinary nothing were,  
As shadow, a light, and body must be here.   

But I am None; nor will my Sun renew.  
You lovers, for whose sake, the lesser Sun  
At this time to the Goat is run  
To fetch new lust, and give it you,  
Enjoy your summer all,  
Since she enjoys her long night's festival,  
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call  
This hour her Vigil, and her eve, since this  
Both the years, and the days deep midnight is.    

Witchcraft by a picture.  

I Fix mine eye on thine, and there  
Pity my picture burning in thine eye,  
My picture drowned in a transparent tear,  
When I look lower I espy,  
Hadst thou the wicked skill  
By pictures made and marred, to kill?  
How many ways mightst thou perform thy will?   

But now I have drunk thy sweet salt tears,  
And though thou pour more I'll depart;  
My picture vanished, vanish fears,  
That I can be endamaged by that art;  
Though thou retain of me  
One picture more, yet that will be,  
Being in thine own heart, from all malice free.    


COme live with me, and be my love,  
And we will some new pleasures prove  
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks:  
With silken lines, and silver hooks.   

There will the river whispering run  
Warmed by thy eyes, more than the Sun.  
And there the'inamored fish will stay,  
Begging themselves they may betray.   

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,  
Each fish, which every channel hath,  
Will amorously to thee swim,  
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.   

If thou, to be so seen, be'st loath,  
By Sun, or Moon, thou darknest both,  
And if myself have leave to see,  
I need not their light, having thee.   

Let others freeze with angling reeds,  
And cut their legs, which shells and weeds,  
Or treacherously poor fish beset,  
With strangling snare, or windowie net:   

Let corpse bold hands, from slimy nest  
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,  
Or curious traitors, sleavesicke flies  
Bewitch poor fishes wand'ring eyes.   

For thee, thou needst no such deceit,  
For thou thyself art thine own bait,  
That fish, that is not catched thereby,  
Alas, is wiser far then I.    

The Apparition.  

WHen by thy scorn, O murderess, I am dead,  
And that thou thinkst thee free  
From all solicitation from me,  
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,  
And thee feigned vestal in worse arms shall see;  
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,  
And he, whose thou art then, being tired before,  
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think  
Thou call'st for more,  
And in false sleep will from thee shrink,  
And then poor Aspen wretch, neglected thou  
Bathed in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie  
A verier ghost than I;  
What I will say, I will not tell thee now,  
Lest that preserve thee '; and since my love is spent,  
I'had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,  
Then by my threatenings rest still innocent.    


Dull sublunary lover's love  
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit  
Absence, because it doth remove  
Those things which elemented it.   

But we by a love, so much refined,  
That ourselves know not what it is,  
Inter-assured of the mind,  
Care less, eyes, lips, hands to miss.   

Our two souls therefore, which are one,  
Though I must go, endure not yet  
A breach, but an expansion,  
Like gold to eyrie thinness beat.   

If they be two, they are two so  
As stiff twin compasses are two,  
Thy soul the fixed foot, makes no show  
To move, but doth, if the'other do.   

And though it in the centre sit,  
Yet when the other far doth room,  
It leans, and hearkens after it,  
And grows erect, as that comes home.   

Such wilt thou be to me, who must  
Like th'other foot, obliquely run.  
Thy firmness makes my circle just,  
And makes me end, where I begun.    

The good-morrow.  

I Wonder by my troth, what thou, and I  
Did, till we loved, were we not weaned till then?  
But sucked on country pleasures; childishly?  
Or snorted we in the seven sleepers den?  
'Twas so; But this, all pleasures fancies be.  
If ever any beauty I did see,  
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.   

And now good morrow to our waking souls,  
Which watch not one another out of fear;  
For love, all love of other sights controls,  
And makes one little room, an every where.  
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,  
Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,  
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.   

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,  
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest,  
Where can we find two better hemispheres  
Without sharp North, without declining West?  
What ever dies, was not mixed equally;  
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I  
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.    

Song.  

Go, and catch a falling star,  
Get with child a mandrake root,  
Tell me, where all past years are,  
Or who cloven the Devil's foot,  
Teach me to hear Mermaids singing,  
Or to keep off envies stinging,  
And find  
What wind  
Serves to advance an honest mind.   

If thou be'st borne to strange sights,  
Things invisible to see,  
Ride ten thousand days and nights,  
Till age snow white hairs on thee,  
Thou, when thou retorn'st, wilt tell me  
All strange wonders that befell thee,  
And swear  
No where  
Lives a woman true, and fair.   

If thou findest one, let me know,  
Such a Pilgrimage were sweet,  
Yet do not, I would not go,  
Though at next door we might meet,  
Though she were true, when you met her,  
And last, till you write your letter,  
Yet she  
Will be  
False, ere I come, to two, or three.    

Woman's constancy.  
NOw thou hast loved me one whole day,  
To morrow when thou leav'st, what wilt thou say?  
Wilt thou then Antedate some new made vow?  
Or say that now  
We are not just those persons, which we were?  
Or, that oaths made in reverential fear  
Of Love, and his wrath, any may forswear?  
Or, as true deaths, true maryages untie,  
So lovers contracts, images of those,  
Bind but till sleep, death's image, them unloose?  
Or, your own end to Justify,  
For having purposed change, and falsehood; you  
Can have no way but falsehood to be true?  
Vain lunatic, against these 'scapes I could  
Dispute, and conquer, if I would,  
Which I abstain to do,  
For by to morrow, I may think so too.   


I Have done one braver thing  
Than all the worthies did,  
And yet a braver thence doth spring,  
Which is, to keep that hid.   

It were but madness now t'impart  
The skill of specular stone,  
When he which can have learned the art,  
To cut it can find none.   

So, if I now should utter this,  
Others (because no more  
Such stuff to work upon, there is,)  
Would love but as before.   

But he who loveliness within  
Hath found, all outward loathes,  
For he who colour loves, and skin,  
Loves but their oldest clothes.   

If, as I have, you also do  
Virtue ' attired in woman see,  
And dare love that, and say so too,  
And forget the He and She;   

And if this love, though placed so,  
From profane men you hide,  
Which will no faith on this bestow,  
Or, if they do, deride:  
Then you have done a braver thing  
Than all the Worthies did.  
And a braver thence will spring.  
Which is, to keep that hid.    

The Sun Rising.  

BUsie old fool, unruly Sun,  
Why dost thou thus,  
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?  
Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?  
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide  
Late school boys, and sour apprentices,  
Go tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride,  
Call country ants to harvest offices,  
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor climb,  
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.   

Thy beams, so reverend, and strong  
Why shouldst thou think?  
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,  
But that I would not lose her sight so long:  
If her eyes have not blinded thine,  
Look, and to morrow late, tell me,  
Whether both the'India's of spice and Mine  
Be where thou leftest them, or lie here with me.  
Ask for those Kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,  
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.   

She's all States, and all Princes, I,  
Nothing else is.  
Princes do but play us, compared to this,  
All honour's mimic; All wealth alchemy;  
Thou sun art half as happy'as we,  
In that the world's contracted thus.  
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be  
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.  
Shine here to us, and thou art every where;  
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.    

The Indifferent.  

I Can love both fair and brown,  
Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays,  
Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays,  
Her whom the country formed, & whom the town,  
Her who believes, and her who tries,  
Her who still weeps with spongy eyes,  
And her who is dry cork, and never cries;  
I can love her, and her, and you and you,  
I can love any, so she be not true.   

Will no other vice content you?  
Will it not serve your turn to do, as did your mothers?  
Or have you all old vices spent, and now would find out others?  
Or doth a fear, that men are true, torment you?  
Oh we are not, be not you so,  
Let me, and do you, twenty know.  
Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go.  
Must I, who came to travail thorough you,  
Grow your fixed subject, because you are true?   

Venus heard me sigh this song,  
And by Love's sweetest Part, Variety, she swore,  
She heard not this till now; and that it should be so no more,  
She went, examined, and returned ere long,  
And said, alas, Some two or three  
Poor Heretics in love there be,  
Which think to establish dangerous constancy.  
But I have told them, since you will be true,  
You shall be true to them, who'are false to you.    

Love's Usury.  

FOr every hour that thou wilt spare me now,  
I will allow,  
Usurious God of Love, twenty to thee,  
When with my brown, my grey hairs equal be;  
Till then, Love, let my body reign, and let  
Me travel, sojourn, snatch, plot, have, forget,  
Resume my last year's relict: think that yet  
We'had never met.   

Let me think any rival's letter mine,  
And at next nine  
Keep midnight's promise; mistake by the way  
The maid, and tell the Lady of that delay;  
Only let me love none, no, not the sport  
From country grass, to comfitures of Court,  
Or cities quelque choses, let report  
My mind transport.   

This bargain's good; if when I'm old, I be  
Inflamed by thee,  
If thine own honour, or my shame, or pain,  
Thou cover most, at that age thou shalt gain,  
Do thy will then, then subject and degree,  
And fruit of love, Love I submit to thee,  
Spare me till then, I'll bear it, though she be  
One that loves me.    

The Canonization.  

FOr Godsake hold your tongue, and let me love,  
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,  
My five grey hairs, or ruined fortune flout,  
With wealth your state, your mind with Arts improve  
Take you a course, get you a place,  
Observe his honour, or his grace,  
Or the King's real, or his stamped face  
Contemplate, what you will, approve,  
So you will let me love.   

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?  
What merchants ships have my sighs drowned?  
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?  
When did my colds a forward spring remove?  
When did the heats which my veins fill  
Add one more, to the plaguy Bill?  
Soldiers find wars, and Lawyers find out still  
Litigious men, which quarrels move,  
Though she and I do love.   

Call us what you will, we are made such by love;  
Call her one, me another fly,  
weare Tapers too, and at our own cost die,  
And we in us find the'Eagle and the dove,  
The Phoenix riddle hath more wit  
By us, we two being one, are it.  
So, to one neutral thing both sex's fit.  
We die and rise the same, and prove  
Mysterious by this love.   

We can dye by it, if not live by love,  
And if unfit for tombs and hearse  
Our legends be, it will be fit for verse;  
And if no piece of Chronicle we prove,  
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;  
As well a well wrought urn becomes  
The greatest ashes, as halfe-acre tombs,  
And by these hymns, all shall approve  
Us Canonised for Love.   

And thus invoke us; You whom reverend love  
Made one another's hermitage;  
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage,  
Who did the whole world's soul contract, & drove  
Into the glasses of your eyes  
So made such mirrors, and such spies,  
That they did all to you epitomise,  
Countries, Towns, Courts: Beg frow above  
A pattern of our love.    

The triple Foole.  

I am two fools, I know,  
For loving, and for saying so  
In whining Poëtry;  
But where's that wise man, that would not be I,  
If she would not deny?  
Then as th'earth's inward narrow crooked lanes  
Do purge sea waters fretful salt away,  
I thought, if I could draw my pains,  
Through Rhymes vexation, I should them allay,  
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,  
For, he tames it, that fetters it in verse.   

But when I have done so,  
Some man, his art and voice to show,  
Doth Set and sing my pain,  
And, by delighting many, frees again  
Grief, which verse did restrain.  
To Love, and Grief tribute of Verse belongs,  
But not of such as pleases when'tis read,  
Both are increased by such songs:  
For both their triumphs so are published,  
And I, which was two fools, do so grow three;  
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.    

Lover's infiniteness.  

IF yet I have not all thy love,  
Dear, I shall never have it all,  
I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move;  
Nor can entreat one other tear to fall.  
And all my treasure, which should purchase thee,  
Sighs, tears and oaths, and letters I have spent,  
Yet no more can be due to me,  
Then at the bargain made was meant,  
If then thy gift of love were partial,  
That some to me, some should to others fall,  
Dear, I shall never have Thee All.   

Or if then thou gavest me all,  
All was but All, which thou hadst then,  
But if in thy heart, since, there be or shall,  
New love created be, by other men,  
Which have their stocks entire, and can in tears,  
In sighs, in oaths, and letters outbid me,  
This new love may beget new fears,  
For, this love was not vowed by thee,  
And yet is was, thy gift being general,  
The ground, thy heart is mine, what ever shall  
Grow there, dear, I should have it all.   

Yet I would not have all yet,  
He that hath all can have no more,  
And since my love doth every day admit  
New growth, thou shouldst have new rewards in store,  
Thou canst not every day give me thy heart,  
If thou canst give it, than thou never gavest it:  
Loves riddles are, that though thy heart depart,  
It stays at home, and thou with losing savest it:  
But we will have a way more liberal,  
Then changing hearts, to join them, so we shall  
Be one, and one another's All.    

Song.  

SWeetest love, I do not go,  
For weariness of thee,  
Nor in hope the world can show  
A fitter Love for me,  
But since that I  
Must dye at last, 'tis best,  
To use myself in jest  
Thus by feigned deaths to dye;   

Yesternight the Sun went hence,  
And yet is here to day,  
He hath no desire nor sense,  
Nor half so short a way:  
Then fear not me,  
But believe that I shall make  
Speedier journeys, since I take  
More wings and spurs than he.   

O how feeble is man's power,  
That if good fortune fall,  
Cannot add another hour,  
Nor a lost hour recall?  
But come bad chance,  
And we join to'it our strength,  
And we teach it art and length,  
Itself o'er us to'advance.   

When thou sighest, thou sighest not wind,  
But sighest my soul away,  
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,  
My life's blood doth decay.  
It cannot be  
That thou lov'st me, as thou sayest,  
If in thine my life thou waste,  
Thou art the best of me.   

Let not thy divining heart  
Forethink me any ill,  
Destiny may take thy part,  
And may thy fears fulfil,  
But think that we  
Are but turned aside to sleep;  
They who one another keep  
Alive, ne'er parted be.    

The Legacy.  

When I died last, and, Dear, I die  
As often as from thee I go,  
Though it be▪ but an hour ago,  
And Lovers hours be full eternity,  
I can remember yet, that I  
Something did say, and something did bestow;  
Though I be dead, which sent me, I should be  
Mine own executor and Legacy.   

I heard me say, Tell her anon,  
That myself, that's you, not I,  
Did kill me, and when I felt me dye,  
I bid me send my heart, when I was gone,  
But I alas could there find none,  
When I had ripped me, ' and searched where hearts did lie,  
It killed me again, that I who still was true,  
In life, in my last Will should cozen you.   

Yet I found something like a heart,  
But colours it, and corners had,  
It was not good, it was not bad,  
It was entire to none, and few had part.  
As good as could be made by art  
It seemed, and therefore for our losses sad,  
I meant to send this heart in stead of mine,  
But oh, no man could hold it, for 'twas thine.    

A Fever.  

OH do not die, for I shall hate  
All women so, when thou art gone,  
That thee I shall not celebrate,  
When I remember, thou wast one.   

But yet thou canst not die, I know,  
To leave this world behind, is death,  
But when thou from this world wilt go,  
The whole world vapours with thy breath.   

Or if, when thou, the world's soul, goest,  
It stay, 'tis but thy carcase then,  
The fairest woman, but thy ghost,  
But corrupt worms, the worthiest men.   

O wrangling schools, that search what fire  
Shall burn this world, had none the wit  
Unto this knowledge to aspire,  
That this her fever might be it?   

And yet she cannot waste by this,  
Nor long bear this torturing wrong,  
For much corruption needful is  
To fuel such a fever long.   

These burning fits but meteors be,  
Whose matter in thee is soon spent.  
Thy beauty, ' and all parts, which are thee,  
Are unchangeable firmament.   

Yet 'twas of my mind, seizing thee,  
Though it in thee cannot persever.  
For I had rather owner be  
Of thee one hour, than all else ever.    

Aire and Angels.  

Twice or thrice had I loved thee,  
Before I knew thy face or name;  
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame,  
Angels affect us oft, and worshipped be,  
Still when, to where thou wert, I came  
Some lovely glorious nothing I did see,  
But since, my soul, whose child love is,  
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,  
More subtle than the parent is,  
Love must not be, but take a body too,  
And therefore what thou wert, and who  
I bid Love ask, and now  
That it assume thy body, I allow,  
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.   

Whilst thus to ballast love, I thought,  
And so more steadily to have gone,  
With wares which would sink admiration,  
I saw, I had love's pinnace overfraught,  
Every thy hair for love to work upon  
Is much too much, some fitter must be sought;  
For, nor in nothing, nor in things  
Extreme, and scattering bright, can love inhere;  
Then as an Angel, face, and wings  
Of air, not pure as it, yet pure doth wear,  
So thy love may be my love's sphere;  
Just such disparity  
As is 'twixt Air and Angel's purity,  
'Twixt women's love, and men's will ever be.    

Break of day.  

'TIs true, 'tis day, what though it be?  
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?  
Why should we rise, because 'tis light?  
Did we lie down, because 'twas night?  
Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither,  
Should in despite of light keep us together.   

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;  
If it could speak as well as spy,  
This were the worst, that it could say,  
That being well, I fain would stay,  
And that I loved my heart and honour so,  
That I would not from him, that had them, go.   

Must business thee from hence remove?  
Oh, that's the worst disease of love,  
The poor, the foul, the false, love can  
Admit, but not the busied man.  
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do  
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.    

The anniversary.  

ALL Kings, and all their favourites,  
All glory of honours, beauties, wits,  
The Sun itself, which makes times, as they pass,  
Is elder by a year, now, than it was  
When thou and I first one another saw:  
All other things, to their destruction draw,  
Only our love hath no decay;  
This, no to morrow hath, nor yesterday,  
Running it never runs from us away,  
But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.   

Two graves must hide thine and my coarse,  
If one might, death were no divorce,  
Alas, as well as other Princes, we,  
(Who Prince enough in one another be,)  
Must leave at last in death, these eyes, and ears,  
Oft fed with true oaths, and with sweet salt tears;  
But souls where nothing dwells but love;  
(All other thoughts being inmates) then shall prove  
This, or a love increased there above,  
When bodies to their graves, souls from their graves remove.   

And then we shall be throughly blessed,  
But now no more, than all the rest.  
Here upon earth, weare Kings, and none but we  
Can be such Kings, nor of such subjects be;  
Who is so safe as we? where none can do  
Treason to us, except one of us two.  
True and false fears let us refrain,  
Let us love nobly, and live, and add again  
Years and years unto years, till we attain  
To write threescore, this is the second of our reign.    

A Valediction of my name, in the window.  

I.  
MY name engraved herein,  
Doth contribute my firmness to this glass,  
Which, ever since that charm, hath been  
As hard, as that which graved it, was,  
Thine eye will give it price enough, to mock  
The diamonds of either rock.   

II.  
'Tis much that Glass should be  
As all confessing, and through-shine as I,  
'Tis more, that it shows thee to thee,  
And clear reflects thee to thine eye.  
But all such rules, loves magic can undo,  
Here you see me, and I am you.   

III.  
As no one point, nor dash,  
Which are but accessaries to this name,  
The showers and tempests can outwash,  
So shall all times find me the same;  
You this entireness better may fulfil,  
Who have the pattern with you still.   

FOUR  
Or if too hard and deep  
This learning be, for a scratched name to teach,  
It, as a given deaths head keep,  
Lover's mortality to preach,  
Or think this ragged bony name to be  
My ruinous Anatomy.   

V.  
Then, as all my souls be,  
Emparadised in you, (in whom alone  
I understand, and grow and see,)  
The rafters of my body, bone  
Being still with you, the Muscle, Sinew, and Vein,  
Which tile this house, will come again.   

VI  
Till my return, repair  
And recompact my scattered body so.  
As all the virtuous powers which are  
Fixed in the stars, are said to flow,  
Into such characters, as graved be  
When these stars have supremacy:   

VII.  
So since this name was cut  
When love and grief their exaltation had,  
No doore'gainst this name's influence shut,  
As much more loving, as more sad,  
'Twill make thee; and thou shouldst, till I return,  
Since I die daily, daily mourn.   

VIII.  
When thy inconsiderate hand  
Flings open this casement, with my trembling name,  
To look on one, whose wit or land,  
New battery to thy heart may frame,  
Then think this name alive, and that thou thus  
In it offendest my Genius.   

IX.  
And when thy melted maid,  
Corrupted by thy Lover's gold, and page,  
His letter at thy pillow'hath laid,  
Disputed it, and tamed thy rage,  
And thou beginnest to thaw towards him, for this,  
May my name step in, and hide his.   

X.  
And if this treason go  
To an overt act, and that thou write again;  
In superscribing, this name flow  
Into thy fancy, from the pane.  
So, in forgetting thou remember'st right,  
And unaware to me shalt write.   

XI.  
But glass, and lines must be,  
No means our firm substantial love to keep;  
Near death inflicts this lethargy,  
And this I murmur in my sleep;  
Impute this idle talk, to that I go,  
For dying men talk often so.    

Twicknam garden.  

BLasted with sighs, and surrounded with tears,  
Hither I come to seek the spring,  
And at mine eyes, and at mine ears,  
Receive such balms, as else cure every thing,  
But O, selfe traitor, I do bring  
The spider love, which transubstantiates all,  
And can convert Manna to gall,  
And that this place may thoroughly be thought  
True Paradise, I have the serpent brought.   

'Twere wholesomer for me, that winter did  
Benight the glory of this place,  
And that a grave frost did forbid  
These trees to laugh and mock me to my face;  
But that I may not this disgrace  
Endure, nor yet leave loving, Love let me  
Some senseless piece of this place be;  
Make me a mandrake, so I may grow here,  
Or a stone fountain weeping out my year.   

Hither with crystal vyals, lovers come,  
And take my tears, which are loves wine,  
And try your mistress Tears at home,  
For all are false, that taste not just like mine;  
Alas▪ hearts do not in eyes shine,  
Nor can you more judge women's thoughts by tears,  
Then by her shadow, what she wears.  
O perverse sex, where none is true but she,  
Who's therefore true, because her truth kills me.    

Valediction to his book.  

I'Ll tell thee now (dear Love) what thou shalt do  
To anger destiny, as she doth us,  
How I shall stay, though she Esloygne me thus  
And how posterity shall know it too;  
How thine may out-endure  
Sibyl's glory, and obscure  
Her who from Pindar could allure,  
And her, through whose help Lucan is not lame,  
And her, whose book (they say) Homer did find, and name.   

Study our manuscripts, those Myriad  
Of letters, which have passed 'twixt thee and me,  
Thence write our Annals, and in them will be  
To all whom loves subliming fire invades,  
Rule and example found;  
There, the faith of any ground  
No schismatique will dare to wound,  
That sees, how Love this grace to us affords,  
To make, to keep, to use, to be these his Records.   

This Book, as long-lived as the elements,  
Or as the world's form, this all-graved tome  
In cipher writ, or new made Idiom;  
We for love's clergy only'are instruments,  
When this book is made thus,  
Should again the ravenous  
Vandals and the Goths invade us,  
Learning were safe; in this our Universe  
Schools might learn Sciences, Spheres Music, Angel's Verse,   

Here Loves Divines, (since all Divinity  
Is love or wonder) may find all they seek,  
Whether abstract spiritual love they like,  
Their Souls exhaled with what they do not see,  
Or loath so to amuse,  
Faith's infirmity, they choose  
Something which they may see and use;  
For, though mind be the heaven, where love doth sit,  
Beauty a convenient type may be to figure it.   

Here more than in their books may Lawyers find,  
Both by what titles, Mistresses are ours,  
And how prerogative these states devours,  
Transferred from Love himself, to womankind.  
Who though from heart, and eyes,  
They exact great subsidies,  
Forsake him who on them relies  
And for the cause, honour, or conscience give,  
Chimaeras, vain as they, or their prerogative.   

Here Statesmen, (or of them, they which can read,)  
May of their occupation find the grounds,  
Love and their art alike it deadly wounds,  
If to consider what 'tis, one proceed,  
In both they do excel  
Who the present govern well,  
Whose weakness none doth, or dares tell;  
In this thy book, such will there something see,  
As in the Bible some can find out Alchemy.   

Thus vent thy thoughts; abroad I'll study thee,  
As he removes far off, that great heights takes;  
How great love is, presence best trial makes,  
But absence tries how long this love will be;  
To take a latitude  
Sun, or stars, are fitliest viewed  
At their brightest, but to conclude  
Of longitudes, what other way have we,  
But to mark when, and where the dark eclipses be?    


GOod we must love, and must hate ill,  
For ill is ill, and good good still,  
But these are things indifferent,  
Which we may neither hate, nor love,  
But one, and then another prove,  
As we shall find our fancy bend.   

If then at first wise Nature had,  
Made women either good or bad,  
Then some we might hate, and some choose,  
But since she did them so create,  
That we may neither love, nor hate,  
Only this rest, All, all may use.   

If they were good it would be seen,  
Good is as visible as green,  
And to all eyes itself betrays,  
If they were bad, they could not last,  
Bad doth itself, and others waist,  
So, they deserve nor blame, nor praise.   

But they are ours as fruits are ours,  
He that but tastes, he that devours,  
And he that leaves all, doth as well,  
Changed loves are but changed sorts of meat,  
And when he hath the kernel eat,  
Who doth not fling away the shell?    

Love's growth.  

I Scarce believe my love to be so pure  
As I had thought it was,  
Because it doth endure  
Vicissitude, and season, as the grass;  
Me thinks I lied all winter, when I swore,  
My love was infinite, if spring make'it more.   

But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow  
With more, not only be no quintessence,  
But mixed of all stuffs, paining soul, or sense,  
And of the Sun his working vigour borrow,  
Love's not so pure, and abstract, as they use  
To say, which have no Mistress but their Muse,  
But as all else, being elemented too,  
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do   

And yet no greater, but more eminent,  
Love by the spring is grown;  
As, in the firmament,  
Stars by the Sun are not enlarged, but shown,  
Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough,  
From loves awakened root do bud out now.  
If, as in water stirred more circles be  
Produced by one, love such additions take,  
Those like so many spheres, but one heaven make,  
For, they are all concentrique unto thee,  
And though each spring do add to love new heat,  
As princes do in times of action get  
New taxes, and remit them not in peace,  
No winter shall abate the springs increase.    

Love's exchange.  

LOve, any devil else but you,  
Would for a given Soul give something too.  
At Court your fellows every day,  
Give th'u'rt of Rhyming, Huntsmanship, or play,  
For them which were their own before;  
Only I have nothing which gave more,  
But am, alas, by being lowly, lower.   

I ask no dispensation now  
To falsify a tear, or sigh, or vow,  
I do not sue from thee to draw  
A non obstante on nature's law,  
These are prerogatives, they inhere  
In thee and thine; none should forswear  
Except that he Loves minion were.   

Give me thy weakness, make me blind,  
Both ways, as thou and thine, in eyes and mind;  
Love, let me never know that this  
Is love, or, that love childish is.  
Let me not know that others know  
That she knows my pains, lest that so  
A tender shame make me mine own new woe.   

If thou give nothing, yet thouart just,  
Because I would not thy first motions trust;  
Small towns which stand stiff, till great shot  
Enforce them, by war's law condition not.  
Such in love's warfare is my case,  
I may not article for grace,  
Having put love at last to show this face.   

This face, by which he could commnd  
And change the Idolatry of any land,  
This face, which wheresoe'er it comes,  
Can call vowed men from cloisters, dead from tombs,  
And melt both Poles at once, and store  
Deserts with cities, and make more  
Ours in the earth, than Quarries were before.   

For, this love is enraged with me,  
Yet kills not; if I must example be  
To future Rebels; If th'unborn  
Must learn, by my being cut up, and torn:  
Kill, and dissect me, Love; for this  
Torture against thine own end is,  
Racked carcases make ill Anatomies.    


SOme man unworthy to be possessor  
Of old or new love, himself being false or weak,  
Thought his pain and shame would be lesser,  
If on womankind he might his anger wreak,  
And thence a law did grow,  
One might but one man know;  
But are other creatures so?   

Are Sun, Moon, or Stars by law forbidden,  
To smile where they list, or lend away their light?  
Are birds divorced, or are they chidden  
If they leave their mate, or lie abroad a night?  
Beasts do no jointures lose  
Though they new lovers choose,  
But we are made worse than those.   

Who e'er rigged fair ship to lie in harbours,  
And not to seek new lands, or not to deal withal?  
Or built fair houses, set trees, and arbours,  
Only to lock up, or else to let them fall?  
Good is not good, unless  
A thousand it possess,  
But doth waste with greediness.    

The Dream.  

Dear love, for nothing less than thee  
Would I have broke this happy dream,  
It was a theme  
For reason, much too strong for fantasy,  
Therefore thou wakd'st me wisely; yet  
My Dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it,  
Thou art so truth, that thoughts of thee suffice,  
To make dreams truths; and fables histories;  
Enter these arms, for since thou thoughtst it best,  
Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest.   

As lightning, or a Tapers light,  
Thine eyes, and not thy noise waked me;  
Yet I thought thee  
(For thou lovest truth) an Angel, at first sight,  
But when I saw thou sawest my heart,  
And knewest my thoughts, beyond an Angel's art,  
When thou knewest what I dreamt, when thou knewest when  
Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then,  
I must confess, it could not choose but be  
Profane, to think thee any thing but thee.   

Coming and staying showed thee, thou,  
But rising makes me doubt, that now,  
Thou art not thou.  
That love is weak, where fear's as strong as he;  
'Tis not all spirit, pure, and brave,  
If mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour have;  
Perchance as torches which must ready be,  
Men light and put out, so thou dealest with me,  
Thou cam'st to kindle, goest to come; Then I  
Will dream that hope again, but else would die.    

A Valediction of weeping.  

LEt me pour forth  
My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here,  
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,  
And by this Mintage they are something worth,  
For thus they be  
Pregnant of thee,  
Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more,  
When a tear falls, that thou falst which it bore,  
So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverse shore   

On a round ball  
A workman that hath copies by, can lay  
An Europe, Africa, and an Asia,  
And quickly make that, which was nothing, All,  
So doth each tear,  
Which thee doth wear,  
A globe, yea world by that impression grow,  
Till thy tears mixed with mine do overflow  
This world, by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so.   

O more than Moon,  
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,  
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear  
To teach the sea, what it may do too soon,  
Let not the wind  
Example find,  
To do me more harm, than it purposeth,  
Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,  
Who e'er sighs most, is cruelest, and hasts the others death.    

Love's Alchemy.  

SOme that have deeper digged loves Mine then ay,  
Say, where his centrique happiness doth lie:  
I have loved, and got, and told,  
But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,  
I should not find that hidden mystery;  
Oh, 'tis imposture all:  
And as no chymique yet th'elixir got,  
But glorifies his pregnant pot,  
If by the way to him befall  
Some odoriferous thing, or medicinal,  
So, lovers dream a rich and long delight,  
But get a winter-seeming summer's night.   

Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day,  
Shall we, for this vain Bubbles shadow pay?  
Ends love in this, that my man,  
Can be as happy'as I can; If he can  
Endure the short scorn of a Bridegroom's play?  
That loving wretch that swears,  
'Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds,  
Which he in her Angelique finds,  
Would swear as justly, that he hears,  
In that days rude hoarse minstralsey, the spheres.  
Hope not for mind in women; at their best,  
Sweetness, and wit theyare, but, Mummy, possessed▪    

The Flea.  

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,  
How little that which thou deniest me is;  
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,  
And in this flea, our two bloods mingled be;  
Thou knowst that this cannot be said  
A sin, nor shame nor loss of maidenhead,  
Yet this enjoys before it woo,  
And pampered swells with one blood made of two,  
And this, alas, is more than we would do.   

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,  
Where we almost, yea more than married are.  
This flea is you and I, and this  
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;  
Though parents grudge, and you, weare met,  
And cloistered in these living walls of Jet.  
Though use make you apt to kill me,  
Let not to that, self murder added be,  
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.   

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since  
Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?  
Wherein could this flea guilty be,  
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?  
Yet thou triumphest, and sayest that thou  
Findest not thyself, nor me the weaker now;  
'Tis true, then learn how false, fears be;  
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,  
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.    

The Curse.  

WHo ever guesses, thinks, or dreams he knows  
Who is my mistress, whither by this curse;  
His only, and only his purse  
May some dull heart to love dispose,  
And she yield then to all that are his foes;  
May he be scorned by one, whom all else scorn,  
Forswear to others, what to her he'hath sworn,  
With fear of missing, shame of getting torn;   

Madness his sorrow, gout his cramp, may he  
Make, by but thinking, who hath made him such:  
And may he feel no touch  
Of conscience, but of fame, and be  
Anguished, not that 'twas sin, but that 'twas she▪  
In early and long scarceness may he rot,  
For land which had been his, if he had not  
Himself incestuously an heir begot:   

May he dream Treason, and believe, that he  
Meant to perform it, and confess, and die,  
And no record tell why:  
His sons, which none of his may be,  
Inherit nothing but his infamy:  
Or may he so long Parasites have fed,  
That he would fain be theirs, whom he hath bred,  
And at the last be circumcised for bread:   

The venom of all stepdames, gamesters gall,  
What Tyrant's, and their subjects interwish,  
What Plants, Mine, Beasts, Fowl, Fish,  
Can contribute, all ill, which all  
Prophets, or Poets spoke; And all which shall  
Be annexed in schedules unto this by me,  
Fall on that man; For if it be a she  
Nature before hand hath out-cursed me.    

AN ANATOMY OF THE WORLD.  
Wherein, By occasion of the untimely death of Mistress ELIZABETH DRURY, the frailty and the decay of this whole World is represented.  
The first Anniversary.  

To the praise of the dead, and the ANATOMY.  
Well died the World, that we might live to see  
This world of wit, in his Anatomy:  
No evil wants his good; so wilder heirs  
Bedew their Father's Tombs, with forced tears,  
Whose state requites their loss: whiles thus we gain,  
Well may we walk in blacks, but not complain.  
Yet how can I consent the world is dead  
While this Muse lives? which in his spirits stead  
Seems to inform a World; and bids it be,  
In spite of loss or frail mortality?  
And thou the subject of this welborne thought,  
Thrice noble maid, couldst not have found nor sought  
A fitter time to yield to thy sad Fate,  
Then whiles this spirit lives, that can relate  
Thy worth so well to our last Nephew's eyen,  
That they shall wonder both at his and thine:  
Admired match! where strives in mutual grace  
The cunning pencil, and the comely face:  
A task which thy fair goodness made too much  
For the bold pride of vulgar pens to touch;  
Enough is us to praise them that praise thee,  
And say, that but enough those praises be,  
Which hadst thou lived, had hid their fearful head  
From th'angry checkings of thy modest red:  
Death bars reward and shame, when envy's gone,  
And gain, 'tis safe to give the dead their own.  
As then the wise Egyptians want to lay  
More on their Tombs, than houses: these of clay,  
But those of brass, or marble were: so we  
Give more unto thy Ghost, then unto thee.  
Yet what we give to thee, thou gav'st to us,  
And may'st but thank thyself, for being thus:  
Yet what thou gav'st, and wert, O happy maid,  
Thy grace professed all due, where'tis repaid.  
So these high songs that to thee suited been  
Serve but to sound thy Maker's praise and thine,  
Which thy dear soul as sweetly sings to him  
Amid the choir of Saints, and Seraphim,  
As any Angel's tongue can sing of thee;  
The subjects differ, though the skill agree:  
For as by infant years men judge of age,  
Thy early love, thy virtues did presage,  
What high part thou bearest in those best of songs,  
Whereto no burden, nor no end belongs.  
Sing on thou virgin Soul, whose lossfull gain  
Thy lovesick parents have bewailed in vain;  
Never may thy Name be in our songs forgot,  
Till we shall sing thy ditty and thy note.   

An Anatomy of the World.  
The first Anniversary.  
WHen that rich Soul which to her heaven is gone,  
Who all do celebrate, who know they have one,  
(For who is sure he hath a Soul, unless  
It see, and judge, and follow worthiness,  
And by deeds praise it? he who doth not this,  
May lodge an immate soul, but'tis not his.)  
When that Queen ended here her progress time,  
And, as t'her standing house to heaven did climb,  
Where loath to make the Saints attend her long,  
She's now a part both of the Choir, and Song.  
This World, in that great earthquake languished;  
For in a common bath of tears it bled,  
Which drew the strongest vital spirits out:  
But succoured then with a perplexed doubt,  
Whether the world did lose, or gain in this,  
(Because since now no other way there is,  
But goodness, to see her, whom all would see,  
All must endeavour to be good as she.)  
This great consumption to a fever turned,  
And so the world had fits; it joyed, it mourned;  
And, as men think, that Agues physic are,  
And th'Ague being spent, give over care.  
So thou sick World, mistak'st thyself to be  
Well, when alas, thou'rt in a Lethargy.  
Her death did wound and tame thee than, and than  
Thou mightst have better spared the Sun, or man.  
That wound was deep, but 'tis more misery,  
That thou hast lost thy sense and memory.  
'Twas heavy then to hear thy voice of moan,  
But this is worse, that thou art speechless grown.  
Thou hast forgot thy name thou hadst; thou wast  
Nothing but she, and her thou hast o'rpast.  
For as a child kept from the Fount, until  
A prince, expected long, come to fulfil  
The ceremonies, thou unnamed hadst laid,  
Had not her coming, thee her palace made:  
Her name defined thee, gave thee form, and frame,  
And thou forgett'st to celebrate thy name.  
Some months she hath been dead (but being dead,  
Measures of times are all determined)  
But long she'ath been away, long, long, yet none  
Offers to tell us who it is that's gone.  
But as in states doubtful of future heirs,  
When sickness without remedy impairs  
The present Prince, they're loath it should be said,  
The Prince doth languish, or the Prince is dead:  
So mankind feeling now a general thaw,  
A strong example gone, equal to law;  
The Cement which did faithfully compact,  
And glue all virtues, now resolved, and slacked,  
Thought it some blasphemy to say sh'was dead,  
Or that our weakness was discovered  
In that confession; therefore spoke no more  
Than tongues, the Soul being gone, the loss deplore.  
But though it be too late to succour thee,  
Sick World, yea, dead, yea putrified, since she  
Thy'intrinsique balm, and thy preservative,  
Can never be renewed, thou never live,  
I (since no man can make thee live) will try,  
What we may gain by thy Anatomy.  
Her death hath taught us dear, that thou art  
Corrupt and mortal in thy purest part.  
Let no man say, the world itself being dead,  
'Tis labour lost to have discovered  
The world's infirmities, since there is none  
Alive to study this dissection;  
For there's a kind of World remaining still,  
Though she which did inanimate and fill  
The world, be gone, yet in this last long night,  
Her Ghost doth walk, that is, a glimmering light,  
A faint weak love of virtue, and of good,  
Reflects from her, on them which understood  
Her worth; and though she have shut in all day,  
The twilight of her memory doth stay;  
Which, from the carcase of the old world, free,  
Creates a new world, and new creatures be  
Produced: the matter and the stuff of this,  
Her virtue, and the form our practice is:  
And thought to be thus elemented, arm  
These creatures, from home-born intrinsique harm,  
(For all assumed unto this dignity,  
So many weedlesse Paradises be,  
Which of themselves produce no venomous sin,  
Except some foreign Serpent bring it in)  
Yet because outward storms the strongest break,  
And strength itself by confidence grows weak,  
This new world may be safer, being told  

The sickness of the World  The dangers and diseases of the old:  
For with due temper men do then forgo,  
Or covet things, when they their true worth know.  

Impossibility of health  There is no health; Physicians say that we,  
At best, enjoy but a neutrality.  
And can there be worse sickness, then to know  
That we are never well, nor can be so?  
We are borne ruinous: poor mother's cry,  
That children come not right, nor orderly;  
Except they headlong come and fall upon  
An ominous precipitation.  
How witty's ruin, how importunate  
Upon mankind? it laboured to frustrate  
Even God's purpose; and made woman, sent  
For man's relief, cause of his languishment.  
They were to good ends, and they are so still,  
But accessary, and principal in ill;  
For that first marriage was our funeral:  
One woman at one blow, than killed us all,  
And singly, one by one, they kill us now.  
We do delightfully ourselves allow  
To that consumption; and profusely blind,  
We kill ourselves to propagate our kind.  
And yet we do not that; we are not men:  
There is not now that mankind, which was then,  
When as, the Sun and man did seem to strive,  

Shortness of life.  (Joint tenants of the world) who should survive.  
When, Stag, and Raven, and the long-lived tree,  
Compared with man, died in minority,  
When, if a slow paced star had stolen away  
From the observers marking, he might stay  
Two or three hundred years to see't again,  
And then make up his observation plain;  
When, as the age was long, the size was great;  
Man's growth confessed, and recompensed the meat;  
So spacious and large, that every Soul  
Did a fair Kingdom, and large Realm control:  
And when the very stature, thus erect,  
Did that soul a good way towards heaven direct.  
Where is this mankind now? who lives to age,  
Fit to be made Methusalem his page?  
Alas, we scarce live long enough to try  
Whether a true made clock run right, or lie.  
Old Grandsire's talk of yesterday with sorrow:  
And for our children we reserve to morrow.  
So short is life, that every peasant strives,  
In a torn house, or field, to have three lives.  
And as in lasting, so in length is man,  

Smallness of stature.  Contracted to an inch, who was a span;  
For had a man at first in forests strayed,  
Or shipwrecked in the Sea, one would have laid  
A wager, that an Elephant, or Whale,  
That met him, would not hastily assail  
A thing so equal to him: now alas,  
The Fairies, and the Pigmies well may pass  
As credible; mankind decays so soon,  
weare scarce our Father's shadows cast at noon:  
Only death adds t'our length: nor are we grown  
In stature to be men, till we are none.  
But this were light, did our less volume hold  
All the old Text; or had we changed to gold  
Their silver, or disposed into less glass  
Spirits of virtue, which then scattered was.  
But 'tis not so: weare not retired, but dampt;  
And as our bodies so our minds are cramped:  
'Tis shrinking, not close weaving that hath thus,  
In mind, and body both bedwarfed us.  
We seem ambitious, God's whole work t'undo;  
Of nothing he made us, and we strive too,  
To bring ourselves to nothing back; and we  
Do what we can, to do't so soon as he.  
With new diseases on ourselves we war,  
And with new Physic, a worse Engine far.  
Thus man, this world's Vice-emperor, in whom  
All faculties, all graces are at home;  
And if in other creatures they appear,  
They're but man's Ministers, and Legates there,  
To work on their rebellions, and reduce  
Them to Civility, and to man's use.  
This man, whom God did woo, and loath t'attend  
Till man came up, did down to man descend,  
This man so great, that all that is, is his,  
Oh what a trifle, and poor thing he is!  
If man were any thing; he's nothing now:  
Help, or at least some time to waste, allow  
T'his other wants, yet when he did depart  
With her whom we lament, he lost his heart.  
She, of whom th'Ancients seemed to prophesy,  
When they called virtues by the name of she;  
She in whom virtue was so much refined,  
That for allay unto so pure a mind  
She took the weaker Sex: she that could drive  
The poisonous tincture, and the stain of Eve,  
Out of her thought, and deeds; and purify  
All, by a true religious Alchemy;  
She▪ she is dead; she's dead: when thou knowest this,  
Thou knowest how poor a trifling thing man is.  
And learnest thus much by our Anatomy,  
The heart being perished, no part can be free.  
And that except thou feed (not banquet) on  
The supernatural food, Religion:  
Thy better growth grows withered, and scant;  
Be more than man, or thou'rt less then an Ant.  
Then as mankind, so is the world's whole frame  
Quite out of joint, almost created lame:  
For, before God had made up all the rest,  
Corruption entered, and depraved the best:  
It seized the Angels, and then first of all  
The world did in her cradle take a fall,  
And turned her brains, and took a general maim,  
Wronging each joint of th'universal frame.  
The noblest part, man, felt it first; and than  

Decay of nature in other parts.  Both beasts and plants, cursed in the curse of man,  
So did the world from the first hour decay,  
That evening was beginning of the day,  
And now the Springs and Summer which we see,  
Like sons of women after fifty bee.  
And new Philosophy calls all in doubt,  
The Element of fire is quite put out;  
The Sun is lost, and th'earth, and no man's wit  
Can well direct him where to look for it.  
And freely men confess that this world's spent,  
When in the Planets, and the firmament  
They seek so many new; they see that this  
Is crumbled out again to his Atoms.  
'Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone;  
All just supply, and all Relation:  
Prince, Subject, Father, Son, are things forgot,  
For every man alone thinks he hath got  
To be a Phoenix, and that then can be  
None of that kind, of which he is, but he.  
This is the world's condition now, and now  
She that should all parts to reunion bow,  
She that had all Magnetic force alone,  
To draw, and fasten sundered parts in one;  
She whom wise nature had invented then  
When she observed that every sort of men  
Did in their voyage in this world's Sea stray,  
And needed a new compass for their way;  
She that was best, and first original  
Of all fair copies, and the general  
Steward to Fate; she whose rich eyes, and breast,  
Gild the West-Indies, and perfumed the East,  
Whose having breathed in this world, did bestow  
Spice on those Isles, and bade them still smell so,  
And that rich Indie which doth gold inter,  
Is but as single money coined from her:  
She to whom this world must itself refer,  
As Suburbs, or the Microcosm of her,  
She, she is dead; she's dead: when thou knowest this  
Thou knowest how lame a cripple this world is.  
And learnest thus much by our Anatomy,  
That this world's general sickness doth not lie  
In any humour, or one certain part;  
But as thou sawest it rotten at the heart,  
Thou seest a Hectic fever hath got hold  
Of the whole substance, not to be controlled,  
And that thou hast but one way, not t'admit  
The world's infection, to be none of it.  
For the world's subtilst immaterial parts  
Feel this consuming wound, and ages darts.  
For the world's beauty is decayed, or gone,  

Disformity of parts.  Beauty, that's colour, and proportion.  
We think the heavens enjoy their Spherical  
Their round proportion embracing all,  
But yet their various and perplexed course,  
Observed in diverse ages, doth enforce  
Men to find out so many Eccentrique parts,  
Such diverse down right lines, such overthwarts,  
As disproportion that pure form: It tears  
The Firmament in eight and forty shires,  
And in these Constellations than arise  
New stars, and old do vanish from our eyes:  
As though heaven suffered earthquakes, peace or war,  
When new Towers rise, and old demolished are.  
They have impaled within a Zodiac  
The freeborn Sun, and keep twelve Signs awake  
To watch his steps; the Goat and Crab control,  
And fright him back, who else to either Pole  
(Did not these tropiques fetter him) might run:  
For his course is not round; nor can the Sun  
Perfect a Circle, or maintain his way  
One inch direct; but where he rose to day  
He comes no more, but with a cozening line,  
Steals by that point, and so is Serpentine:  
And seeming weary with his reeling thus,  
He means to sleep, being now fall'n nearer us.  
So, of the Stars which boast that they do run  
In Circle still, none ends where he begun.  
All their proportion's lame, it sinks, it swells.  
For of Meridian's, and Parallels,  
Man hath weaved out a net, and this net thrown  
Upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.  
Loath to go up the hill, or labour thus  
To go to heaven, we make heaven come to us.  
We spur, we reine the stars, and in their race  
They're diversely content t'obey our peace.  
But keeps the earth her round proportion still?  
Doth not a Tenarus or higher hill  
Rise so high like a Rock, that one might think  
The floating Moon would shipwreck there & sink?  
Seas are so deep, that Whales being struck to day,  
Perchance to morrow scarce at middle way  
Of their wished journey's end, the bottom, die.  
And men, to sound depths, so much line untie,  
As one might justly think, that there would rise  
At end thereof, one of th'Antipodies:  
If under all, a vault infernal be,  
(Which sure is spacious, except that we  
Invent another torment, that there must  
Millions into a strait hot room be thrust)  
Then solidness, and roundness have no place.  
Are these but warts, and pockholes in the face  
Of th'earth; Think so: but yet confess, in this  
The world's proportion disfigured is;  

Disorder in the world.  That those two legs whereon it doth rely,  
Reward and punishment are bend awry.  
And, Oh, it can no more be questioned,  
That beauties best, proportion, is dead,  
Since even grief itself, which now alone  
Is left us, is without proportion.  
She by whose lines proportion should be  
Examined, measure of all Symmetree,  
Whom had that Ancient seen, who thought soul's made  
Of Harmony, he would at next have said  
That Harmony was she, and thence infer  
That souls were but Resultances from her,  
And did from her into our bodies go,  
As to our eyes, the forms from objects flow:  
She, who if those great Doctors truly said  
That the Ark to man's proportion was made,  
Had been a type for that, as that might be  
A type of her in this, that contrary  
Both Elements and Passions lived at peace  
In her, who caused all Civil war to cease.  
She, after whom, what form soe'er we see,  
Is discord, and rude incongruity;  
She, she is dead, she's dead; when thou knowst this,  
Thou knowest how ugly a monster this world is:  
And learnest thus much by our Anatomy,  
That here is nothing to enamour thee:  
And that, not only faults in inward parts,  
Corruptions in our brains, or in our hearts,  
Poisoning the fountains, whence our actions spring,  
Endanger us: but that if every thing  
Be not done fitly'and in proportion,  
To satisfy wise, and good lookers on,  
(Since most men be such as most think they be)  
They're loathsome too, by this deformity.  
For good, and well, must in our actions meet;  
Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.  
But beauties other second Element,  
Colour, and lustre now, is as near spent.  
And had the world his just proportion,  
Were it a ring still, yet the stone is gone.  
As a compassionate Turcoyse which doth tell  
By looking pale, the wearer is not well,  
As gold falls sick being stung with Mercury,  
All the world's parts of such complexion be.  
When nature was most busy, the first week,  
Swaddling the new borne earth, God seemed to like  
That she should sport herself sometimes, and play,  
To mingle, and vary colours every day:  
And then, as though she could not make enough,  
Himself his various Rainbow did allow,  
Sight is the noblest sense of any one,  
Yet sight hath only colour to feed on,  
And colour is decayed: summer's robe grows  
Duskie, and like an oft died garment shows.  
Our blushing red, which used in cheeks to spread,  
Is inward sunk, and only our souls are red.  
Perchance the world might have recovered,  
If she whom we lament had not been dead:  
But she, in whom all white, and red, and blue  
(Beauties ingredients) voluntary grew,  
As in an unvexed Paradise; from whom  
Did all things verdure, and their lustre come,  
Whose composition was miraculous,  
Being all colour, all diaphanous,  
(For Air, and Fire but thick gross bodies were,  
And liveliest stones but drowsy, and pale to her,)  
She, she is dead; she's dead: when thou knowst this,  
Thou knowest howwan a Ghost this our world is:  
And learnest thus much by our Anatomy,  
That it should more affright, than pleasure thee.  
And that, since all fair colour than did sink,  
'Tis now but wicked vanity, to think  

Weakness in the want of correspondence of heaven and earth.  To colour vicious deeds with good pretence,  
Or with bought colours to illude men's sense.  
Nor in aught more this world's decay appears,  
Then that her influence the heaven forbears,  
Or that the Elements do not feel this,  
The father, or the mother barren is.  
The clouds conceive not rain, or do not pour,  
In the due birth time, down the balmy shower;  
Th'air doth not motherly sit on the earth,  
To hatch her seasons, and give all things birth;  
Spring-times were common cradles, but are tombs;  
And false-conceptions fill the general wombs;  
Th'air shows such Meteors, as none can see,  
Not only what they mean, but what they be;  
Earth such new worms, as would have troubled much  
Th'Aegyptian Mages to have made more such.  
What Artist now dares boast that he can bring  
Heaven hither, or constellate any thing,  
So as the influence of those stars may be  
Imprisoned in an Herb, or Charm or Tree,  
And do by touch, all which those stars could do?  
The art is lost, and correspondence too.  
For heaven gives little, and the earth takes less,  
And man lest knows their trade and purposes.  
If this commerce 'twixt heaven and earth were not  
Embarred, and all this traffic quite forgot,  
She, for whose loss we have lamented thus,  
Would work more fully, and powerfully on us:  
Since herbs, and roots, by dying lose not all,  
But they, yea ashes too, are medicinal,  
Death could not quench her virtue so, but that  
It would be (if not followed) wondered at:  
And all the world would be one dying swan,  
To sing her funeral praise, and vanish than.  
But as some Serpent's poison hurteth not,  
Except it be from the live Serpent shot,  
So doth her virtue need her here, to fit  
That unto us; she working more than it.  
But she, in whom to such maturity  
Virtue was grown, past growth, that it must die;  
She, from whose influence all impression came,  
But by receivers impotencies, lame,  
Who, though she could not transubstantiate  
All states to gold, yet guilded every state,  
So that some Princes have some temperance;  
Some Counsellors some purpose to advance  
The common profit; and some people have,  
Some stay, no more than Kings should give, to crave;  
Some women have some taciturnity,  
Some nunneries some grains of chastity.  
She that did thus much, and much more could do,  
But that our age was Iron, and rusty too,  
She, she is dead, she's dead; when thou know'st this,  
Thou know'st how dry a Cinder this world is.  
And learnest thus much by our Anatomy,  
That 'tis in vain to dew, or mollify  
It with thy tears, or sweat, or blood: nothing  
Is worth our travail, grief, or perishing,  
But those rich joys, which did possess her heart,  
Of which she's now partaker, and a part.  

Conclusion.  But as in cutting up a man that's dead,  
The body will not last out, to have read  
On every part, and therefore men direct  
Their speech to parts, that are of most effect;  
So the world's carcase would not last, if I  
Were punctual in this Anatomy;  
Nor smells it well to hearers, if one tell  
Them their disease, who fain would think thy're well.  
Here therefore be the end: and, blessed maid,  
Of whom is meant what ever hath been said,  
Or shall be spoken well by any tongue,  
Whose name refines course lines, and makes prose song,  
Accept this tribute, and his first years rend,  
Who till his dark short tapers end be spent,  
As oft as thy feast sees this widowed earth,  
Will yearly celebrate thy second birth,  
That is, thy death; for though the soul of man  
Be got when man is made, 'tis borne but than  
When man doth die; our body's as the womb,  
And, as a Midwife, death directs it home.  
And you her creatures, whom she works upon,  
And have your last, and best concoction  
From her example, and her virtue, if you  
In reverence to her, do think it due,  
That no one should her praises thus rehearse,  
As matter fit for Chronicle, not verse;  
Vouchsafe to call to mind that God did make  
A last, and lasting'st piece, a song. He spoke  
To Moses to deliver unto all,  
That song, because he knew they would let fall  
The Law, the Prophets, and the History,  
But keep the song still in their memory:  
Such an opinion, in due measure, made  
Me this great office boldly to invade:  
Nor could incomprehensibleness deter  
Me, from thus trying to emprison her,  
Which when I saw that a strict grave could do,  
I saw not why verse might not do so too.  
Verse hath a middle nature, heaven keeps Souls,  
The Grave keeps bodies, Verse the Fame enrols.    

A Funeral ELEGY.  
'TIs lost to trust a Tomb with such a guest,  
Or to confine her in a marble chest,  
Alas, what's Marble, Jet, or Porphyry,  
Prized with the Chrysolite of either eye,  
Or with those Pearls, and Rubies, which she was?  
Join the two Indies in one Tomb, 'tis glass;  
And so is all to her materials,  
Though every inch were ten Escurials;  
Yet she's demolished: can we keep her then  
In works of hands, or of the wits of men?  
Can these memorial, rags of paper, give  
Life to that name, by which name they must live?  
Sickly, alas, short-lived, aborted be  
Those carcase verses, whose soul is not she.  
And can she, who no longer would be she,  
Being such a Tabernacle, stoop to be  
In paper wrapped; or when she would not lie  
In such a house, dwell in an Elegy?  
But'tis no matter; we may well allow  
Verse to live so long as the world will now,  
For her death wounded it. The world contains  
Princes for arms, and counsellors for brains,  
Lawyers for tongues, Divines for hearts, and more,  
The rich for stomaches, and for backs the poor;  
The officers for hands, merchants for feet,  
By which, remote and distant Countries meet.  
But those fine spirits which do tune, and set  
This Organ, are those pieces, which beget  
Wonder and love; and these were she; and she  
Being spent, the world must needs decrepit be;  
For since death will proceed to triumph still,  
He can find nothing, after her, to kill,  
Except the world itself, so great was she.  
Thus brave and confident may Nature be,  
Death cannot give her such another blow,  
Because she cannot such another show.  
But must we say she's dead? may't not be said  
That as a sundered clock is piecemeal laid,  
Not to be lost, but by the maker's hand  
Repollished, without error then to stand,  
Or as the Africa Niger stream enwombs  
Itself into the earth, and after comes  
(Having first made a natural bridge, to pass  
For many leagues) far greater than it was,  
May't not be said, that her grave shall restore  
Her, greater, purer, firmer, than before?  
Heaven may say this, and joy in't, but can we  
Who live, and lack her, here, this vantage see?  
What is't to us, alas, if there have been  
An Angel made a Throne, or Cherubin?  
We lose by't: and as aged men are glad  
Being tastlesse grown, to joy in joys they had,  
So now the sick starved world must feed upon  
This joy, that we had her, who now is gone.  
Rejoice then Nature, and this World, that you,  
Fearing the last fires hastening to subdue  
Your force and vigour, ere it were near gone,  
Wisely bestowed and laid it all on one;  
One, whose clear body was so pure and thin,  
Because it need disguise no thought within.  
'Twas but a through-light scarf, her mind t'inroule;  
Or exhalation breathed out from her Soul.  
One, whom all men who durst no more, admired:  
And whom, who ere had work enough, desired;  
As when a Temple's built, Saints emulate  
To which of them, it shall be consecrate.  
But, as when heaven looks on us with new eyes,  
Those new stars every Artist exercise,  
What place they should assign to them they doubt,  
Argue, ' and agree not, till those stars go out:  
So the world studied whose this piece should be,  
Till she can be no bodies else, nor she:  
But like a Lamp of Balsamum, desired  
Rather t'adorn, than last, she soon expired,  
Clothed in her virgin white integrity,  
For marriage, though it doth not stain, doth die.  
To scape th'infirmities which wait upon  
Woman, she went away, before sh'was one;  
And the world's busy noise to overcome,  
took so much death, as served for opium;  
For though she could not, nor could choose to dye,  
She'ath yielded to too long an ecstasy:  
He which not knowing her said History,  
Should come to read the book of destiny,  
How fair, and chaste, humble, and high she'ad been,  
Much promised, much performed, at not fifteen,  
And measuring future things, by things before,  
Should turn the leaf to read, and read no more,  
Would think that either destiny mistook,  
Or that some leaves were torn out of the book.  
But 'tis not so; Fate did but usher her  
To years of reasons use, and then infer  
Her destiny to herself, which liberty  
She took, but for thus much, thus much do die.  
Her modesty not suffering her to be  
Fellow-Commissioner with Destiny,  
She did no more but die; if after her  
Any shall live, which dare true good prefer;  
Every such person is her deligate,  
T'accomplish that which should have been her Fate.  
They shall make up that Book and shall have thanks  
Of Fate, and her, for filling up their blanks.  
For future virtuous deeds are Legacies,  
Which from the gift of her example rise;  
And 'tis in heaven part of spiritual mirth,  
To see how well the good play her, on earth.   

OF THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL.  
Wherein, By occasion of the Religious death of Mistress ELIZABETH DRURY, the incommodities of the Soul in this life, and her exaltation in the next, are contemplated.  
The second Anniversary.  

The Harbinger to the PROGRESS.  
TWo Souls move here, and mine (a third) must move  
Paces of admiration, and of love;  
Thy Soul (dear virgin) whose this tribute is,  
Moved from this mortal Sphere to lively bliss;  
And yet moves still, and still aspires to see  
The world's last day, thy glories full degree:  
Like as those stars which thou o'r-lookest far,  
Are in their place, and yet still moved are:  
No soul (whiles with the luggage of this clay  
It clogged is) can follow thee half way;  
Or see thy flight, which doth our thoughts outgo  
So fast, that now the lightning moves but slow:  
But now thou art as high in heaven flown  
As heaven from us; what soul besides thine own  
Can tell thy joys, or say he can relate  
Thy glorious Journals in that blessed state?  
I envy thee (Rich soul) I envy thee,  
Although I cannot yet thy glory see:  
And thou (great spirit) which hers followed haste  
So fast, as none can follow thine so fast;  
So far, as none can follow thine so far,  
(And if this flesh did not the passage bar  
Hadst caught her) let me wonder at thy flight  
Which long agone hadst lost the vulgar sight,  
And now mak'st proud the better eyes, that they  
Can see thee lessened in thine eyrie way;  
So while thou mak'st her soul by progress known  
Thou mak'st a noble progress of thine own.  
From this world's carcase having mounted high  
To that pure life of immortality;  
Since thine aspiring thoughts themselves so raise  
That more may not beseem a creatures praise,  
Yet still thou vow'st her more; and every year  
Mak'st a new progress, while thou wanderest here;  
Still upward mount; and let thy Maker's praise  
Honour thy Laura, and adorn thy lays.  
And since thy Muse her head in heaven shrouds,  
Oh let her never stoop below the clouds:  
And if those glorious sainted souls may know  
Or what we do, or what we sing below,  
Those acts, those songs shall still content them best  
Which praise those awful Powers that make them blessed.   

OF THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL.  
The second anniversary.  
NOthing could make me sooner to confess  
That this world had an everlastingness,  
Then to consider, that a year is run,  
Since both this lower world's, and the Sun's Sun,  
The Lustre, and the vigour of this all,  
Did set; 'twere blasphemy to say, did fall.  
But as a ship which hath struck sail, doth run  
By force of that force which before, it won:  
Or as sometimes in a beheaded man,  
Though at those two Red seas, which freely ran,  
One from the Trunk, another from the Head,  
His soul he sailed, to her eternal bed,  
His eyes will twinkle, and his tongue will roll,  
As though he beckoned, and called back his soul,  
He grasps his hands, and he pulls up his feet,  
And seems to reach, and to step forth to meet  
His soul; when all these motions which we saw,  
Are but as Ice, which crackles at a thaw:  
Or as a Lute, which in moist weather, rings  
Her knell alone, by cracking of her strings.  
So struggles this dead world, now she is gone;  
For there is motion in corruption.  
As some days are, at the Creation named,  
Before the Sun, the which framed days, was framed:  
So after this sun's set, some show appears,  
And orderly vicissitude of years.  
Yet a new deluge, and of Lethe flood,  
Hath drowned us all, All have forgot all good,  
Forgetting her, the main reserve of all,  
Yet in this deluge, gross and general,  
Thou seest me strive for life; my life shall be,  
To be hereafter praised, for praising thee;  
Immortal maid, who though thou wouldst refuse  
The name of Mother, be unto my Muse  
A Father, since her chaste Ambition is  
Yearly to bring forth such a child as this.  
These Hymns may work on future wits, and so  
May great Grand children of thy praises grow.  
And so, though not revive, embalm and spice  
The world, which else would putrify with vice.  
For thus, Man may extend thy progeny,  
Until man do but vanish, and not die.  
These Hymns thy issue, may increase so long,  
As till God's great Venite change the song.  

A just disestimation of this world.  Thirst for that time, O my insatiate soul,  
And serve thy thirst, with God's safe-fealing Bowl.  
Be thirsty still, and drink still till thou go  
To th'only Health, to be Hydroptique so,  
Forget this rotten world; And unto thee  
Let thine own times as an old story be  
Be not concerned: study not why nor when;  
Do not so much as not believe a man.  
For though to err, be worst, to try truths forth,  
Is far more business, than this world is worth.  
The world is but a carcase; thou art fed  
By it, but as a worm, that carcase bred;  
And why shouldst thou, poor worm, consider more  
When this world will grow better than before,  
Then those thy fellow worms do think upon  
That carcases last resurrection.  
Forget this world, and scarce think of it so,  
As of old clothes, cast off a year ago.  
To be thus stupid is Alacrity;  
Men thus Lethargique have best Memory.  
Look upward; that's towards her, whose happy state  
We now lament not, but congratulate.  
She, to whom all this world was but a stage,  
Where all sat harkening how her youthful age  
Should be employed, because in all she did,  
Some Figure of the Golden times was hid.  
Who could not lack, what e'er this world could give,  
Because she was the form, that made it live;  
Nor could complain, that this world was unfit  
To be stayed in, then when she was in it;  
She that first tried indifferent desires  
By virtue, and virtue by religious fires,  
She to whose person Paradise adhered,  
As Courts to Princes, she whose eyes ensphered  
Starlight enough, t'have made the South control,  
(Had she been there) the Star-full Northern Pole,  
Shee, she is gone; she is gone; when thou knowest this,  
What fragmentary rubbish this world is  
Thou knowest, and that it is not worth a thought;  
He honours it too much that thinks it nought.  

Contemplation of our state in our deathbed.  Think then, my soul, that death is but a Groom,  
Which brings a Taper to the outward room,  
Whence thou spiest first a little glimmering light,  
And after brings it nearer to thy sight:  
For such approaches doth heaven make in death.  
Think thyself labouring now with broken breath,  
And think those broken and soft Notes to be  
Division, and thy happiest Harmony.  
Think thee laid on thy deathbed, loose and slack;  
And think that, but unbinding of a pack,  
To take one precious thing, thy soul from thence.  
Think thyself patched with fevers violence,  
Anger thine ague more, by calling it  
Thy Physic; chide the slackness of the fit.  
Think that thou hearest thy knell and think no more,  
But that, as Bells called thee to Church before,  
So this, to the Triumphant Church, calls thee.  
Think Satan's Sergeants round about thee be,  
And think that but for Legacies they thrust;  
Give one thy Pride, to'another give thy Lust:  
Give them those sins which they gave thee before,  
And trust th'immaculate blood to wash thy score.  
Think thy friends weeping round, & think that they  
Weep but because they go not yet thy way.  
Think that they close thine eyes, and think in this,  
That they confess much in the world, amiss,  
Who dare not trust a dead man's eye with that,  
Which they from God, and Angels cover not.  
Think that they shrowded thee up, & think from thence  
They reinvest thee in white innocence.  
Think that thy body rots, and (if so low,  
Thy soul exalted so, thy thoughts can go,)  
Think thee a Prince, who of themselves create  
Worms which insensibly devour their State.  
Think that they bury thee, and think that right  
Lays thee to sleep but a Saint Lucy's night.  
Think these things cheerfully: and if thou be  
Drowsy or slack, remember then that she,  
She whose complexion was so even made,  
That which of her ingredients should invade  
The other three, no Fear, no Art could guess:  
So far were all removed from more or less.  
But as in Mithridate, or just perfumes,  
Where all good things being met, no one presumes  
To govern, or to triumph on the rest,  
Only because all were, no part was best.  
And as, though all do know, that quantities  
Are made of lines, and lines from Points arise,  
None can these lines or quantities unjoint,  
And say this is a line, or this a point:  
So though the Elements and Humours were  
In her, one could not say, this governs there,  
Whose even constitution might have won  
Any disease to venture on the Sun,  
Rather than her: and make a spirit fear,  
That he too disuniting subject were.  
To whose proportions if we would compare  
Cubes, theyare unstable; Circles, Angular;  
She who was such a chain as Fate employs  
To bring mankind all Fortunes it enjoys;  
So fast, so even wrought, as one would think,  
No accident could threaten any link;  
She, she embraced a sickness, gave it meat,  
The purest blood, and breath, that e'er it eat;  
And hath taught us, that though a good man hath  
Title to heaven, and plead it by his Faith,  
And though he may pretend a conquest, since  
Heaven was content to suffer violence,  
Yea though he plead a long possession too,  
(For they're in heaven on earth who heavens works do)  
Though he had right and power and place, before,  
Yet death must usher, and unlock the door.  
Think further on thyself, my Soul, and think  
How thou at first waste made but in a sink;  
Think that it argued some infirmity,  
That those two souls, which then thou foundst in me,  
Thou fedst upon, and drewest into thee both  
My second soul of sense, and first of growth.  
Think but how poor thou wast, how obnoxious;  
Whom a small lump of flesh could poison thus.  
This curdled milk, this poor unlittered whelp  
My body, could, beyond escape or help,  
Infect thee with Original sin, and thou  
Couldst neither than refuse, nor leave it now.  
Think that no stubborn sullen Anchorit,  
Which fixed to a pillar, or a grave, doth sit  
Bedded, and bathed in all his ordures, dwells  
So foully as our Souls in their first built Cels.  
Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie  
After, enabled but to suck, and cry.  
Think, when 'twas grown to most, 'twas a poor Inn,  
A Province packed up in two yards of skin,  
And that usurped or threatened with a rage  
Of sicknesses, or their true mother, Age.  
But think that death hath now enfranchised thee,  

Her liberty by death.  Thou hast thy'expansion now, and liberty;  
Think that a rusty Piece discharged is flown  
In pieces, and the bullet is his own,  
And freely flies: this to thy Soul allow,  
Think thy shell broke, think thy Soul hatched but now.  
And think this slow-paced soul which late did cleave  
To'a body, and went but by the bodies leave,  
Twenty perchance or thirty mile a day,  
Dispatches in a minute all the way  
'twixt heaven, and earth; she stays not in the air,  
To look what Meteors there themselves prepare;  
She carries no desire to know, nor sense,  
Whether th'airs middle region be intense;  
For th'Element of fire, she doth not know,  
Whether she passed by such a place or no;  
She baits not at the Moon, nor cares to try  
Whether in that new world, men live, and die.  
Venus retards her not, to'enquire, how she  
Can, (being one star) Hesper, and Vesper be;  
He that charmed Argus eyes, sweet Mercury,  
Works not on her, who now is grown all eye;  
Who if she meet the body of the Sun,  
Goes through, not staying till his course be run;  
Who finds in Mars his Camp no corpse of Guard;  
Nor is by jove, nor by his father bard;  
Be ere she can consider how she went,  
At once is at, and through the Firmament.  
And as these stars were but so many beads  
Strung on one string, speed undistinguished leads  
Her through those Spheres, as through the beads, a string,  
Whose quick succession makes it still one thing:  
As doth the pith, which, lest our bodies slack,  
Strings fast the little bones of neck, and back;  
So by the Soul doth death string Heaven and Earth;  
For when our Soul enjoys this her third birth,  
(Creation gave her one, a second, grace,)  
Heaven is as near, and present to her face,  
As colours are, and objects, in a room  
Where darkness was before, when Tapers come.  
This must, my Soul, thy long-short Progress be,  
To'advance these thoughts; Remember then that she,  
She, whose fair body no such prison was,  
But that a Soul might well be pleased to pass  
An age in her; she whose rich beauty lent  
Mintage to other beauties, for they went  
But for so much as they were like to her;  
She, in whose body (if we dare prefer  
This low world, to so high a mark as she,)  
The Western treasure, Eastern spicetie,  
Europe, and Africa, and the unknown rest  
Were easily found, or what in them was best;  
And when w'have made this large discovery  
Of all, in her some one part then will be  
Twenty such parts, whose plenty and riches is  
Enough to make twenty such worlds as this;  
She, whom had they known who did first betrothe  
The Tutelar Angels, and assigned one, both  
To Nations, Cities, and to Companies,  
To Functions, Offices, and dignities,  
And to each several man, to him, and him,  
They would have given her one for every limb;  
She, of whose soul, if we may say, 'twas gold,  
Her body was th'Electrum, and did hold  
Many degrees of that; we understood  
Her by her sight; her pure, and eloquent blood  
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,  
That one might almost say, her body thought;  
She, she, thus richly and largely housed, is gone:  
And chides us slow-paced snails who crawl upon  
Our prison's prison, earth, nor think us well,  
Longer, then whilst we bear our brittle shell.  
But 'twere but little to have changed our room,  
If, as we were in this our living Tomb  
Oppressed with ignorance, we still were so.  
Poor soul, in this thy flesh what dost thou know?  
Thou knowst thyself so little, as thou knowst not,  
How thou didst die, nor how thou wast begot.  
Thou neither knowst, how thou at first cam'st in,  
Nor how thou took'st the poison of man's sin.  
Nor dost thou, (though thou knowst, that thou art so)  
By what way thou art made immortal, know.  
Thou art too narrow, wretch, to comprehend  
Even thyself. yea though thou wouldst but bend  
To know thy body. Have not all souls thought  
For many ages, that our body, is wrought  
Of air, and fire, and other Elements?  
And now they think of new ingredients.  
And one Soul thinks one, and another way  
Another thinks, and 'tis an even lay.  
Know'st thou but how the stone doth enter in  
The bladders cave, and never broke the skin?  
knowst thou how blood, which to the heart doth flow,  
Doth from one ventricle to th'other go?  
And for the putrid stuff, which thou dost spit,  
knowst thou how thy lungs have attracted it?  
There are no passages, so that there is  
(For aught thou knowst) piercing of substances.  
And of those many opinions which men raise  
Of Nails and Hairs, dost thou know which to praise?  
What hope have we to know ourselves, when we  
Know not the least things, which for our use be?  
We see in Authors, too stiff to recant,  
A hundred controversies of an Ant;  
And yet one watches, starves, friezes, and sweats,  
To know but Catechisms and Alphabets  
Of unconcerning things, matters of fact;  
How others on our stage their parts did Act;  
What Caesar did, yea, and what Cicero said,  
Why grass is green, or why our blood is red,  
Are mysteries which none have reached unto  
In this low form, poor soul, what wilt thou do?  
When wilt thou shake off this Pedantery,  
Of being taught by sense, and Fantasy?  
Thou look'st through spectacles; small things seem great  
Below; But up unto the watch-towre get,  
And see all things despoiled of fallacies:  
Thou shalt not peep through lattices of eyes,  
Nor hear through Labyrinths of ears, nor learn  
By circuit, or collections to discern.  
In heaven thou strait knowst all, concerning it,  
And what concerns it not, shalt strait forget.  
There thou (but in no other school) mayst be  
Perchance, as learned; and as full, as she,  
She who all libraries had throughly read  
At home in her own thoughts, and practised  
So much good as would make as many more:  
She whose example they must all implore,  
Who would or do, or think well, and confess  
That all the virtuous Actions they express,  
Are but a new, and worse edition  
Of her some one thought, or one action:  
She who in th'u'rt of knowing Heaven, was grown  
Here upon earth, to such perfection,  
That she hath, ever since to Heaven she came,  
(In a far fairer point,) but read the same:  
She, she not satisfied with all this weight,  
(For so much knowledge, as would over-fraight  
Another, did but ballast her) is gone  
As well t'enjoy, as get perfection.  
And calls us after her, in that she took,  
(Taking herself) our best, and worthiest book.  

Of our company in this life, and in the next.  Return not, my Soul, from this ecstasy,  
And meditation of what thou shalt be,  
To earthly thoughts, till it to thee appear,  
With whom thy conversation must be there,  
With whom wilt thou converse? what station  
Canst thou choose out, free from infection,  
That will not give thee theirs, nor drink in thine?  
Shalt thou not find a spongy slack Divine,  
Drink and suck in th'instructions of great men,  
And for the word of God, vent them again?  
Are there not some Courts (and then, no things be  
So like as Courts) which, in this let us see,  
That wits, and tongues of Libelers are weak,  
Because they do more ill, than these can speak?  
The poison's's gone through all, poisons affect  
Chiefly the chiefest parts, but some, effect  
In nails, and hairs, yea excrements, will show;  
So lies the poison of sin in the most low.  
Up, up, my drowsy Soul, where thy new ear  
Shall in the Angel's songs no discord hear;  
Where thou shalt see the blessed Mother-maid  
Joy in not being that, which men have said.  
Where she is exalted more for being good,  
Then for her interest of Mother-hood.  
Up to those Patriarches, which did longer sit  
Expecting Christ, then they'have enjoyed him yet.  
Up to those Prophets, which now gladly see  
Their Prophecies grown to be History.  
Up to th'Apostles, who did bravely run  
All the Sun's course, with more light than the Sun.  
Up to those Martyrs, who did calmly bleed  
Oil to th'Apostles Lamps, dew to their seed.  
Up to those Virgins, who thought, that almost  
They made joint-tenants with the Holy Ghost,  
If they to any should his Temple give.  
Up, up, for in that squadron there doth live  
She, who hath carried thither new degrees  
(As to their number) to their dignities.  
She, who being to herself a State, enjoyed  
All royalties which any State employed;  
For she made wars, and triumphed; reason still  
Did not overthrow, but rectify her will:  
And she made peace, for no peace is like this,  
That beauty, and chastity together kiss:  
She did high justice, for she crucified  
Every first motion of rebellious pride:  
And she gave pardons, and was liberal,  
For, only herself except, she pardoned all:  
She coined, in this, that her impression gave  
To all our actions all the worth they have:  
She gave protections; the thoughts of her breast  
Satan's rude Officers could ne'er arrest.  
As these prerogatives being met in one,  
Made her a sovereign State; religion  
Made her a Church; and these two made her all.  
She who was all this All, and could not fall  
To worse, by company, (for she was still  
More Antidote, than all the world was ill,  
She, she doth leave it, and by Death, survive  
All this, in Heaven; whether who doth not strive  
The more, because she's there, he doth not know  
That accidental joys in Heaven do grow.  
But pause, my soul; And study ere thou fall  

Of essential joy in this life and in the next.  On accidental joys, th'essential.  
Still before Accessories do abide  
A trial, must the principal be tried.  
And what essential joy canst thou expect  
Here upon earth? what permanent effect  
Of transitory causes? Dost thou love  
Beauty? (And beauty worthy'st is to move)  
Poor cozened cousenor, that she, and that thou,  
Which did begin to love, are neither now;  
You are both fluid, changed since yesterday;  
Next day repairs, (but ill) last days decay.  
Nor are, (although the river keep the name)  
Yesterday waters, and to days the same.  
So flows her face, and thine eyes; neither now  
That Saint nor Pilgrim, which your loving vow  
Concerned, remains; but whilst you think you be  
Constant, youare hourly in inconstancy.  
Honour may have pretence unto our love,  
Because that God did live so long above  
Without this Honour, and then loved it so,  
That he at last made creatures to bestow  
Honour on him; not that he needed it,  
But that, to his hands, man might grow more fit.  
But since all Honours from inferiors flow,  
(For they do give it; Princes do but show  
Whom they would have so honoured) and that this  
On such opinions, and capacities  
Is built, as rise and fall, to more and less:  
Alas, 'tis but a casual happiness.  
Hath ever any man to'himselfe assigned  
This or that happiness to'arrest his mind,  
But that another man which takes a worse,  
Thinks him a fool for having ta'en that course?  
They who did labour Babel's tower to'erect,  
Might have considered, that for that effect,  
All this whole solid Earth could not allow  
Nor furnish forth materials enough;  
And that his Centre, to raise such a place  
Was far too little, to have been the Base;  
No more affords this world, foundation  
To erect true joy, were all the means in one.  
But as the Heathen made them several gods,  
Of all God's benefits, and all his rods,  
(For as the Wine, and Corn, and Onions are  
Gods unto them, so Agues be, and war)  
And as by changing that whole precious Gold  
To such small Copper coins, they lost the old,  
And lost their only God, who ever must  
Be sought alone, and not in such a thrust:  
So much, mankind true happiness mistakes;  
No Joy enjoys that man, that many makes.  
Then, Soul, to thy first pitch work up again;  
Know that all lines which circles do contain,  
For once that they the Centre touch, do touch  
Twice the circumference; and be thou such;  
Double on heaven thy thoughts on earth employed;  
All will not serve; Only who have enjoyed  
The sight of God, in fullness, can think it;  
For it is both the object, and the wit.  
This is essential joy, where neither he  
Can suffer diminution, nor we;  
'Tis such a full, and such a filling good;  
Had th'Angels once looked on him, they had stood.  
To fill the place of one of them, or more,  
She whom we celebrate, is gone before.  
She, who had here so much essential joy,  
As no chance could distract, much less destroy;  
Who with God's presence was acquainted so,  
(Hearing, and speaking to him) as to know  
His face in any natural Stone, or Tree,  
Better than when in Images they be:  
Who kept by diligent devotion,  
God's Image, in such reparation,  
Within her heart, that what decay was grown,  
Was her first Parent's fault, and not her own:  
Who being solicited to any act,  
Still heard God pleading his safe precontract;  
Who by a faithful confidence, was here  
Betrothed to God, and now is married there;  
Whose twilights were more clear, than our midday;  
Who dreamt devoutlier, than most use to pray;  
Who being here filled with grace, yet strove to be,  
Both where more grace, and more capacity  
At once is given: she to Heaven is gone,  
Who made this world in some proportion  
A heaven, and here, became unto us all,  
Joy, (as our joys admit) essential.  

Of accidental joys in both places.  But could this low world joys essential touch,  
Heavens accidental joys would pass them much.  
How poor and lame, must then our casual bee?  
If thy Prince will his subjects to call thee  
My Lord, and this do swell thee, thou art than,  
By being greater, grown to be less Man.  
When no Physician of redress can speak,  
A joyful casual violence may break  
A dangerous Apostem in thy breast;  
And whilst thou joyest in this, the dangerous rest,  
The bag may rise up, and so strangle thee.  
What e'er was casual, may ever be.  
What should the nature change? Or make the same  
Certain, which was but casual, when it came?  
All casual joy doth loud and plainly say,  
Only by coming, that it can away.  
Only in Heaven joys strength is never spent;  
And accidental things are permanent.  
Joy of a soul's arrival ne'er decays;  
For that soul ever joys and ever stays.  
Joy that their last great Consummation  
Approaches in the resurrection;  
When earthly bodies more celestial  
Shall be, than Angels were, for they could fall;  
This kind of joy doth every day admit  
Degrees of growth, but none of losing it.  
In this fresh joy, 'tis no small part, that she,  
She, in whose goodness, he that names degree,  
Doth injure her; ('Tis loss to be called best,  
There where the stuff is not such as the rest)  
She, who left such a body, as even she  
Only in Heaven could learn, how it can be  
Made better; for she rather was two souls,  
Or like to full on both sides written Rolls,  
Where eyes might read upon the outward skin,  
As strong Records for God, as minds within,  
She, who by making full perfection grow,  
Pieces a Circle, and still keeps it so,  
Longed for, and longing for it, to heaven is gone,  
Where she receives, and gives addition.  

Conclusion.  Here in a place, where mis-devotion frames  
A thousand Prayers to Saints, whose very names  
The ancient Church knew not, Heaven knows not yet:  
And where, what laws of Poetry admit,  
Laws of Religion have at least the same,  
Immortal Maid, I might invoke thy name.  
Could any Saint provoke that appetite,  
Thou here shouldst make me a french convertite.  
But thou wouldst not; nor wouldst thou be content,  
To take this, for my second years true Rent.  
Did this Coin bear any other stamp, than his,  
That gave thee power to do, me, to say this.  
Since his will is, that to posterity,  
Thou shouldst for life, and death, a pattern be,  
And that the world should notice have of this,  
The purpose, and th'authority is his;  
Thou art the Proclamation; and I am  
The Trumpet, at whose voice the people came.    

The Ecstasy.  
WHere, like a pillow on a bed,  
A Pregnant bank swelled up, to rest  
The violets reclining head,  
Sat we two, one another's best;  
Our hands were firmly cemented  
With a fast balm, which thence did spring,  
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread  
Our eyes, upon one double string,  
So to'entergraft our hands, as yet  
Was all the means to make us one,  
And pictures in our eyes to get  
Was all our propagation.  
As 'twixt two equal Armies, Fate  
Suspends uncertain victory,  
Our souls, (which to advance their state,  
Were gone out,) hung 'twixt her, and me.  
And whilst our souls negotiate there,  
We like sepulchral statues lay,  
All day, the same our postures were,  
And we said nothing, all the day.  
If any, so by love refined,  
That he soul's language understood,  
And by good love were grown all mind,  
Within convenient distance stood,  
He (though he knows not which soul spoke,  
Because both meant, both spoke the same)  
Might thence a new concoction take,  
And part far purer than he came.  
This Ecstasy doth unperplex  
(We said) and tell us what we love,  
We see by this, it was not sex  
We see, we saw not what did move:  
But as all several souls contain  
Mixture of things, they know not what,  
Love, these mixed souls, doth mix again,  
And makes both one, each this and that.  
A single violet transplant,  
The strength, the colour, and the size,  
(All which before was poor, and scant,)  
Redoubles still, and multiplies.  
When love, with one another so  
Interanimates two souls,  
That abler soul, which thence doth flow,  
Defects of loneliness controls.  
We then, who are this new soul, know,  
Of what we are composed, and made,  
For, th'Atomies of which we grow,  
Are souls, whom no change can invade.  
But O alas, so long, so far  
Our bodies why do we forbear?  
They are ours, though not we, We are  
The intelligences, they the spheres.  
We owe them thanks, because they thus,  
Did us, to us, at first convey,  
Yielded their senses force to us,  
Nor are dross to us, but allay.  
On man heavens influence works not so,  
But that it first imprints the air,  
For soul into the soul may flow,  
Though it to body first repair.  
As our blood labours to beget  
Spirits, as like souls as it can,  
Because such fingers need to knit  
That subtle knot, which makes us man:  
So must pure lovers souls descend  
T'affections, and to faculties,  
Which sense may reach and apprehend,  
Else a great Prince in prison lies.  
To'our bodies turn we then, that so  
Weak men on love revealed may look;  
Loves mysteries in souls do grow,  
But yet the body is his book.  
And if some lover, such as we,  
Have heard this dialogue of one,  
Let him still mark us, he shall see  
Small change, when weare to bodies gone.   

Love's Deity.  

I Long to talk with some old lover's ghost,  
Who died before the god of Love was borne:  
I cannot think that he, who then loved most,  
Sunk so low, as to love one which did scorn.  
But since this god produced a destiny,  
And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be;  
I must love her, that loves not me.   

Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much:  
Nor he, in his young god head practised it.  
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,  
His office was indulgently to fit  
Actives to passives. Correspondency  
Only his subject was; It cannot be  
Love, till I love her, that loves me.   

But every modern god will now extend  
His vast prerogative, as far as Jove.  
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,  
All is the purlewe of the God of Love.  
Oh were we wakened by this Tyranny  
To ungod this child again, it could not beo  
I should love her, who loves not me.   

Rebel and Atheist too, why murmur I,  
As though I felt the worst that love could do?  
Love may make me leave loving, or might try  
A deeper plague, to make her love me too,  
Which since she loves before, I'm loath to see;  
Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be,  
If she whom I love, should love me.    

Love's diet.  

TO what a cumbersome unwieldinesse  
And burdenous corpulence my love had grown,  
But that I did, to make it less,  
And keep it in proportion,  
Give it a diet, made it feed upon  
That which love worst endures, discretion.   

Above one sigh a day I'allowed him not,  
Of which my fortune, and my faults had part;  
And if sometimes by stealth he got  
A she sigh from my mistress heart,  
And thought to feast on that, I let him see  
'Twas neither very sound, nor meant to me;   

If he wrong from mee'a tear, I brined it so  
With scorn or shame, that him it nourished not;  
If he sucked hers, I let him know  
'Twas not a tear, which he had got,  
His drink was counterfeit, as was his meat;  
For, eyes which roll towards all, weep not, but sweat.   

What ever he would dictate, I writ that,  
But burned my letters; When she writ to me,  
And that that favour made him fat,  
I said, if any title be  
Conveyed by this, Ah, what doth it avail,  
To be the fortieth name in an entail?   

Thus I redeemed my buzzard love, to fly  
At what, and when, and how, and where I choose;  
Now negligent of sports I lie,  
And now as other Fawkners' use,  
I spring a mistress, swear, write, sigh and weep:  
And the game killed, or lost, go talk, and sleep.    

The Will.  

BEfore I sigh my last gasp, let me breath,  
Great love, some Legacies; Here I bequeath  
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see,  
If they be blind, than Love, I give them thee;  
My tongue to Fame; to'Embassadours mine ears;  
To women or the sea, my tears;  
Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore  
By making me serve her who'had twenty more,  
That I should give to none, but such, as had too much before.   

My constancy I to the planets give,  
My truth to them, who at the Court do live;  
Mine ingenuity and openness,  
To Jesuits; to Buffoons my pensiveness;  
My silence to'any, who abroad hath been;  
My money to a Capuchin.  
Thou Love taughtest me, by appointing me  
To love there, where no love received can be,  
Only to give to such as have an incapacity.   

My faith I give to Roman Catholics;  
All my good works unto the Schismatics  
Of Amsterdam; my best civility  
And Courtship, to an University;  
My modesty I give to soldiers bare;  
My patience let gamesters share.  
Thou Love taughtst me, by making me  
Love her that holds my love disparity,  
Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.   

I give my reputation to those  
Which were my friends; Mine industry to foes;  
To Schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness;  
My sickness to Physicians, or excess;  
To Nature, all that I in Rhyme have writ;  
And to my company my wit;  
Thou love, by making me adore  
Her, who begot this love in me before,  
Taughtst me to make, as though I gave, when I did but restore.   

To him for whom the passing bell next tolls,  
I give my physic books; my written rowles  
Of Moral counsels, I to Bedlam give;  
My brazen medals, unto them which live  
In want of bread; to them which pass among  
All foreigners, mine English tongue.  
Thou, Love, by making me love one  
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion  
For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.   

Therefore I'll give no more; But I'll undo  
The world by dying; because love dies too.  
Then all your beauties will be no more worth  
Than gold in Mines, where none doth draw it forth.  
And all your graces no more use shall have  
Then a Sun dial in a grave,  
Thou Love taughtst me, by making me  
Love her, who doth neglect both me and thee,  
To'invent, and practise this one way, to'annihilate all three.    

The Funeral.  

WHo ever comes to shroud me, do not harm  
Nor question much  
That subtle wreath of hair, which crown, my arm;  
The mystery, the sign you must not touch,  
For'tis my outward Soul  
Viceroy to that, which unto heaven being gone,  
Will leave this to control,  
And keep these limbs, her Provinces, from dissolution.   

For if the sinewy thread my brain le's fall  
Through every part,  
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all;  
Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art  
Have from a better brain,  
Can better do't; except she meant that I  
By this should know my pain,  
As prisoners than are manacled, when theyare condem'nd to die.   

What ere she meant by'it, bury it by me,  
For since I am  
Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry,  
If into others hands these relics came;  
As 'twas humility  
To afford to it all that a Soul can do,  
So, 'tis some bravery,  
That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.    

The Blossom.  

LIttle think'st thou, poor flower,  
Whom I have watched six or seven days,  
And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour  
Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise,  
And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough,  
Little think'st thou  
That it will freeze anon, and that I shall  
To morrow find thee fall'n, or not at all.   

Little think'st thou poor heart  
That labours yet to nestle thee,  
And think'st by hover here to get a part  
In a forbidden or forbidding tree,  
And hop'st her stiffness by long siege to bow:  
Little think'st thou,  
That thou to morrow, ere that Sun doth wake,  
Must with this Sun, and me a journey take.   

But thou which lov'st to be  
Subtle to plague thyself, wilt say,  
Alas, if you must go, what's that to me?  
Here lies my business, and here I will stay:  
You go to friends, whose love and means present  
Various content  
To your eyes, ears, and taste, and every part.  
If then your body go, what need your heart?   

Well then, stay here; but know,  
When thou hast stayed and done thy most;  
A naked thinking heart, that makes no show,  
Is to a woman, but a kind of Ghost;  
How shall she know my heart; or having none,  
Know thee for one?  
Practice may make her know some other part,  
But take my word, she doth not know a Heart.   

Meet me at London, then,  
Twenty days hence, and thou shalt see  
Me fresher, and more fat, by being with men,  
Then if I had stayed still with her and thee.  
For God's sake, if you can, be you so too:  
I will give you  
There, to another friend, whom we shall find  
As glad to have my body, as my mind.    

The Primrose.  

Upon this Primrose hill,  
Where, it Heaven would distil  
A shower of rain, each several drop might go  
To his own primrose, and grow Manna so;  
And where their form, and their infinity  
Make a terrestrial Galaxy,  
As the small stars do in the sky:  
I walk to find a true Love; and I see  
That 'tis not a mere woman, that is she,  
But must, or more, or less than woman be.   

Yet know I not, which flower  
I wish; a six, or four;  
For should my true-Love less than woman be,  
She were scarce any thing; and then should she  
Be more than woman, she would get above  
All thought of sex, and think to move  
My heart to study her, and not to love;  
Both these were monsters; Since there must reside  
Falsehood in woman, I could more abide,  
She were by art, than Nature falsified.   

Live Primrose then, and thrive  
With thy true number five;  
And women, whom this flower doth represent,  
With this mysterious number be content;  
Ten is the farthest number, if half ten  
Belongs unto each woman, than  
Each woman may take half us men,  
Or if this will not serve their turn, Since all  
Numbers are odd, or even, and they fall  
First into this five, women may take us all.    

The Relic.  

WHen my grave is broke up again  
Some second guest to entertain,  
(For graves have learned that womanhood  
To be to more than one a Bed)  
And he that digs it, spies  
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,  
Will he not let'us alone,  
And think that there a loving couple lies,  
Who thought that this device might be some way  
To make their souls, at the last busy day,  
Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?   

If this fall in a time, or land,  
Where mis-devotion doth command,  
Then, he that digs us up, will bring  
Us, to the Bishop, and the King,  
To make us Relics; then  
Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I  
A something else thereby;  
All women shall adore us, and some men;  
And since at such time, miracles are sought,  
I would have that age by this paper taught  
What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.   

First, we loved well and faithfully,  
Yet knew not what we loved, nor why,  
Difference of sex no more we new,  
Then our Guardian Angels do,  
Coming and going, we,  
Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals  
Our hands ne'er touched the seals,  
Which nature, injured by late law, sets free,  
These miracles we did; but now alas,  
All measure, and all language, I should pass,  
Should I tell what a miracle she was.    

The Damp.  

WHen I am dead, and Doctors know not why,  
And my friends curiosity  
Will have me cut up to survey each part,  
When they shall find your Picture in my heart,  
You think a sudden damp of love  
Will through all their senses move,  
And work on them as me, and so prefer  
Your murder, to the name of Massacre.   

Poor victories; But if you dare be brave,  
And pleasure in your conquest have,  
First kill th'enormous Giant, your Disdain,  
And let th'enchantress Honour, next be slain,  
And like a Goth and Vandal rise,  
Deface Records, and Histories  
Of your own arts and triumphs over men,  
And without such advantage kill me then.   

For I could muster up as well as you  
My Giants, and my Witches too,  
Which are vast Constancy, and Secretness,  
But these I neither look for, nor profess,  
Kill me as Woman, let me die  
As a mere man; do you but try  
Your passive valour, and you shall find than,  
In that youhave odds enough of any man.    

The Dissolution.  
Shee'is' dead; And all which die  
To their first Elements resolve;  
And we were mutual Elements to us,  
And made of one another.  
My body then doth hers involve,  
And those things whereof I consist, hereby  
In me abundant grow, and burdenous,  
And nourish not, but smother.  
My fire of Passion, sighs of air,  
Water of tears, and earthly sad despair,  
Which my materials be,  
But ne'er worn out by love's security,  
She, to my loss, doth by her death repair,  
And I might live long wretched so  
But that my fire doth with my fuel grow.  
Now as those Active Kings  
Whose foreign conquest treasure brings,  
Receive more, and spend more, and soon break:  
This (which I am amazed that I can speak)  
This death, hath with my store  
My use increased.  
And so my soul more earnestly released,  
Will outstrip hers; As bullets flown before  
A latter bullet may o'ertake, the powder being more.   

A jet King sent  

THou art not so black, as my heart,  
Nor half so brittle, as her heart, thou art;  
What wouldst thou say? shall both our properties by thee be spoke,  
Nothing more endless, nothing sooner broke?   

Marriage rings are not of this stuff;  
Oh, why should aught less precious, or less tough  
Figure our loves? Except in thy name thou have bid it say  
I'm cheap, & nought but fashion, fling me'away.   

Yet stay with me since thou art come,  
Circled this finger's top, which didst her thumb.  
Be justly proud, and gladly safe, that thou dost dwell with me,  
She that, Oh, broke her faith, would soon break thee.    

Negative love.  

I Never stooped so low, as they  
Which on an eye, cheek, lip, can pray,  
Seldom to them, which soar no higher  
Than virtue or the mind to'admire,  
For sense, and understanding may  
Know, what gives fuel to their fire:  
My love, though silly, is more brave,  
For may I miss, when ere I crave,  
If I know yet, what I would have.   

If that be simply perfectest  
Which can by no way be expressed  
But Negatives, my love is so.  
To All, which all love, I say no.  
If any who deciphers best,  
What we know not, ourselves, can know,  
Let him teach me that nothing; This  
As yet my ease, and comfort is,  
Though I speed not, I cannot miss.    

The Prohibition.  

TAke heed of loving me,  
At least remember, I forbade it thee;  
Not that I shall repair my'unthrifty waist  
Of Breath and Blood, upon thy sighs, and tears,  
By being to me then that which thou wast;  
But, so great Joy, our life at once outweares,  
Then, lest thy love, by my death, frustrate be,  
If thou love me, take heed of loving me.   

Take heed of hating me,  
Or too much triumph in the Victory.  
Not that I shall be mine own officer,  
And hate with hate again retaliate;  
But thou wilt lose the style of conqueror,  
If I, thy conquest, perish by thy hate.  
Then, lest my being nothing lessen thee,  
If thou hate me, take heed of hating me.   

Yet, love and hate me too,  
So, these extremes shall ne'er their office do;  
Love me, that I may die the gentler way;  
Hate me, because thy love is too great for me;  
Or let these two, themselves, not me decay;  
So shall I live thy stay, not triumph be;  
Lest thou thy love and hate and me undo  
To let me live, Oh love and hate me too.    

The Expiration.  

SO, so, break off this last'lamenting kiss,  
Which sucks two souls, and vapours Both away,  
Turn thou ghost that way, and let me turn this,  
And let ourselves benight our happiest day,  
We ask none leave to love; nor will we owe  
Any, so cheap a death, as saying, Go;   

Go; and if that word have not quite killed thee,  
Ease me with death, by bidding me go too.  
Oh, if it have, let my word work on me,  
And a just office on a murderer do.  
Except it be too late, to kill me so,  
Being double dead, going, and bidding, go.    

The Computation.  
FOr the first twenty years, since yesterday,  
I scarce believed, thou couldst be gone away,  
For forty more, I fed on favours past,  
And forty'on hopes, that thou wouldst, they might last.  
Tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two,  
A thousand, I did neither think, nor do.  
Or not divide, all being one thought of you;  
Or in a thousand more, forgot that too.  
Yet call not this long life; But think that I  
Am, by being dead, Immortal; Can ghosts die?   

Elegy.  
LAnguage thou art too narrow, and too weak  
To ease us now; great sorrow cannot speak;  
If we could sigh out accents, and weep words,  
Grief wears, and lessens, that tears breath affords,  
Sad hearts, the less they seem the more they are,  
(So guiltiest men stand mutest at the bar)  
Not that they know not, feel not their estate,  
But extreme sense hath made them desperate,  
Sorrow, to whom we owe all that we be;  
Tyrant, in the fifth and greatest Monarchy,  
Was't, that she did possess all hearts before,  
Thou hast killed her, to make thy Empire more?  
Knewest thou some would, that knew her not, lament,  
As in a deluge perish th'innocent?  
Was't not enough to have that palace won,  
But thou must raze it too, that was undone?  
Hadst thou stayed there, and looked out at her eyes,  
All had adored thee that now from thee flies,  
For they let out more light, than they took in,  
They told not when, but did the day begin;  
She was too Saphirine, and clear to thee;  
Clay, flint, and jet now thy fit dwellings be;  
Alas, she was too pure, but not too weak;  
Who e'er saw Crystal Ordinance but would break?  
And if we be thy conquest, by her fall  
thoust lost thy end, for in her perish all;  
Or if we live, we live but to rebel,  
They know her better now, that knew her well;  
If we should vapour out, and pine, and die;  
Since, she first went, that were not misery;  
She changed our world with hers; now she is gone,  
Mirth and prosperity is oppression;  
For of all moral virtues she was all,  
The Ethics speak of virtue's Cardinal;  
Her soul was Paradise; the Cherubin  
Set to keep it was grace, that kept out sin;  
She had no more than let in death, for we  
All reap consumption from one fruitful tree;  
God took her hence, lest some of us should love  
Her, like that plant, him and his laws above,  
And when we tears, he mercy shed in this,  
To raise our minds to heaven where now she is;  
Who if her virtues would have let her stay  
Wee'had had a Saint, have now a holiday;  
Her heart was that strange bush, where, sacred fire,  
Religion, did not consume, but'inspire  
Such piety, so chaste use of God's day,  
That what we turn to feast, she turned to pray,  
And did prefigure here, in devout taste,  
The rest of her high Sabaoth, which shall last;  
Angels did hand her up, who next God dwell,  
(For she was of that order whence most fell)  
Her body left with us, lest some had said,  
She could not die, except they saw her dead;  
For from less virtue, and less beautiousnesse,  
The Gentiles framed them Gods and Goddesses.  
The ravenous earth that now woes her to be,  
Earth too, will be a Lemnia; and the tree  
That wraps that crystal in a wooden Tomb,  
Shall be taken up spruce, filled with diamond;  
And we her sad glad friends all bear a part  
Of grief, for all would waste a Stoics heart.   

Elegy to the Lady Bedford.  
YOu that are she, and you that's double she,  
In her dead face, half of yourself shall see;  
She was the other part, for so they do  
Which build them friendships, become one of two;  
So two, that but themselves no third can fit,  
Which were to be so, when they were not yet  
Twins, though their birth Cusco, and Musco take,  
As diverse stars one Constellation make,  
Paired like two eyes, have equal motion, so  
Both but one means to see, one way to go;  
Had you died first, a carcase she had been;  
And we your rich Tomb in her face had seen;  
She like the Soul is gone, and you here stay  
Not a live friend; but tother half of clay;  
And since you act that part, As men say, here  
Lies such a Prince, when but one part is there;  
And do all honour: and devotion due;  
Unto the whole, so we all reverence you;  
For, such a friendship who would not adore  
In you, who are all what both was before,  
Not all, as if some perished by this,  
But so, as all in you contracted is;  
As of this all, though many parts decay,  
The pure which elemented them shall stay;  
And though diffused, and spread in infinite,  
Shall recollect, and in one All unite:  
So madame, as her Soul to heaven is fled,  
Her flesh rests in the earth, as in the bed;  
Her virtues do, as to their proper sphere,  
Return to dwell with you, of whom they were;  
As perfect motions are all circular,  
So they to you, their sea, whence less streams are;  
She was all spices, you all metals; so  
In you two we did both rich Indies know;  
And as no fire, nor rust can spend or waste  
One dram of gold, but what was first shall last,  
Though it be forced in water, earth, salt, air,  
Expansed in infinite, none will impair;  
So, to yourself you may additions take,  
But nothing can you less, or changed make.  
Seek not in seeking new, to seem to doubt,  
That you can can match her, or not be without;  
But let some faithful book in her room be,  
Yet but of judith no such book as she.   

Elegy.  
TO make the doubt clear, that no woman's true,  
Was it my fate to prove it strong in you?  
Thought I, but one had breathed purest air,  
And must she needs be false because she's fair?  
Is it your beauty's mark, or of your youth,  
Or your perfection, not to study truth?  
Or think you heaven is deaf, or hath no eyes?  
Or those it hath, smile at your perjuries?  
Are vows so cheap with women, or the matter  
Whereof they are made, that they are writ in water,  
And blown away with wind? Or doth their breath  
(Both hot and cold) at once make life and death?  
Who could have thought so many accents sweet  
Formed into words, so many sighs should meet  
As from our hearts, so many oaths, and tears  
Sprinkled among, (all sweeter by our fears  
And the divine impression of stolen kisses,  
That sealed the rest) should now prove empty blisses?  
Did you draw bonds to forfeit? sign to break?  
Or must we read you quite from what you speak,  
And find the truth out the wrong way? or must  
He first desire you false, would wish you just?  
O I profane, though most of women be  
This kind of beast, my thought shall except thee;  
My dearest Love, though froward jealousy,  
With circumstance might urge thy'inconstancie,  
Sooner I'll think the Sun will cease to cheer  
The teeming earth, and that forget to bear,  
Sooner that rivers will run back, or Thames  
With ribs of Ice in June would bind his streams;  
Or Nature, by whose strength the world endures,  
Would change her course, before you alter yours;  
But O that treacherous breast to whom weak you  
Did trust our Counsels, and we both may rue,  
Having his falsehood found too late, 'twas he  
That made me cast you guilty, and you me,  
Whilst he, black wrech, betrayed each simple word  
We spoke, unto the cunning of a third;  
Cursed may he be, that so our love hath slain,  
And wander on the earth, wretched as Cain,  
Wretched as he, and not deserve least pity;  
In plaguing him, let misery be witty;  
Let all eyes shun him, and he shun each eye,  
Till he be noisome as his infamy;  
May he without remorse deny God thrice,  
And not be trusted more on his Souls price;  
And after all self torment, when he dies,  
May Wolves tear out his heart, Vultures his eyes,  
Swine eat his bowels, and his falser tongue  
That uttered all, be to some Raven flung,  
And let his carrion coarse be a longer feast  
To the King's dogs; then any other beast;  
Now have I cursed, let us our love revive;  
In me the flame was never more alive;  
I could begin again to court and praise,  
And in that pleasure lengthen the short days  
Of my life's lease; like Painters that do take  
Delight, not in made work, but whiles they make;  
I could renew those times, when first I saw  
Love in your eyes, that gave my tongue the law  
To like what you liked; and at masks and plays  
Commend the self same Actors, the same ways;  
Ask how you did, and often with intent  
Of being officious, be impertinent;  
All which were such soft pastimes, as in these  
Love was as subtly catched, as a disease;  
But being got it is a treasure sweet,  
Which to defend is harder than to get:  
And ought not be profaned on either part,  
For though 'tis got by chance, 'tis kept by art.   

NO Lover saith, I love, nor any other  
Can judge a perfect Lover;  
He thinks that else none can or will agree,  
That any loves but he:  
I cannot say I loved, for who can say  
He was killed yesterday.  
Love with excess of heat, more young than old,  
Death kills with too much cold;  
We die but once, and who loved last did die,  
He that saith twice, doth lie:  
For though he seem to move, and stir a while,  
It doth the sense beguile.  
Such life is like the light which bideth yet  
When the life's light is set,  
Or like the heat, which, fire in solid matter  
Leaves behind, two hours after.  
Once I love and died; and am now become  
Mine Epitaph and Tomb.  
Here dead men speak their last, and so do I;  
Love-slaine, lo, here I dye.   

A Hymn to Christ, at the Author's last going into Germany.  

IN what torn ship soever I embark,  
That ship shall be my emblem of thy Ark;  
What sea soever swallow me, that flood  
Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood;  
Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise  
Thy face; yet through that mask I know those eyes,  
Which, though they turn away sometimes,  
They never will despise.   

I sacrifice this Island unto thee,  
And all whom I loved there, and who loved me;  
When I have put our seas 'twixt them and me,  
Put thou thy seas betwixt my sins and thee.  
As the trees sap doth seek the root below  
In winter, in my winter now I go,  
Where none but thee, th'eternal root  
Of true Love I may know.   

Nor thou nor thy religion dost control,  
The amorousness of an harmonious Soul,  
But thou wouldst have that love thyself: As thou  
Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now,  
Thou lov'st not, till from loving more, thou free  
My soul: Who ever gives, takes liberty:  
O, if thou carest not whom I love  
Alas, thou lov'st not me.   

Seal then this bill of my Divorce to All,  
On whom those fainter beams of love did fall;  
Marry those loves, which in youth scattered be  
On Fame, Wit, Hopes (false mistresses) to thee.  
Churches are best for Prayer, that have least light:  
To see God only, I go out of sight:  
And to scape stormy days, I choose  
An Everlasting night.    

The Lamentations of jeremy, for the most part according to Tremelius.  

CHAP. I.  

1  
HOw sits this city, late most populous,  
Thus solitary, and like a widow thus?  
Amplest of Nations, Queen of Provinces  
She was, who now thus tributary is?   

2  
Still in the night she weeps, and her tears fall  
Down by her cheeks along, and none of all  
Her lovers comfort her; Perfidiously  
Her friends have dealt, and now are enemy.   

3  
Unto great bondage, and afflictions  
Juda is captive led; Those nations  
With whom she dwells, no place of rest afford,  
In straits she meets her Persecutors sword.   

4  
Empty are the gates of Zion, and her ways  
Mourn, because none come to her solemn days.  
Her Priests do groan, her maids are comfortless,  
And she's unto herself a bitterness.   

5  
Her foes are grown her head, and live at Peace,  
Because when her transgressions did increase,  
The Lord struck her with sadness: Th'enemy  
Doth drive her children to captivity.   

6  
From Zion's daughter is all beauty gone,  
Like Hearts, which seek for Pasture, and find none,  
Her Princes are, and now before the foe  
Which still pursues them, without strength they go.   

7  
Now in their days of Tears, Jerusalem  
(Her men slain by the foe, none succouring them)  
Remembers what of old, she esteemed most,  
Whiles her foes laugh at her, for what she hath lost.   

8  
Jerusalem hath sinned, therefore is she  
Removed, as women in uncleanness be;  
Who honoured, scorn her, for her foulness they  
Have seen, herself doth groan, and turn away.   

9  
Her foulness in her skirts was seen, yet she  
Remembered not her end; Miraculously  
Therefore she fell, none comforting: Behold  
O Lord my affliction, for the Foe grows bold.   

10  
Upon all things where her delight hath been,  
The foe hath stretched his hand, for she hath seen  
Heathen, whom thou command'st, should not do so,  
Into her holy Sanctuary go.   

11  
And all her people groan, and seek for bread;  
And they have given, only to be fed,  
All precious things, wherein their pleasure lay:  
How cheap I'am grown, O Lord, behold, and weigh.   

12  
All this concerns not you, who pass by me,  
O see, and mark if any sorrow be  
Like to my sorrow, which Jehova hath  
Done to me in the day of his fierce wrath?   

13  
That fire, which by himself is governed  
He hath cast from heaven on my bones, and spread  
A net before my feet, and me o'rthrowne,  
And made me languish all the day alone.   

14  
His hand hath of my sins framed a yoke  
Which wreathed, and cast upon my neck, hath broke  
My strength. The Lord unto those enemies  
Hath given me, from whence I cannot rise.   

15  
He under foot hath trodden in my sight  
My strong men; He did company invite  
To break my young men, he the winepress hath  
Trod upon Judas daughter in his wrath.   

16  
For these things do I weep, mine eye, mine eye  
Casts water out; For he which should be nigh  
To comfort me, is now departed far,  
The foe prevails, forlorn my children are.   

17  
There's none, though Zion do stretch out her hand  
To comfort her, it is the Lords command  
That Jacob's foes girt him. jerusalem  
Is as an unclean woman amongst them.   

18  
But yet the Lord is just, and righteous still,  
I have rebelled against his holy will;  
O hear all people, and my sorrow see,  
My maids, my young men in captivity.   

19  
I called for my lovers then, but they  
Deceived me, and my Priests, and Elders lay  
Dead in the city; for they sought for meat  
Which should refresh their souls, they could not get.   

20  
Because I am in straits, jehova see  
My heart returned, my bowels muddy be,  
Because I have rebelled so much, as fast  
The sword without, as death within, doth waste.   

21  
Of all which hear I mourn, none comforts me,  
My foes have heard my grief, and glad they be,  
That thou hast done it; But thy promised day  
Will come, when, as I suffer, so shall they.   

22  
Let all their wickedness appear to thee,  
Do unto them, as thou hast done to me,  
For all my sins: The sighs which I have had  
Are very many, and my heart is sad.    

CHAP. II.  

1  
HOw over Zions' daughter hath God hung  
His wraths thick cloud? and from heaven hath flung,  
To earth the beauty of Israel, and hath  
Forgot his footstool in the day of wrath?   

2  
The Lord unsparingly hath swallowed  
All jacob's dwellings, and demolished  
To ground the strengths of juda, and profaned  
The Princes of the Kingdom, and the land.   

3  
In heat of wrath, the horn of Israel he  
Hath clean cut off, and lest the enemy  
Be hindered, his right hand he doth retire,  
But is towards jacob, Alldevouring fire.   

4  
Like to an enemy he bent his bow,  
His right hand was in posture of a foe,  
To kill what Zions daughter did desire,  
'Gainst whom his wrath, he poured forth, like fire.   

5  
For like an enemy jehova is,  
Devouring Israel, and his Palaces,  
Destroying holds, giving additions  
To Iudas daughters lamentations.   

6  
Like to a garden hedge he hath cast down  
The place where was his congregation,  
And Zions feasts and sabbaths are forgot;  
Her King, her Priest, his wrath regardeth not.   

7  
The Lord forsakes his Altar, and detests  
His Sanctuary, and in the foes hands rests  
Palace, and the walls, in which their cries  
Are heard, as in the true solemnities.   

8  
The Lord hath cast a line, so to confound  
And level Zions walls unto the ground,  
He draws not back his hand; which doth oreturne  
The wall, and Rampart, which together mourn.   

9  
Their gates are sunk into the ground, and he  
Hath broke the bar; their King and Princes be  
Amongst the heathen, without law, nor there  
Unto their Prophets doth the Lord appear.   

10  
There Zion's Elders on the ground are placed,  
And silence keep; Dust on their heads they cast,  
In sack cloth have they girt themselves, and low  
The Virgins towards ground, their heads do throw.   

11  
My bowels are grown muddy, and mine eyes  
Are faint with weeping: and my liver lies  
Poured out upon the ground, for misery  
That sucking children in the streets do die.   

12  
When they had cried unto their Mothers, where  
Shall we have bread, and drink? they fainted there  
And in the street like wounded persons lay  
Till 'twixt their mother's breasts they went away.   

13  
Daughter jerusalem, Oh what may be  
A witness, or comparison for thee?  
Zion, to case thee, what shall I name like thee?  
Thy breach is like the sea, what help can be?   

14  
For, the vain foolish things thy Prophets sought,  
Thee, thine iniquities they have not taught,  
Which might disturne thy bondage: but for thee  
False burdens, and false causes they would see.   

15  
The passengers do clap their hands, and hiss  
And wag their head at thee, and say, Is this  
That city, which so many men did call  
Joy of the earth, and perfectest of all?   

16  
Thy foes do gape upon thee, and they hisse,  
And gnash their teeth, and say, Devour we this,  
For this is certainly the day which we  
Expected, and which now we find, and see.   

17  
The Lord hath done that which he purposed,  
Fulfilled his word of old determined;  
He hath thrown down, and not spared, and thy foe  
Made glad above thee, and advanced him so.   

18  
But now, their hearts against the Lord do call,  
Therefore, O walls of Zion, let tears fall  
Down like a river, day and night; take thee  
No rest, but let thine eye incessant be.   

19  
Arise, cry in the night, pour, for thy sins,  
Thy heart, like water, when the watch begins;  
Lift up thy hands to God, lest children dye,  
Which, faint for hunger, in the streets do lie.   

20  
Behold O Lord, consider unto whom  
Thou hast done this; what, shall the women come  
To eat their children of a span? shall thy  
Prophet and Priest be slain in Sanctuary?   

21  
On ground in streets, the young and old do lie,  
My virgins and young men by sword do dye;  
Them in the day of thy wrath thou hast slain,  
Nothing did thee from killing them contain.   

22  
As to a solemn feast, all whom I feared  
Thou call'st about me; when his wrath appeared.  
None did remain or scape, for those which I  
Brought up, did perish by mine enemy.    

Chap. III.  

1 I Am the man which have affliction seen,  
Under the rod of God's wrath having been,  
2 He hath led me to darkness, not to light,  
3 And against me all day, his hand doth fight.   

4 He hath broke my bones, worn out my flesh and skin,  
5 Built up against me; and hath girt me in  
With hemlock, and with labour; 6. and set me  
In dark, as they who dead for ever be.   

7 He hath hedged me lest I scape, and added more  
To my steel fetters, heavier than before,  
When I cry out, he out shuts my prayer: 9 And hath  
Stopped with hewn stone my way, & turned my path.   

10 And like a Lion hid in secrecy,  
Or Bear which lies in wait, he was to me,  
11 He stops my way, tears me, made desolate,  
12 And he makes me the mark he shooteth at.   

13 He made the children of his quiver pass  
Into my reins, 14 I with my people was  
All the day long, a song and mockery.  
15 He hath filled me with bitterness, and he   

Hath made me drunk with wormwood. 16 He hath burst  
My teeth with stones, and covered me with dust;  
17 And thus my Soul far off from peace was set,  
And my prosperity I did forget.   

18 My strength, my hope (unto myself Isaid)  
Which from the Lord should come, is perished.  
19 But when my mournings I do think upon,  
My wormwood, hemlock, and affliction,   

20 My Soul is humbled in remembering this;  
21 My heart considers, therefore, hope there is,  
22 'Tis God's great mercy weare not utterly  
Consumed, for his compassions do not die;   

23 For every morning they renewed be,  
For great, O Lord, is thy fidelity.  
24 The Lord is, saith my Soul, my portion,  
And therefore in him will I hope alone.   

25 The Lord is good to them, who on him rely,  
And to the Soul that seeks him earnestly.  
26 It is both good to trust, and to attend  
(The Lord's salvation) unto the end:   

27'Tis good for one his yoke in youth to bear;  
28 He sits alone, and doth all speech forbear,  
Because he hath borne it. 29 And his mouth he lays  
Deep in the dust, yet then in hope he stays.   

30 He gives his cheeks to whosoever will  
Strike him, and so he is reproached still.  
31 For, not for ever doth the Lord forsake,  
32 But when he'hath struck with sadness, he doth take   

Compassion, as his mercy ' is infinite;  
33 Nor is it with his heart, that he doth smite,  
34 That underfoot the prisoners stamped be,  
35 That a man's right the Judge himself doth see   

To be wrong from him. 36 That he subverted is  
In his just cause; the Lord allows not this:  
37 Who then will say, that aught doth come to pass,  
But that which by the Lord commanded was?   

38 Both good and evil from his mouth proceeds;  
39 Why then grieves any man for his misdeeds?  
40 Turn we to God, by trying out our ways;  
41 To him in heaven, our hands with hearts upraise.   

42 We have rebelled, and fall'n away from thee,  
Thou pardon'st not. 43 Usest no clemency;  
Pursuest us, killest us, coverest us with wrath,  
44 Cover'st thyself with clouds, that our prayer hath   

No power to pass. 45 And thou hast made us fall  
As refuse, and offscouring to them all.  
46 All our foes gape at us. 47, Fear and a snare  
With ruin, and with waste, upon us are.   

48 With water rivers doth mine eye o'erflow  
For ruin of my people's daughters so;  
49 Mine eye doth drop down tears incessantly,  
50 Until the Lord look down from heaven to see.   

51 And for my city daughter's sake, mine eye  
Doth break mine heart. 52 Causeless mine enemy;  
Like a bird chased me. 53 In a dungeon  
They have shut my life, and cast me on a stone.   

54 Waters flowed o'er my head, than thought I, I am  
Destroyed; 55 I called Lord, upon thy name  
Out of the pit. 56 And thou my voice didst hear;  
Oh from my sigh, and cry, stop not thine ear.   

57 Then when I called upon thee, thou drewest ne'er  
Unto me, and saidst unto me, do not fear.  
58 Thou Lord my Souls cause handled haste, and thou  
Rescuest my life. 59 O Lord do thou judge now,   

Thou heardst my wrong. 60 Their vengeance all they have wrought;  
61 How they reproached, thou hast heard, and what they thought,  
62 What their lips uttered, which against me rose,  
And what was ever whispered by my foes.   

63 I am their song, whether they rise or sit,  
64 Give them rewards Lord, for their working fit,  
65 Sorrow of heart, thy curse. 66 And with thy might  
Follow, and from under heaven destroy them quite.    

CAP. IU.  

1 HOw is the gold become so dim? How is  
Purest and finest gold thus changed to this?  
The stones which were stones of the Sanctuary,  
Scattered in corners of each street do lie.   

2 The precious sons of Zion, which should be  
Valued at purest gold, how do we see  
Low rated now, as earthen Pitchers, stand,  
Which are the work of a poor Potter's hand.   

3 Even the Sea-calfes' draw their breasts, and give  
Suck to their young; my people's daughters live  
By reason of the foes great cruelness,  
As do the Owls in the vast Wilderness.   

4 And when the sucking child doth strive to draw,  
His tongue for thirst cleaves to his upper jaw.  
And when for bread the little children cry,  
There is no man that doth them satisfy.   

5 They which before were delicately fed,  
Now in the streets forlorn have perished,  
And they which ever were in scarlet clothed,  
Sat and embrace the dunghills which they loathed.   

6 The daughrers of my people have sinned more,  
Then did the town of Sodom sin before;  
Which being at once destroyed, there did remain  
No hands amongst them, to vex them again.   

7 But heretofore purer her Nazarite  
Was then the snow, and milk was not so white;  
As carbuncles did their pure bodies shine,  
And all their polish'dnesse was Seraphine.   

8 They are darker now then blackness, none can know  
Them by the face, as through the street they go,  
For now their skin doth cleave unto their bone,  
And withered, is like to dry wood grown.   

9 Better by sword then famine 'tis to dye;  
And better through pierced, then by penury,  
10 Women by nature pitiful, have eat  
Their children dressed with their own hand for meat.   

11 jehova here fully accomplished hath  
His indignation, and poured forth his wrath,  
Kindled a fire in Zion, which hath power  
To eat, and her foundations to devour.   

12 Nor would the Kings of the earth, nor all which live  
In the inhabitable world believe,  
That any adversary, any foe  
Into jerusalem should enter so;   

13 For the Priests sins, and Prophets, which have shed  
Blood in the streets, and the just murdered:  
14 Which when those men, whom they made blind, did stray  
Through the streets, defiled by the way   

With blood, the which impossible it was  
Their garments should scape touching, as they pass,  
15 Would cry aloud, depart defiled men,  
Depart, depart, and touch us not, and then   

They fled, and strayed, and with the Gentiles were,  
Yet told their friends, they should not long dwell; there.  
16 For this they are scattered by Jehovahs' face  
Who never will regard them more; No grace   

Unto their old men shall the foe afford,  
Nor, that they are Priests, redeem them from the sword.  
17 And we as yet, for all these miseries  
Desiring our vain help, consume our eyes:   

And such a nation as cannot save,  
We in desire and speculation have:  
18 They hunt our steps, that in the streets we fear  
To go: our end is now approached near,   

Our days accomplished are, this the last day,  
Eagles of heaven are not so swift as they  
19 Which follow us, o'er mountain tops they fly  
At us, and for us in the desert lie.   

20 The anointed Lord, breath of our nostrils, he  
Of whom we said, under his shadow, we  
Shall with more ease under the Heathen dwell,  
Into the pit which these men digged, fell   

21 Rejoice O Edom's daughter, joyful be  
Thou which inhabitst her, for unto thee  
This cup shall pass, and thou with drunkenness  
Shalt fill thyself, and show thy nakedness.   

22 And then they sins O Zion, shall be spent,  
The Lord will not leave thee in banishment.  
Thy sins O Edom's daughter, he will see,  
And for them, pay thee with captivity.    

CAP. V.  

1 REmember, O Lord, what is fallen on us  
See, and mark how we are reproached thus,  
2 For unto strangers our possession  
Is turned, our houses unto Aliens gone,   

3 Our mothers are become as widows, we  
As Orphans all, and without fathers be;  
4 Waters which are our own, we drunk, and pay,  
And upon our own wood a price they lay,   

5 Our persecutors on our necks do sit,  
They make us travail, and not intermit,  
6 We stretch our hands unto th' Egyptians  
To get us bread; and to the Assyrians.   

7 Our Fathers did these sins, and are no more,  
But we do bear the sins they did before.  
8 They are but servants, which do rule us thus,  
Yet from their hands none would deliver us.   

9 With danger of our life our bread we got;  
For in the wilderness, the sword did wait.  
10 The tempests of this famine we lived in,  
Black as an Ocean coloured had our kin:   

11 In judaes' cities they the maids abused  
By force, and so women in Zion used.  
12 The Princes with their hands they hung; no grace  
Nor honour gave they to the Elders face.   

13 Unto the mill our young men carried are,  
And children fell under the wood they bore.  
14 Elders, the gates; youth did their songs forbear,  
Gone was our joy; our dance, mournings were.   

15 Now is the crown fall'n from our head; and woe  
Be unto us, because we'have sinned so.  
16 For this our hearts do languish, and for this  
Over our eyes a cloudy dimness is.   

17 Because mount Zion desolate doth lie,  
And foxes there do go at liberty:  
18 But thou O Lord art ever, and thy throne  
From generation, to generation.   

19 Why shouldst thou forget us eternally?  
Or leave us thus long in this misery?  
20 Restore us Lord to thee, that so we may  
Return, and as of old, renew our day.   

21 For oughtest thou, O Lord, despise us thus  
22 And to be utterly enraged at us?     

SATYRS.  

Satire I.  
AWay thou fondling motley humorist,  
Leave me, and in this standing wooden chest,  
Consorted with these few books, let me lie  
In prison, and here be coffined, when I dye;  
Here are Gods conduits; grave Divines, and here  
Nature's Secretary, the Philosopher.  
And jolly Statesmen, which teach how to tie  
The sinews of a cities mystic body;  
Here gathering Chroniclers, and by them stand  
Giddy fantastic Poets of each land.  
Shall I leave all this constant company,  
And follow headlong, wild uncertain thee?  
First swear by thy best love in earnest  
(If thou which lov'st all, canst love any best)  
Thou wilt not leave me in the middle street,  
Though some more spruce companion thou dost meet,  
Not though a Captain do come in thy way  
Bright parcel gilt, with forty dead men's pay,  
Not though a brisk perfumed piert Courtier  
Deign with a nod, thy courtesy to answer.  
Nor come a velvet Justice with a long  
Great train of blue coats, twelve, or fourteen strong,  
Wilt thou grin or fawn on him, or prepare  
A speech to Court his beauteous son and heir?  
For better or worse take me, or leave me:  
To take, and leave me is adultery.  
Oh monstrous, superstitious puritan,  
Of refined manners, yet ceremonial man,  
That when thou meetest one, with enquiring eyes;  
Dost search, and like a needy broker prise  
The silk, and gold he wears, and to that rate  
So high or low, dost raise thy formal hate:  
That wilt consort none, until thou have known  
What lands he hath in hope, or of his own,  
As though all thy companions should make thee  
Jointures, and marry thy dear company.  
Why shouldst thou that dost not only approve,  
But in rank it chie lust, desire, and love  
The nakedness and barrenness to enjoy,  
of thy plump muddy whore, or prostitute boy  
Hate virtue, though she be naked, and bare,  
At birth, and death, our bodies naked are;  
And till our Souls be unapparrelled  
Of bodies, they from bliss are banished.  
Man's first blessed state was naked, when by sin  
He lost that, yet he was clothed but in beasts skin,  
And in this course attire, which I now wear  
With God, and with the Muses I confer.  
But since thou like a contrite penitent,  
Charitably warmed of thy sins, dost repent  
These vanities, and giddinesses, lo  
I shut my chamber door, and come, le's go,  
But sooner may a cheap whore, who hath been  
Worn by as many several men in sin,  
As are black feathers, or musk-colour hose,  
Name her child's right true father, 'mongst all those:  
Sooner may one guests, who shall bear away  
The infant of London, Heir to an India,  
And sooner may a gulling weather Spy  
By drawing forth heavens Scenes tell certainly  
What fashioned hats, or ruffs, or suits next year  
Our subtle wittied antique youths will wear;  
Then thou, when thou departest from me, can show  
Whither, why, when, or with whom thou wouldst go.  
But how shall I be pardoned my offence  
That thus have sinned against my conscience.  
Now we are in the street; He first of all  
Improvidently proud, creeps to the wall,  
And so imprisoned, and hemmed in by me  
Sells for a little state high liberty,  
Yet though he cannot skip forth now to greet  
Every fine silken painted fool we meet,  
He then to him with amorous smiles allures,  
And grins, smacks, shrugs, and such an itch endures,  
As prentices, or school boys which do know  
Of some gay sport abroad, yet dare not go.  
And as fiddlers stop lowest, at highest sound,  
So to the most brave, stooped he nigh'st the ground.  
But to a grave man, he doth move no more  
Than the wise politic horse would heretofore,  
Now leaps he upright, Joggs me, & cries, Do you see  
Yonder well favoured youth; Which? Oh, 'tis he  
That dances so divinely; Oh, said I,  
Stand still, must you dance here for company?  
He drooped, we went, till one (which did excel  
Th'Indians, in drinking his Tobacco well)  
Met us, they talked; I whispered, let us go,  
'T may be you smell him not, truly I do;  
He hears not me, but, on the other side  
A many-coloured Peacock having spied,  
Leaves him and me; I for my lost sheep stay;  
He follows, overtakes, goes on the way,  
Saying, him whom I last left, s'all repute  
For his device, in hansoming a suit,  
To judge of lace, pink, panes, print, cut, and plight,  
Of all the Court, to have the best conceit;  
Our dull Comedians want him, let him go;  
But Oh, God strengthen thee, why stoop'st thou so?  
Why, he hath travailed long? no, but to me  
Which understand none, he doth seem to be  
Perfect French, and Italian; I replied,  
So is the Pox; He answered not, but spied  
More men of sort, of parts, and qualities;  
At last his Love he in a window spies,  
And like light dew exhaled, he flings from me  
Violently ravished to his liberty;  
Many were there, he could command no more;  
He quarrelled, fought, bled; and turned out of door  
Directly came to me hanging the head,  
And constantly a while must keep his bed.   

Satire II.  
SIr; though (I thank God for it) I do hate  
Perfectly all this town, yet there's one state  
In all ill things so excellently best,  
That hate, toward them, breeds pity towards the rest;  
Though Poëtry indeed be such a sin  
As I think that brings dearth, and Spaniards in,  
Though like the Pestilence and old fashioned love,  
Ridlingly it catch men; and doth remove  
Never, till it be starved out; yet their state  
Is poor, disarmed, like Papists, not worth hate:  
One, (like a wretch, which at Bar judged as dead,  
Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot read,  
And saves his life) gives idiot actors means  
(Starving himself) to live by his laboured scenes.  
As in some Organ, Puppets dance above  
And bellows pant below, which them do move.  
One would move Love by rhythms; but witchchrafts charms  
Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms.  
Rams, and slings now are silly battery,  
Pistolets are the best Artillery.  
And they who write to Lords, rewards to get,  
Are they not like singers at doors for meat?  
And they who write, because all write, have still  
That excuse for writing, and for writing ill;  
But he is worst, who (beggarly) doth chaw  
Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw  
Rankly digested, doth those things outspue,  
As his own things; and they are his own, 'tis true,  
For if one eat my meat, though it be known  
The meat was mine, th'excrement is his own:  
But these do me no harm, nor they which use  
To outdo, and out-usure Jews;  
To outdrink the sea, to outswear the  
Who with sins of all kinds as familiar be  
As Confessors; and for whose sinful sake  
Schoolmen, new tenements in hell must make:  
Whose strange sins, Canonists could hardly tell  
In which Commandments large receipt they dwell.  
But these punish themselves; the insolence  
Of Coscus only breeds my just offence,  
Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches pox,  
And plodding on, must make a calf an ox)  
Hath made a Lawyer; which was alas of late  
But scarce a Poet, jollier of this state,  
Then are new beneficed ministers, he throws  
Like nets, or lime-twigs, wheresoever he goes,  
His title of Barrister, on every wench,  
And woos in language of the Pleas, and Bench:  
A motion, Lady, Speak Coscus; I have been  
In love, ever since tricesimo of the Queen,  
Continual claims I have made, injunctions got  
To stay my rivals suit, that he should not  
Proceed, spare me; In Hillary term I went,  
You said If I Return next size in Lent,  
I should be in remitter of your grace;  
In th'interim my letters should take place  
Of affidavits: words, words, which would tear  
The tender labyrinth of a soft maid's ear.  
More, more, than ten Sclavonians scolding, more  
Than when winds in our ruined Abbeys roar;  
When sick with poetry, and possessed with muse  
Thou wast, and mad, I hoped; but men which choose  
Law practise for mere gain; bold soul repute  
Worse than imbrotheled strumpet's prostitute.  
Now like an owlelike watchman, he must walk  
His hand still at a bill, now he must talk  
Idly, like prisoners, which whole months will swear  
That only suretyship hath brought them there,  
Like a wedge in a block, wring to the bar,  
Bearing like Asses, and more shameless far  
Then carted where's, lie, to the grave Judge; for  
As these things do in him; by these he thrives.  
Shortly (as the sea) he will compass all the land;  
Form Scots, to Wight; from Mount, to Dover strand,  
And spying heirs melting with luxury,  
Satan will not joy at their sins, as he.  
For as a thrifty wench scrapes kitchen-stuff,  
And barrelling the droppings, and the snuff,  
Of wasting candles, which in thirty year  
(Reliquely kept) perchance buys wedding gear;  
Piecemeal he gets lands, and spends as much time  
Wring each Acre, as men pulling prime.  
In parchment then, large as his fields, he draws  
Assurances, big, as glossed civil laws,  
So huge, that men (in our times forwardness)  
Are Fathers of the Church for writing less.  
These he writes not; nor for these written pays,  
Therefore spares no length; as in those first days  
When Luther was professed, he did desire  
Short Pater nosters, saying as a Friar  
Each day his beads, but having left those laws,  
Adds to Christ's prayer, the Power and glory clause,  
But when he sells or changes land, he'impaires  
His writings, and (unwatched) leaves out, ses heirs  
As slily as any Commenter goes by,  
Hard words, or sense; or in Divinity  
As controverters, in vouched Texts, leave out  
Shrewd words, which might against them clear the doubt:  
Where are those spread woods which clothed heretofore  
Those bought lands? not built, nor burnt within door.  
Where's th'old landlord's troops, & alms, great hals?  
Carthusian fasts, and fulsome Bachanalls  
Equally I hate, means bless; in rich men's homes  
I bid kill some beasts, but no Hecatombs,  
None starve, none surfeit so; But (Oh) we allow,  
Good works as good, but out of fashion now,  
Like old rich wardrobes; but my words none draws  
Within the vast reach of th'huge statute laws.   

Satire III.  
Kind pity chokes my spleen; brave scorn forbids  
Those tears to issue which swell my eyelids,  
I must not laugh, nor weep sins, and be wise,  
Can railing then cure these worn maladies?  
Is not our Mistress fair Religion,  
As worthy of all our Souls devotion,  
As virtue was in the first blinded age?  
Are not heavens joys as valiant to assuage  
Lusts, as earth's honour was to them? Alas,  
As we do them in means, shall they surpass  
Us in the end, and shall thy father's spirit  
Meet blind Philosophers in heaven, whose merit  
Of strict life may be imputed faith, and hear  
Thee, whom he taught so easy ways and near  
To follow, damned? O if thou dar'st, fear this.  
This fear great courage, and high valour is;  
Dar'st thou aid mutinous-Dutch, and dar'st thou lay  
Thee in ships wooden Sepulchers, a prey  
To leaders rage, to storms, to shot, to dearth?  
Dar'st thou dive seas, and dungeons of the earth?  
Hast thou courageous fire to thaw the ice  
Of frozen North discoveries, and thrice  
Colder than Salamanders? like divine  
Children in th'oven, fires of Spain, and the line;  
Whose countries limbecks to our bodies be,  
Canst thou for gain bear? and must every he  
Which cries not, Goddess, to thy Mistress, draw,  
Or eat thy poisonous words, courage of straw!  
O desperate coward, wilt thou seem bold, and  
To thy foes and his (who made thee to stand  
Sentinel in his world's garrison) thus yield,  
And for forbidden wars, leave th'appointed field?  
Know thy foe, the foul devil he's, whom thou  
Strivest to please: for hate, not love, would allow  
Thee fain, his whole Realm to be quit; and as  
The worlds all parts whither away and pass,  
So the world's self, thy other loved foe, is  
In her decrepit wain, and thou loving this,  
Dost love a withered and worn strumpet; last,  
Flesh (it self death) and joys which flesh can taste,  
Thou lovest; and thy fair goodly soul, which doth  
Give this flesh power to taste joy, thou dost loath;  
Seek true religion. O where? Mirreus  
Thinking her unhoused her, and fled from us,  
Seeks her at Rome, there, because he doth know  
That she was there a thousand years ago,  
He loves the rags so, as we here obey  
The statecloth where the Prince sat yesterday.  
Crants to such brave Loves will not be enthralled,  
But loves her only, who at Geneva is called  
Religion, plain, simple, sullen, young,  
Contemptuous, yet unhandsome. As among  
Lecherous humours, there is one that judges  
No wenches wholesome, but course country drudges:  
Graius stays still at home here, and because  
Some Preachers, vile ambitious bawds, and laws  
Still new like fashions, bids him think that she  
Which dwells with us, is only perfect, he  
Embraceth her, whom his Godfathers will  
Tender to him, being tender, as Wards still  
Take such wives as their Guardians offer, or  
Pay values. Careless Phrygius doth abhor  
All, because all cannot be good, as one  
Knowing some women whores, dares marry none.  
Graccus loves all as one, and thinks that so  
As women do in diverse countries go  
In diverse habits, yet are still one kind;  
So doth, so is Religion; and this blindness too much light breeds; but unmoved thou  
Of force must one, and forced but one allow;  
And the right; ask thy father which is she,  
Let him ask his; though truth and falsehood be  
Near twins, yet truth a little elder is;  
Be busy to seek her, believe me this,  
he's not of none, nor worst, that seeks the best.  
To adore, or scorn an image, or protest,  
May all be bad; doubt wisely, in strange way  
To stand enquiring right, is not to stray;  
To sleep, or run wrong, is: on a huge hill,  
Cragged, and steep, Truth stands, and he that will  
Reach her, about must, and about must go;  
And what the hills suddenness resists, win so;  
Yet strive so, that before age, death's twilight,  
Thy Soul rest, for none can work in that night,  
To will, implies delay, therefore now do  
Hard deeds, the body's pains; hard knowledge to  
The minds endeavours reach, and mysteries  
Are like the Sun, dazzling, yet plain to all eyes;  
Keep the truth which thou hast found; men do not stand  
In so ill case, that God hath with his hand  
Signed Kings blanck-charters to kill whom they hate,  
Nor are they Vicars, but hangmen to Fate.  
Fool and wretch, wilt thou let thy Soul be tied  
To man's laws, by which she shall not be tried  
At the last day? Will it then boot thee  
To say a Philip, or a Gregory,  
A Harry, or a Martin taught thee this?  
Is not this excuse for mere contraries,  
Equally strong cannot both sides say so?  
That thou mayest rightly obey power, her bounds know;  
Those past, her nature, & name is changed to be,  
Then humble to her is idolatry;  
As streams are, Power is, those blessed flowers that dwell  
At the rough streams calm head, thrive and do well,  
But having left their roots, and themselves given  
To the streams tyrannous rage, alas are driven  
Through mills, & rocks, & woods, and at last, almost  
Consumed in going, in the sea are lost:  
So perish Souls, which more choose men's unjust  
Power from God claimed, than God himself to trust.   

Satire FOUR  
WEll; I may now receive, and die; My sin  
Indeed is great, but I have been in  
A Purgatory, such as feared hell is  
A recreation, and scant map of this.  
My mind, neither with pride's itch, nor yet hath been  
Poisoned with love to see, or to be seen,  
I had no suit there, nor new suit to show,  
Yet went to Court; But as Glaze which did go  
To Mass in jest, catched, was fain to disburse  
The hundred marks, which is the Statutes curse;  
Before he scaped, So'it pleased my destiny  
(Guilty of my sin of going,) to think me  
As prone to all ill, and of good as forgetful, as proud, as lustful, and as much in debt,  
As vain, as witless, and as false as they  
Which dwell in Court, for once going that way.  
Therefore I suffered this; Towards me did run  
A thing more strange, then on Nile's slime, the Sun  
E'er bred, or all which into Noah's Ark came:  
A thing, which would have posed Adam to name,  
Stranger than seven Antiquaries studies,  
Than Africks' Monsters, Guianaes' rarities,  
Stranger than strangers; One, who for a Dane,  
In the Danes Massacre had sure been slain,  
If he had lived then; And without help dies,  
When next the Prentises'gainst Strangers rise.  
One, whom the watch at noon lets scarce go by,  
One, to whom, the examining Justice sure would cry,  
Sir, by your priesthood tell me what you are.  
His clothes were strange, though coarse; & black, though bare;  
Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been  
Velvet, but 'twas now (so much ground was seen)  
Become Tufftaffatie; and our children shall  
See it plain Rash awhile, then nought at all.  
This thing hath travailed, and saith, speaks all tongues  
And only knoweth what to all States belongs,  
Made of th' Accents, and best phrase of all these,  
He speaks one language; If strange meats displease,  
Art can deceive, or hunger force my taste,  
But Pedants motley tongue, soldier's bombast,  
Mountebanks drugtongue, nor the terms of law  
Are strong enough preparatives, to draw  
Me to bear this, yet I must be content  
With his tongue: in his tongue, called compliment:  
In which he can win widows, and pay scores,  
Make men speak treason, cousin subtlest whores,  
Out-flatter favourites, or out lie either  
Jovius, or Surius, or both together.  
He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, God  
How have I sinned, that thy wraths furious rod,  
This fellow chooseth me? He saith, Sir,  
I love your judgement; Whom do you prefer,  
For the best linguist? And I seelily  
Said, that I thought Calepines Dictionary;  
Nay, but of men, most sweet Sir. Beza then,  
Some Jesuits, and two reverend men  
Of our two Academies, I named; There  
He stopped me, and said; Nay, your Apostles were  
Good pretty linguists, and so Panirge was;  
Yet a poor gentleman; All these may pass  
By travail. Then, as if he would have sold  
His tongue, he praised it, and such words told  
That I was fain to say, If you'had lived, Sir,  
Time enough to have been Interpreter  
To Babells' brick layers, sure the Tower had stood.  
He adds, If of court life you knew the good,  
You would leave loneliness; I said, not alone  
My loneliness is, but Spartans fashion,  
To teach by painting drunkards, doth not last  
Now; Aretine's pictures have made few chaste;  
No more can Princes courts, though there be few  
Better pictures of vice, teach me virtue;  
He, like to a high stretched lute string squeaked, O Sir,  
'Tis sweet to talk of Kings. At Westminster,  
Said I, The man that keeps the Abbey tombs,  
And for his price doth with who ever comes,  
Of all our Harry's, and our Edward's talk,  
From King to King and all their kin can walk:  
Your ears shall hear nought, but Kings; your eyes meet  
Kings only; The way to it, is Kingstreet.  
He smacked, and cried, He's base, Mechanic, coarse,  
So are all your Englishmen in their discourse.  
Are not your Frenchmen neat? Fine, as you see,  
I have but one frenchman, look, he follows me.  
Certes they are neatly clothed. ay, of this mind am,  
Your only wearing is your Grogaram;  
Not so Sir, I have more. Under this pitch  
He would not fly; I chaffed him; But as Itch  
Scratched into smart, and as blunt iron growned  
Into an edge, hurts worse: So, I fool found,  
Crossing hurt me; To fit my sullenness,  
He to another key, his style doth address.  
And asks, what news? I tell him of new plays.  
He takes my hand, and as a Still, which stays  
A Sembriefe, 'twixt each drop, he niggardly,  
As loath to enrich me, so tells many a lie,  
More than ten Hollensheads, or Halls, or Stows,  
Of trivial household trash; He knows; He knows  
When the Queen frowned, or smiled, and he knows  
A subtle Statesman may gather of that;  
He knows who loves; whom; and who by poison what  
Hasts to an Offices reversion;  
He knows who'hath sold his land, and now doth beg  
A licence, old iron, boots, shoes, and egg-  
shells to transport; Shortly boys shall not play  
At span-counter, or blowpoint, but shall pay  
Toll to some Courtier; And wiser than all us,  
He knows what Lady is not painted; Thus  
He with home-meats tries me; I belch, spew, spit,  
Look pale, and sickly, like a Patient; Yet  
He thrusts on more; And as if he'undertooke  
To say Gallo-Belgicus without book  
Speaks of all States, and deeds, that hath been since  
The Spaniards came, to the loss of Amiens.  
Like a big wife, at sight of loathed meat,  
Ready to travail: So I sigh, and sweat  
To hear this Makeron talk in vain: For yet,  
Either my humour, or his own to fit,  
He like a privileged spy, whom nothing can  
Discredit, Libels now 'gainst each great man.  
He names a price for every office paid;  
He saith, our wars thrive ill, because delayed;  
That offices are entailed, and that there are  
Perpetuities of them, lasting as far  
As the last day; And that great officers,  
Do with the Pirates share, and Dunkirkers.  
Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes;  
Who loves Whores, who boys, and who goats.  
I more amazed then Circe's prisoners, when  
They felt themselves turn beasts, felt myself then  
Becoming Traitor, and me thought I saw  
One of our Giant Statutes open his jaw  
To suck me in, for hearing him. I found  
Therefore I did show  
All signs of loathing; But since I am in,  
I must pay mine, and my forefather's sin  
To the last farthing; Therefore to my power  
Toughly and stubbornly I bear this cross; But the ' hour  
Of mercy now was come; He tries to bring  
Me to pay a fine to scape his torturing,  
And says, Sir, can you spare me; I said, willingly;  
Nay, Sir, can you spare me a crown? Thankfully I  
Gave it, as Ransom; But as fiddlers, still,  
Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs will  
Thrust one more jig upon you: so did he  
With his long complemental thanks vex me.  
But he is gone, thanks to his needy want,  
And the prerogative of my Crown: Scant  
His thanks were ended, when I, (which did see  
All the court filled with more strange things than he)  
Ran from thence with such or more haste, than one  
Who fears more actions, doth haste from prison;  
At home in wholesome solitariness  
My precious soul began, the wretchedness  
Of suitors at court to mourn, and a trance  
Like his, who dreamt he saw hell, did advance  
Itself on me, Such men as he saw there,  
I saw at court, and worse, and more; Low fear  
Becomes the guilty, not the accuser; Then,  
Shall I, nonce slave, of high borne, or raised men  
Fear frowns? And, my Mistress Truth, betray thee  
To huffing, braggart, puffed Nobility.  
No, no, Thou which since yesterday hast been  
Almost about the whole world, hast thou seen,  
O Sun, in all thy journey, Vanity,  
Such as swells the bladder of our court? I  
Think he which made your waxen garden, and  
Transported it from Italy to stand  
With us, at London, flouts our Presence, for  
Just such gay painted things, which no sap, nor  
Taste have in them, ours are, And natural  
Some of the stocks are, their fruits, bastard all.  
'Tis ten a clock and past; All whom the Mues,  
Baloune, Tennis, Diet, or the stews,  
Had all the morning held, now the second  
Time made ready, that day, in flocks, are found  
In the Presence, and I, (God pardon me.)  
As fresh, and sweet their Apparels be, as be  
The fields they sold to buy them; For a King  
Those hose are, cry the flatterers; And bring  
Them next week to the Theatre to sell;  
Wants reach all states; Me seems they do as well  
At stage, as court; All are players, who e'er looks  
(For themselves dare not go) o'er Cheapside books,  
Shall find their wardrobes Inventory; Now,  
The Ladies come; As Pirates, which do know  
That there came weak ships fraught with Cutchannel,  
The men board them; and praise, as they think, well,  
Their beauties; they the men's wits; Both are bought.  
Why good wits ne'er wear scarlet gowns, I thought  
This cause, These men, men's wits for speeches buy,  
And women buy all reds which scarlets die.  
He called her beauty limetwigs, her hair net.  
She fears her drugs ill laid, her hair lose set;  
Would not Heraclitus laughto see Macrine,  
From hat, to shoe, himself at door refine,  
As if the Presence were a Moschite, and lift  
His skirts and hose, and call his clothes to shrift,  
Making them confess not only mortal  
Great stains and holes in them; but venial  
Feathers and dust, wherewith they fornicate.  
And then by Durer's rules survey the state  
Of his each limb, and with strings the odds tries  
Of his neck to his leg, and waste to thighs.  
So in immaculate clothes, and Symmetry  
Perfect as circles, with such nicety  
As a young Preacher at his first time goes  
To preach, he enters, and a Lady which owes  
Him not so much as good will, he arrests,  
And unto her protests protests protests  
So much as at Rome would serve to have thrown  
Ten Cardinals into the Inquisition;  
And whispered by Jesus, so often, that A  
Pursuivant would have ravished him away  
For saying of our Lady's psalter; But 'tis fit  
That they each other plague, they merit it.  
But here comes Glorius that will plague them both,  
Who, in the other extreme, only doth  
Call a rough carelessness, good fashion;  
Whose cloak his spurs tear; whom he spits on  
He cares not, His ill words do no harm  
To him; he rusheth in, as if arm, arm,  
He meant to cry; And though his face be as ill  
As theirs which in old hangings whip Christ, yet still  
He strives to look worse, he keeps all in awe;  
Jests like a licenced fool, commands like law.  
Tired, now I leave this place, and but pleased so  
As men from gaoles' to'execution go,  
Go through the great chamber (why is it hung  
With the seven deadly sins) being among  
Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw  
Charing Cross for a bar, men that do know  
No token of worth, but Queen's man, and fine  
Living barrels of beef, flagons of wine.  
I shook like a spied Sple; Preachers which are  
Seas of Wits and Arts, you can, then dare,  
Drown the sins of this place, for, for me  
Which am but a scarce brook, it enough shall be  
To wash the stains away; though I yet  
With Macchabees modesty, the known merit  
Of my work lessen: yet some wise man shall,  
I hope, esteem my writs Canonical.   

Satire V.  
THou shalt not laugh in this leaf, Muse, nor they  
Whom any pity warms; He which did lay  
Rules to make Courtiers, (he being understood  
May make good Courtiers, but who Courtiers good?)  
Frees from the sting of jests all who in extreme  
Are wretched or wicked: of these two a theme  
Charity and liberty give me. What is he  
Who Officers rage, and Suitors misery  
Can write, and jest? If all things be in all,  
As I think, since all, which were, are, and shall  
Be, be made of the same elements:  
Each thing, each thing employs or represents,  
Then man is a world; in which, Officers,  
Are the vast ravishing seas; and Suitors,  
Springs; now full, now shallow, now dry; which, to  
That which drowns them, run: These self reasons do  
Prove the world a man, in which, officers  
Are the devouring stomach, and Suitors  
The excrements, which they void; all men are dust,  
How much worse are Suitors, who to men's lust  
Are made preys. O worse than dust, or worm's meat,  
For they do eat you now, whose selves worms shall eat.  
They are the mills which grind you, yet you are  
The wind which drives them; and a wasteful war  
Is fought against you, and you fight it; they  
Adulterate law, and you prepare their way  
Like wittols, th'issue your own ruin is;  
Greatest and fairest Empress, know you this?  
Alas, no more than Thames calm head doth know  
Whose meads her arms drown, or whose corn overflow:  
You Sir, whose righteousness she loves, whom I  
By having leave to serve, am most richly  
For service paid, authorized, now begin  
To know and weed out this enormous sin.  
O Age of rusty iron! Some better wit  
Call it some worse name, if ought equal it;  
The iron Age that was, when justice was sold, now  
Injustice is sold dearer far; allow  
All demands, fees, and duties; gamesters, anon  
The money which you sweat, and swear for, is gone  
Into other hands: So controverted lands  
Escape, like Angelica, the strivers hands.  
If Law be in the Judge's heart, and he  
Have no heart to resist letter, or fee,  
Where wilt thou appeal? powre of the Courts below  
Flow from the first main head, and these can throw  
Thee, if they suck thee in, to misery,  
To fetters, halters; But if the injury  
Steel thee to dare complain; Alas, thou goest  
Against the stream, when upwards: when thou art most  
Heavy and most faint; and in these labours they,  
'Gainst whom thou shouldst complain, will in the way  
Become great seas, o'er which, when thou shalt be  
Forced to make golden bridges, thou shalt see  
That all thy gold was drowned in them before;  
All things follow their like, only, who have, may have more  
Judges are Gods; he who made and said them so,  
Meant not that men should be forced to them to go,  
By means of Angels; When supplications  
We send to God, to Dominations,  
Powers, Cherubins, and all heaven's Court, if we  
Should pay fees as here, Daily bread would be  
Scarce to Kings; so 'tis, would it not anger  
A Stoic, a coward, yea a Martyr,  
To see a Pursuivant come in, and call  
All his clothes, Copes; Books, Primers; and all  
His Plate, Chalices; and mistake them away,  
And lack a fee for coming; Oh, ne'er may  
Fair laws white reverend name be strumpeted,  
To warrant thefts: she is established  
Recorder to Destiny, on earth, and she  
Speaks Fates words, and tells who must be  
Rich, who poor, who in chairs, who in jails:  
She is all fair, but yet hath foul long nails,  
With which she scracheth Suitors; In bodies  
Of men; so in law, nails are extremities,  
So Officers stretch to more than Law can do,  
As our nails reach what no else part comes to.  
Why barest thou to you Officer? Fool, Hath he  
Got those goods, for which men bared to thee?  
Fool, twice, thrice, thou hast bought wrong, and now hungerly  
Beg'st right; But that dole comes not till these die.  
Thou hadst much, & laws Urim and Thummim try  
Thou wouldst for more; and for all hast paper  
Enough to clothe all the great Carricks Pepper.  
Sell that, and by that thou much more shalt lose,  
Then Haman, when he sold his Antiquities.  
O wretch that thy fortunes should moralise  
Esop's fables, and make tales, prophecies.  
Thou art the swimming dog whom shadows cozened,  
And div'st, near drowning, for what vanished.    

A Hymn to God the Father:  

I.  
WIlt thou forgive that sin where I begun,  
which was my sin, though it were done before?  
Wilt thou forgive that sin; through which I run,  
And do run still: though still I do deplore?  
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,  
For, I have more.   

II.  
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won  
Others to sin? and, made my sin their door?  
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun  
A year, or two: but wallowed in, a score?  
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,  
For I have more.   

III.  
I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun  
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;  
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy son  
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;  
And, having done that, Thou haste done,  
I fear no more.    

Letters.  

HEN. GOODEERE.  
ETiam vulgari linguâ scriptae testantur literae nos amicorum meminisse, sed alienâ, nos de illis meditari. In illis enim affulgent nobis de amicis cogitatiunculae, sed ut matutinae stellae transeunt, & evanescunt: In his auten haeremus, & immoramur, & amicos uti solem ipsum permanentem nobiscum degentemque contemplamur; Habes cur Latinè. Ipsius etiam scribendi audi rationem. Peto consilium, in quo simul amicitiam profiteor meam, tuâmque agnosco: Etenim non libenter nosmetipsos exuimus, aut in ingenij prudentiaeve dotibus aliorum nos fatemur indigos. Nec certè quicquam quisquam (sit modò ingenuus) ei denegabit à quo consilium petiit. Quod enim divina sapientia extremum charitatis terminum posuerat, animam ponere, idem regularum Ecclesiae tractatores (quod ipsimet Canonici crassam aequitatem vocant) de fama & honore cedendo asserunt & usurpant. Certè, non tam beneficiis obnoxii quam consiliis reddimur. Sed ad rem. Philosophentur otiosiores, aut quibus otia sua negotia appellare lubet: Nobis enim nos dudum perspicui sumus & fenestrati. Elucescit mihi nova, nec inopportuna, nec inutilis (paulò quam optaram fortassis magis inhonora) occasio extera visendi regna, liberosque perquam amantissimae conjugis charissima pignora, caeteraque hujus aurae oblectamenta, aliquot ad annos relinquendi. De hoc ut tecum agerem te convenire cupio: Quod (etsi nec id recusem) nollem in aedibus Barlotianis. Habeo cur abstineam. Amicitiae enim nec veteris, nec ita strictae munera paulò quam deceat imprudentiori impetu mihi videor ibi peregisse. Prandere si vacat foras, aut caenare, horulamve perdere pomeridianam, aut matutinam liceat mihi illud apud Rabbinum Lincombum jam commoranti per te intelligere, & satis mihi fiet. Interim seponas ero chartulas meas, quas cum sponsione citae redhibitionis (ut barbarè, sed cum ingeniosissimo Appollinari loquar) accepisti. Inter quas, si epigrammata mea Latina, & Catalogus librorum satyricus non sunt, non sunt; extremum iuditium, hoc est, manum ultimam jamjam subiturae sunt. Earum nonnullae Purgatorium suum passurae, ut correctiores emanent. Alia quorum me inscio in mundum erepserunt, exempla tamen in archetypis igne absumpta fatebuntur se à me ad Inferos damnata esse. Reliquae quae aut virgines sunt (nisi quod à multis contrectatae) aut ita infoeliciter steriles, ut ab illis nulla ingenita sunt exemplaria, penitus in annihilationem (quod flagitiosissimis non minatur Deus) corruent & dilabentur. Vale & amore meo fruere quem vetat fortuna sola ne uti possis. Et nisi animo candido ingenuave mea libertate gaudere malis, habe tibi mancipium  
JO. DONNE.   

To Sir. H. G.  
I Send not my Letters as tribute, nor interest, nor recompense, nor for commerce, nor as testimonials of my love, nor provokers of yours, nor to justify my custom of writing, nor for a vent and utterance of my meditations; For my letters are either above or under all such offices, yet I write very affectionately, and Lehide and accuse myself of diminishing that affection which sends them, when I ask myself why. Only I am sure that I desire that you might have in your hands letters of mine of all kinds, as conveyances and deliverers of me to you, whether you accept me as a friend, or as a patient, or as a penitent, or as a Beadsman, for I decline no jurisdiction, nor refuse any tenure. I would not open any door upon you, but look in when you open it. Angels have not, nor affect not other knowledge of one another then they list to reveal to one another. It is then in this only, that friends are Angels, that they are capable and fit for such revelations when they are offered. If at any time I seem to study you more inquisitively, it is for no other end but to know how to present you to God in my prayers, and what to ask of him for you; For even that holy exercise may not be done inopportunely, no nor importunely. I find little error in that Grecians counsel who says, If thou ask any thing of God, offer no sacrifice, nor ask elegantly, nor vehemently, but remember that thou wouldst not give to such an asker. Nor in his other countryman, who affirms sacrifice of blood to be so unproportionable to God, that perfumes, though much more spiritual, are too gross; Yea words which are our subtlest and delicatest outward creatures, being composed of thoughts and breath, are so muddy, so thick, that our thoughts themselves are so, because (except at the first rising) they are ever leavened with passions and affections. And, that advantage of nearer familiarity with God, which the Act of incarnation gave us, is grounded upon Gods assuming us, not our going to him. And, our accesses to his presence are but his descents into us. And, when we get any thing by prayer, he gave us before hand the thing and the petition: for, I scarce think any ineffectual prayer free from both sin and the punishment of sin: Yet as God seposed a seventh of our time for his exterior worship, and as his Christian Church early presented him a Type of the whole year in a Lent, and after imposed the obligation of canonique hours, constituting thereby moral Sabbaths every day, I am far from dehorting those fixed devotions: But I had rather it were bestowed upon thanksgiving then petition, upon praise then prayer. Not that God is endeared by that, or wearied by this; All is one in the receiver, but not in the sender. And thanks doth both offices. For, nothing doth so innocently provoke new graces, as gratitude. I would also rather make short prayers than extend them, though God can neither be surprised, nor besieged: For, long prayers have more of the man, as ambition of eloquence, and a complacency in the work, and more of the devil by often distractions: For, after in the beginning we have well entreated God to hearken, we speak no more to him. Even this letter is some example of such infirmity; which being intended for a letter is extended and strayed into a Homily. And whatsoever is not what it was purposed, is worse. Therefore it shall at last end like a letter by assuring you I am etc.   

To Sir H. G.  
SIR,  
NAture hath made all bodies like, by mingling and kneading up the same elements in every one. And amongst men, the other nature, custom, hath made every mind like some other. We are patterns or copies, we inform, or imitate. But as he hath not presently attained to write a good hand, which hath equaled one excellent master in his A, another in his B, much less he which hath sought all the excellent masters, and employed all his time to exceed in one letter, because not so much an excellency of any nor every one, as an evenness and proportion, and respect to one another gives the perfection; So is no man virtuous by particular example. Not he which doth all actions to the pattern of the most valiant, or liberal, which Histories afford: Nor he which chooses from every one their best actions, and thereupon doth something like those. Perchance such may be in via perficiendorum, which Divines allow to Monastical life, but not Perfectorum, which, by them, is only due to prelacy; For virtue is even, and continual, and the same, and can therefore break no where, nor admit ends, nor beginnings; It is not only not broken, but not tied together. He is not virtuous, out of whose actions you can pick an excellent one. Vice and her fruits may be seen, because they are thick bodies, but not virtue, which is all light. And vices have swellings and fits, and noise, because being extremes, they dwell far asunder, and they maintain both a foreign war against virtue, and a civil against one another, and affect sovereignty, as virtue doth society. The later Physicians say, that when our natural inborn preservative is corrupted or wasted, and must be restored by alike extracted from other bodies, the chief care is, that the mummy have in it no excelling quality, but an equally digested temper: And such is true virtue. But men who have preferred money before all, think they deal honourably with virtue, if they compare her with money: And think, that as money is not called base, till the allay exceed the pure; So they are virtuous enough, if they have enough to make their actions currant, which is, if either they get praise, or (in a lower abasing) if they incur not infamy or penalty. But you know who said Angusta innocentia est ad legem bonum esse, which rule being given for positive laws, severe mistakers apply even to God's law, and (perchance against his commandment) bind themselves to his counsels, beyond his laws. But they are worse, that think that because some men formerly wasteful, live better with half their rents than they did with all, being now advantaged with discretion and experience, therefore our times need less moral virtue than the first, because we have Christianity, which is the use and application of all virtue. As though our religion were but an art of thrift, to make a little virtue go far. For as plentiful springs are fittest, and best become large Aqueducts, so doth much virtue such a steward and officer as a Christian. But I must not give you a Homily for a letter. I said a great while since, that custom made men like; We who have been accustomed to one another are like in this, that we love not business. This therefore shall not be to you nor me a busy letter. I end with a problem, whose errand is, to ask for his fellows. I pray before you ingulfe yourself in the Progress, leave them for me, and such other of my papers as you will lend me till your return. And besides this allegorical lending, lend me truly your counsels. And love God and me, whilst I love him and you.   

To Sir H. G.  
SIR,  
THis Teusday morning, which hath brought me to London, presents me with all your letters. Me thought it was a rend day, I mean such as yours, and not as mine. And yet such too, when I considered how much I ought you for them. How good a mother, how fertile and abundant the understanding is, if she have a good father. And how well friendship performs that office. For that which is denied in other generations is done in this of yours. For hers is superfaetation, child upon child, and, that which is more strange, twins at a latter conception. If in my second religion, friendship, I had a conscience, either Errantem to mistake good and bad, and indifferent, or Opinantem to be ravished by others opinions or examples, or Dubiam to adhere to neither part, or Scrupulosam to incline to one, but upon reason's light in themselves or indiscussed in me (which are almost all the diseases of conscience) I might mistake your often, long, and busy letters, and fear you did but entreat me to have mercy upon you and spare you. For you know our court took the resolution, that it was the best way to dispatch the French Prince back again quickly, to receive him solemnly, ceremoniously; and expensively, when he hoped a domestic and durable entertainment. I never meant to excel you in weight nor price, but in number and bulk I thought I might: Because he may cast up a greater sum who hath but forty small monies, than he with twenty Portuguesses. The memory of friends, (I mean only for letters) neither enters ordinarily into busied men, because they are ever employed within, nor into men of pleasure, because they are never at home. For these wishes therefore which you won out of your pleasure and recreation, you were as excusable to me if you writ seldom as Sir H. Wotton is under the oppression of business or the necessity of seeming so: Or more than he, because I hope you have both pleasure and business. Only to me, who have neither, this omission were sin. For though writing be not of the precepts of friendship, but of the counsels: yet, as in some cases to some men counsels become precepts, though not immediately from God, yet very roundly and quickly from his Church, (as selling and dividing goods in the first time, continence in the Roman Church, and order and decency in ours) so to me who can do nothing else, it seems to bind my conscience to write. And it is sin to do against the conscience, though that err; Yet no man's letters might be better wanted than mine, since my whole letter is nothing else but a confession that I should and would write. I ought you a letter in verse before by mine own promise, & now that you think you have hedged in that debt by a greater by your letter in verse I think it now most seasonable and fashionall for me to break. At least, to write presently were to accuse myself of not having read yours so often as such a letter deserves from you to me. To make my debt greater (for such is the desire of all, who cannot or mean not to pay) I pray read these two problems: for such light flashes as these have been my hawkings in my Surry journeys. I accompany them with another rag of verses, worthy of that name for the smallness, and age, for it hath long lain among my other papers, and laughs at them that have adventured to you: for I think till now you saw it not, and neither you, nor it should repent it. Sir, if I were any thing, my love to you might multiply it, and dignify it: But infinite nothings are but one such: Yet since even Chimeras have some name, and titles, I am also  
Yours.   

To Sr. H. G.  
SIR,  
IN the history or style of friendship, which is best written both in deeds and words, a letter which is of a mixed nature, and hath something of both is a mixed parenthesis: It may be left out, yet it contributes, though not to the being, yet to the verdure, and freshness thereof. Letters have truly the same office, as oaths. As these amongst light and empty men, are but fillings, and pauses, and interjections: but with weightier, they are sad attestations: So are letters, to some compliment, and obligation to others. For mine, as I never authorised my servant to lie in my behalf (for if it were officious in him, it might be worse in me) so I allow my letters much less that civil dishonesty, both because they go from me more considerately, and because they are permanent, for in them I may speak to you in your chamber a year hence before I know not whom, and not hear myself. They shall therefore ever keep the sincerity and intemeratenesse of the fountain whence they are derived. And as wheresoever these leaves fall, the root is in my heart, so shall they, as that sucks good affections towards you there, have ever true impressions thereof. Thus much information is in very leaves, that they can tell what the tree is, and these can tell you I am a friend and an honest man. Of what general use, the fruit should speak, and I have none: and of what particular profit to you, your application and experimenting should tell you, and you can make none of such a nothing; Yet even of barren Sicamores, such as I, there were use, if either any light flashings, or scorching vehemencies, or sudden showers made you need so shadowy an example or Remembrancer. But (Sir) your fortune and mind do you this happy injury, that they make all kind of fruits useless unto you; Therefore I have placed my love wisely where I need communicate nothing.  
All this, though perchance you read it not till Michaelmas, was told you at Michin. 15. Aug. 1607.   

To Sr H. G.  
SIR,  
IT should be no interruption to your pleasures to hear me often say that I love you, and that you are as much my meditation as myself: I often compare not you and me, but the Sphere in which your resolutions are, and my wheel; both I hope concentrique to God: for me thinks the new Astronomy is thus appliable well, that we which are a little earth should rather move towards God, then that he which is fulfilling, and can come no whither, should move towards us. To your life full of variety, nothing is old, nor new to mine. And as to that life, all stickings and hesitations seem stupid and stony, so to this, all fluid slipperinesses and transitory migrations seem giddy and feathery. In that life one is ever in the porch or postern, going in or out, never within his house, himself: It is a garment made of remnants, a life raveld out into ends, a line discontinued, & a number of small wretched points; useless, because they concur not: A life built of past & future, not proposing any constant present. They have more pleasures than we, but not more pleasure: they joy oftener, we longer; and no man but of so much understanding as may deliver him from being a fool, would change with a madman, which had a better proportion of wit in his often Lucidis. You know, they which dwell farthest from the Sun, if in any convenient distance, have longer days, better appetites, better digestion, better growth, and longer life. And all these advantages have their minds who are well removed from the scorchings, and dazlings, and exhaling of the world's glory; but neither of our lives are in such extremes; for you living at Court without ambition, which would burn you, or envy which would divest others, live in the Sun, not in the fire; and I which live in the Country without stupifying, am not in darkness, but in shadow, which is not no light, but a pallid, waterish, and diluted one. As all shadows are of one colour if you respect the body from which they are cast (for our shadows upon clay will be dirty, and in a garden green, and flowery,) so all retyring into a shadowy life are alike from all causes, and alike subject to the barbarousness and insipid dulness of the country: Only the employment, and that upon which you cast and bestow your pleasure, business, or books, gives it the tincture, and beauty. But truly wheresoever we are, if we can but tell ourselves truly what & where we would be, we may make any state & place such: For we are so composed, that if abundance, or glory scorch & melt us, we have an earthly cave, our bodies to go into by consideration, & cool ourselves: and if we be frozen, and contracted with lower and dark fortunes, we have within us a torch, a soul, lighter and warmer than any without: we are therefore our own umbrellas, and our own Suns. These Sir, are the Salads, and Onions of Michin, sent to you with as wholesome affection as your other friends send Melons and Quelque choses from Court and London. If I present you not as good diet as they, I would yet say grace to theirs, and bid much good do it you. I send you, with this, a letter which I sent to the Countess. It is not my use nor duty to do so. But for your having of it, there were but two consents, and I am sure you have mine, and you are sure you have hers: I also writ to her Ladyship for the verses she showed in the garden, which I did not only to extort them, nor only to keep my promise of writing, for that I had done in the other letter, and perchance she hath forgotten the promise, nor only because I think my letters just good enough for a Progress, but because I would write apace to her, whilst it is possible to express that which I yet know of her, for by this growth I see how soon she will be ineffable.   

To the Countess of Bedford.  
Happiest and worthiest Lady,  
I Do not remember that ever I have seen a petition in verse, I would not therefore be singular, nor add these to your other papers. I have yet adventured so near as to make a petition for verse, It is for those your Ladyship did me the honour to see in a Twicknam garden, except you repent your making & having mended your judgement by thinking worse, that is, better, because juster, of their subject. They must needs be an excellent exercise of your wit, which speak so well of so ill. I humbly beg them of your Ladyship, with two such promises, as to any other of your compositions were threatenings: That I will not show them, & that I will not believe them; And nothing should be so used which comes from your brain or heart. If I should confess a fault in the boldness of ask them, or make a fault by doing it in a longer letter, your Ladyship might use your style and old fashion of the Court towards me, and pay me with a pardon. Here therefore I humbly kiss your Ladyship's fair learned, hands and wish you good wishes and speedy grants.  
Your Ladyship's servant JO. DONNE.   

To Sr H. G.  
SIR,  
BEcause I am in a place and season where I see every thing bud forth, I must do so too, and vent some of my meditations to you; the rather because all other buds being yet without taste or virtue, my letters may be like them. The pleasantness of the season displeases me. Every thing refreshes, and I wither, and I grow older and not better. My strength diminishes, and my load grows, and being to pass more and more storms, I find that I have not only cast out all my ballast which nature and time gives, reason & discretion, & so am as empty & light as vanity can make me, but I have overfraught myself with vice, and so am riddingly subject to two contrary wracks, sinking and over-setting, and under the iniquity of such a disease as enforces the patient when he is almost starved, not only to fast, but to purge; for I have much to take in, and much to cast out. Sometimes I think it easier to discharge myself of vice then of vanity, as one may sooner carry the fire out of a room then the smoke: And then I see it was a new vanity to think so. And when I think sometimes, that vanity, because it is thin and airy, may be expelled with virtue or business, or substantial vice; I find that I give entrance thereby to new vices. Certainly as the earth & water, one sad, the other fluid, make but one body: so to vice, and vanity, there is but one Centrum morbi. And that which later Physicians say of our bodies, is fitter for our minds; for that which they call destruction, which is a corruption and want of those fundamental parts whereof we consist, is vice: And that Collectio Stercorum, which is but the Excrement of that corruption, is our vanity and indiscretion. Both these have but one root in me, and must be pulled out at once, or never. But I am so far from digging to it, that I know not where it is. For it is not in mine eyes only, but in every sense, nor in my concupiscence only, but in every power and affection. Sir, I was willing to let you see how impotent a man you love, not to dishearten you from doing so still (for my vices are not infectious, nor wand'ring, They came not yesterday, nor mean to go away to day: They Inn not, but dwell in me, and see themselves so welcome, and find in me so good bad company of one another, that they will not change, especially to one not apprehensive, nor easily accessible) but I do it, that your counsel might cure me, and if you deny that, your example shall, for I will as much strive to be like you as I will wish you to continue good.   

To Sir H. G.  
SIR,  
I Hope you are now welcome to London, and well, and well comforted in your father's health and love, and well contented that we ask you how you do, and tell you how we are, which yet I cannot of myself; If I knew that I were ill, I were well; For we consist of three parts, a Soul, and Body, and Mind: which I call those thoughts and affections and passions, which neither Soul nor Body hath alone, but have been begotten by their communication, as Music results out of our breath and a Cornet. And of all these the diseases are cures, if they be known. Of our Souls sicknesses, which are sins, the knowledge is, to acknowledge, and that is her physic, in which we are not dieted by drams and scruples, for we cannot take too much. Of our body's infirmities, though our knowledge be partly ab extrinseco, from the opinion of the Physician, and that the subject and matter be flexible, and various; Yet their rules are certain, and if the matter be rightly applied to the rule, our knowledge thereof is also certain. But of the diseases of the mind, there is no Cryterium, no Canon, no rule; for, our own taste and apprehension & interpretation should be the judge, and that is the disease itself. Therefore sometimes when I find myself transported with jollity, and love of company, I hang leads at my heels, and reduce to my thoughts my fortunes, my years, the duties of a man, of a friend, of a husband, of a father, and all the incumbencies of a family. When sadness dejects me, either I countermine it with another sadness, or I kindly squibs about me again, and fly into sportfulness and company. And I find ever after all, that I am like an Exorcist, which had long laboured about one, which at last appears to have the Mother, that I still mistake my disease. And I still vex myself with this, because if I know it not, no body can know it. And I comfort myself because I see dispassioned men are subject to the like ignorances. For diverse minds out of the same thing often draw contrary conclusions, as Augustine thought devout Anthony to be therefore full of the holy Ghost, because, not being able to read, he could say the whole Bible, and interpret it. And Thyraeus the Jesuit for the same reason doth think all the Anabaptists to be possessed. And as often out of contrary things men draw one conclusion. As, To the Roman Church, Magnificence and Splendour hath ever been an argument of God's favour, and Poverty and Affliction, to the Greek. Out of this variety of minds it proceeds, that though all our Souls would go to one end, Heaven, and all our bodies must go to one end, the Earth: Yet our third part, the mind, which is our natural Guide here, chooses to every man a several way. Scarce any man likes what another doth, nor, advisedly, that which himself. But, Sir, I am beyond my purpose; I meant to write a letter, and I am fallen into a discourse, and I do not only take you from some business, but I make you a new business by drawing you into these meditations. In which yet let my openness be an argument of such love as I would fain express in some worthier fashion.    

Elegies upon the Author.  

TO THE MEMORY OF MY EVER DESIRED FRIEND Dr. DONNE:  
TO have lived eminent, in a degree  
Beyond our lofty'st flights, that is, like Thee,  
Or t'have had too much merit, is not safe;  
For, such excesses find no Epitaph.  
At common graves we have Poetic eyes  
Can melt themselves in easy Elegies,  
Each quill can drop his tributary verse,  
And pin it, like the Hatchments, to the Hearse:  
But at Thine, Poem, or Inscription  
(Rich soul of wit, and language) we have none.  
Indeed a silence does that tomb befit,  
Where is no Herald left to blazon it.  
Widowed invention justly doth forbear  
To come abroad, knowing Thou art not here,  
Late her great Patron; Whose Prerogative  
Maintained, and clothed her so, as none alive  
Must now presume, to keep her at thy rate,  
Though he the Indies for her dowry estate.  
Or else that awful fire, which once did burn  
In thy clear Brain, now fall'n into thy Urn  
Lives there, to fright rude Empirics from thence,  
Which might profane thee by their Ignorance.  
Who ever writes of Thee, and in a style  
Unworthy such a Theme, does but revile  
Thy precious Dust, and wake a learned Spirit  
Which may revenge his Rapes upon thy Merit.  
For, all a low pitched fancy can devise,  
Will prove, at best, but Hallowed Injuries.  
Thou, like the dying Swan, didst lately sing  
Thy Mournful Dirge, in audience of the King;  
When pale looks, and faint accents of thy breath,  
Presented so, to life, that piece of death,  
That it was feared, and prophesied by all,  
Thou thither cam'st to preach thy Funeral.  
O! hadst Thou in an Elegiac Knell  
Rung out unto the world thine own farewell,  
And in thy High Victorious Numbers beat  
The solemn measure of thy grieved Retreat;  
Thou mightst the Poet's service now have missed  
As well, as than thou didst prevent the Priest;  
And never to the world beholding be  
So much, as for an Epitaph for thee.  
I do not like the office. Nor is 't fit  
Thou, who didst lend our Age such sums of wit,  
Shouldst now re-borrow from her bankrupt Mine,  
That o'er to Bury Thee, which once was Thine.  
Rather still leave us in thy debt; And know  
(Exalted Soul) more glory 't is to owe  
Unto thy Hearse, what we can never pay,  
Then, with embased Coin those Rites defray.  
Commit we then Thee to Thyself: Nor blame  
Our drooping loves, which thus to thy own Fame  
Leave Thee Executor. Since, but thine own,  
No pen could do Thee Justice, nor Bays Crown  
Thy vast desert; Save that, we nothing can  
Depute, to be thy Ashes Guardian.  
So Jewellers no Art, or Metal trust  
To form the Diamond, but the Diamonds dust,  
H. K.   

To the deceased Author, Upon the Promiscuous printing of his Poems, the Loser sort, with the Religious.  

WHen thy Loose raptures, Donne, shall meet with Those  
That do confine  
Tuning, unto the Duller line,  
And sing not, but in Sanctified Prose;  
How will they, with sharper eyes,  
The Foreskin of thy fancy circumcise?  
And fear, thy wantonness should now, begin  
Example, that hath ceased to be Sin?   

And that Fear fans their Heat; whilst knowing eyes  
Will not admire  
At this Strange Fire,  
That here is mingled with thy Sacrifice:  
But dare read even thy Wanton Story,  
As thy Confession, not thy Glory.  
And will so envy Both to future times,  
That they would buy thy Goodness, with thy Crimes.   
Tho: Browne   

On the death of Dr DONNE.  
I Cannot blame those men, that knew thee well,  
Yet dare not help the world, to ring thy knell  
In tuneful Elegies; there's not language known  
Fit for thy mention, but 'twas first thy own;  
The Epitaphs thou writ'st, have so bereft  
Our tongue of wit, there is not fancy left  
Enough to weep thee; what henceforth we see  
Of Art or Nature, must result from thee.  
There may perchance some busy gathering friend  
Steal from thy own works, and that, varied, lend,  
Which thou bestowest on others, to thy Hearse,  
And so thou shalt live still in thine own verse;  
He that shall venture farther, may commit  
A pitied error, show his zeal, not wit.  
Fate hath done mankind wrong; virtue may aim  
Reward of conscience, never can, of fame,  
Since her great trumpets broke, could only give  
Faith to the world, command it to believe;  
He then must write, that world define thy parts:  
Here lies the best Divinity, All the Arts.  
Edw. Hyde.   

On Doctor Donne, By Dr C. B. of O.  
He that would write an Epitaph for thee,  
And do it well, must first begin to be  
Such as thou wert; for, none can truly know  
Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath lived so;  
He must have wit to spare and to hurl down:  
Enough, to keep the gallants of the town.  
He must have learning plenty; both the Laws,  
Civil, and Common, to judge any cause;  
Divinity great store, above the rest;  
Not of the last Edition, but the best.  
He must have language, travail, all the Arts;  
Judgement to use; or else he wants thy parts.  
He must have friends the highest, able to do;  
Such as Maecenas, and Augustus too.  
He must have such a sickness, such a death;  
Or else his vain descriptions come beneath;  
Who then shall write an Epitaph for thee▪  
He must be dead first, let'it alone for me.   

An Elegy upon the incomparable Dr DONNE.  

ALl is not well when such a one as I  
Dare peep abroad, and write an Elegy;  
When smaller Stars appear, and give their light,  
Phoebus is gone to bed: Were it not night,  
And the world witless now that DONNE is dead,  
You sooner should have broke, then seen my head.  
Dead did I say? Forgive this Injury  
I do him, and his worths Infinity,  
To say he is but dead; I dare aver  
It better may be termed a Massacre,  
Then Sleep or Death; See how the Muses mourn  
Upon their oaten Reeds, and from his Urn  
Threaten the World with this Calamity,  
They shall have Ballads, but no Poetry.   

Language lies speechless; and Divinity,  
Lost such a Trump as even to Ecstasy  
Could charm the Soul, and had an Influence  
To teach best judgements, and please dullest Sense.  
The Court, the Church, the University,  
Lost Chaplain, Deane, and Doctor, All these, Three.  
It was his Merit, that his Funeral  
Could cause a loss so great and general.   

If there be any Spirit can answer give  
Of such as hence depart, to such as live:  
Speak, Doth his body there vermiculate,  
Crumble to dust, and feel the laws of Fate?  
Me thinks, Corruption, Worms, what else is foul  
Should spare the Temple of so fair a Soul.  
I could believe they do; but that I know  
What inconvenience might hereafter grow:  
Succeeding ages would Idolatrise,  
And as his Numbers, so his Relics prize.   

If that Philosopher, which did avow  
The world to be but Moors, was living now:  
He would affirm that th' Atoms of his mould  
Were they in several bodies blended, would  
Produce new worlds of Travellers, Divines,  
Of Linguists, Poets: sith these several Lines  
In him concentred were, and flowing thence  
Might fill again the world's Circumference.  
I could believe this too; and yet my faith  
Not want a Precedent: The Phoenix hath  
(And such was He) a power to animate  
Her ashes, and herself perpetuate.  
But, busy Soul, thou dost not well to pry  
Into these Secrets; Grief, and jealousy,  
The more they know, the further still advance,  
And find no way so safe as Ignorance.  
Let this suffice thee, that his Soul which flew  
A pitch of all admired, known but of few,  
(Save those of purer mould) is now translated  
From Earth to Heauên, and there Constellated.  
For, if each Priest of God shine as a Star,  
His Glory is as his Gifts, 'bove others far.   
HEN. VALENTINE.   

An Elegy upon Dr Donne.  
IS Donne, great Donne deceased? then England say  
Thou'hast lost a man where language chose to stay  
And show its graceful power. I would not praise  
That and his vast wit (which in these vain days  
Make many proud) but as they served to unlock  
That Cabinet, his mind: where such a stock  
Of knowledge was reposed, as all lament  
(Or should) this general cause of discontent.  
And I rejoice I am not so severe,  
But (as I write a line) to weep a tear  
For his decease; Such sad extremities  
May make such men as I write Elegies.  
And wonder not; for, when a general loss  
Falls on a nation, and they slight the cross,  
God hath raised Prophets to awaken them  
From stupifaction; witness my mild pen,  
Not used to upbraid the world, though now it must  
Freely and boldly, for, the cause is just.  
Dull age, Oh I would spare thee, but thouart worse,  
Thou art not only dull, but hast a curse  
Of black ingratitude; if not, couldst thou  
Part with miraculous Donne, and make no vow  
For thee and thine, successively to pay  
A sad remembrance to his dying day?  
Did his youth scatter Poetry, wherein  
Was all Philosophy? Was every sin,  
Charactered in his Satyrs? made so foul  
That some have feared their shapes, & kept their soul  
Freer by reading verse? Did he give days  
Past marble monuments, to those, whose praise  
He would perpetuate? Did he (I fear  
The dull will doubt:) these at his twentieth year?  
But, more matured: Did his full soul conceive,  
And in harmonious-holy-numbers wove  
A Crowme of sacred sonnets, 
La Corona.  fit to adorn  
A dying Martyrs brow: or, to be worn  
On that blessed head of Mary Magdalen:  
After she wiped Christ's feet, but not till then?  
Did he (fit for such penitents as she  
And he to use) leave us a Litany?  
Which all devout men love, and sure, it shall,  
As times grow better, grow more classical.  
Did he write Hymns, for piety and wit  
Equal to those great grave Prudentius writ?  
Spoke he all Languages? knew he all Laws?  
The grounds and use of Physic; but because  
'Twas mercenary waved it? Went to see  
That blessed place of Christ's nativity?  
Did he return and preach him? preach him so  
As none but he did, or could do? They know  
(Such as were blessed to hear him know) 'tis truth.  
Did he confirm thy age? convert thy youth?  
Did he these wonders? And is this dear loss  
Mourned by so few? (few for so great a cross.)  
But sure the silent are ambitious all  
To be Close Mourners at his Funeral;  
If not; In common pity they forbore  
By repetitions to renew our care;  
Or, knowing, grief conceived, concealed, consumes  
Man irreparably, (as poisoned fumes  
Do waste the brain) make silence a fafe way  
To'inlarge the Soul from these walls, mud and clay,  
(Materials of this body) to remain  
With Donne in heaven, where no promiscuous pain  
Lessens the joy we have, for, with him, all  
Are satisfied with joys essential.  
My thoughts, Dwell on this joy, and do not call  
Grief back, by thinking of his Funeral;  
Forget he loved me; Waste not my sad years;  
(Which haste to David's seventy) filled with fears  
And sorrow for his death;) Forget his parts,  
Which find a living grave in good men's hearts;  
And, (for, my first is daily paid for sin)  
Forget to pay my second sigh for him:  
Forget his powerful preaching; and forget  
I am his Convert. Oh my frailty! let  
My flesh be no more heard, it will obtrude  
This lethargy: so should my gratitude,  
My vows of gratitude should so be broke;  
Which can no more be, than Donnes virtues spoke  
By any but himself; for which cause, I  
Write no Encomium, but an Elegy.  
IZ. WA.   

An Elegy upon the death of the Dean of Paul's, Dr. john Donne: By Mr. Tho: Carie.  

CAn we not force from widowed Poetry,  
Now thou art dead (Great DONNE) one Elegy  
To crown thy Hearse? Why yet dare we not trust  
Though with unkneaded dough-baked prose thy dust,  
Such as the uncisored Churchman from the flower  
Of fading Rhetoric, short lived as his hour,  
Dry as the sand that measures it, should lay  
Upon thy Ashes, on the funeral day?  
Have we no voice, no tune? Didst thou dispense  
Through all our language, both the words and sense?  
'Tis a sad truth; The Pulpit may her plain,  
And sober Christian precepts still retain,  
Doctrines it may, and wholesome Uses frame,  
Grave Homilies, and Lectures, But the flame  
Of thy brave Soul, that shot such heat and light,  
As burnt our earth, and made our darkness bright,  
Committed holy Rapes upon our Will,  
Did through the eye the melting heart distil;  
And the deep knowledge of dark truths so teach,  
As sense might judge, what fancy could not reach;  
Must be desired for ever. So the fire,  
That fills with spirit and heat the Delphique choir,  
Which kindled first by thy Promethean breath,  
Glowed here a while, lies quenched now in thy death;  
The Muse's garden with Pedantic weeds  
O'rspred, was purged by thee; The lazy seeds  
Of servile imitation thrown away;  
And fresh invention planted, Thou didst pay  
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age;  
Licentious thefts, that make poëtique rage  
A Mimic fury, when our souls must be  
Possessed, or with Anacreon's Ecstasy,  
Or Pindars, not their own; The subtle cheat  
Of sly Exchanges, and the juggling feat  
Of two-edged words, or whatsoever wrong  
By ours was done the Greek, or Latin tongue,  
Thou hast redeemed, and opened Us a Mine  
Of rich and pregnant fancy, drawn a line  
Of masculine expression, which had good  
Old Orpheus seen, Or all the ancient Brood  
Our superstitious fools admire, and hold  
Their lead more precious, than thy burnished Gold,  
Thou hadst been their Exchequer, and no more  
They each in others dust, had raked for Ore.  
Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time,  
And the blind fate of language, whose tuned chime  
More charms the outward sense; Yet thou mayst claim  
From so great disadvantage greater fame,  
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit  
Our stubborn language bends, made only fit  
With her tough-thick-ribed hoops to gird about  
Thy Giant fancy, which had proved too stout  
For their soft melting Phrases. As in time  
They had the start, so did they cull the prime  
Buds of invention many a hundred year,  
And left the rifled fields, besides the fear  
To touch their Harvest, yet from those bare lands  
Of what is purely thine, thy only hands  
(And that thy smallest work) have gleaned more  
Than all those times, and tongues could reap before;  
But thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be  
Too hard for Libertines in Poetry.  
They will repeal the goodly exiled train  
Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just reign  
Were banished nobler Poems, now, with these  
The silenced tales o'th'Metamorphoses  
Shall stuff their lines, and swell the windy Page,  
Till Verse refined by thee, in this last Age,  
Turn ballad rhyme, Or those old Idols be  
Adored again, with new apostasy;  
Oh, pardon me, that break with untuned verse  
The reverend silence that attends thy hearse,  
Whose awful solemn murmurs were to thee  
More than these faint lines, A loud Elegy,  
That did proclaim in a dumb eloquence  
The death of all the Arts, whose influence  
Grown feeble, in these panting numbers lies  
Gasping short wound Accents, and so dies:  
So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand  
In th'instant we withdraw the moving hand,  
But some small time maintain a faint weak course  
By virtue of the first impulsive force:  
And so whilst I cast on thy funeral pile  
Thy crown of Bays, Oh, let it crack a while,  
And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes  
Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes.  
I will not draw the envy to engross  
All thy perfections, or weep all our loss;  
Those are too numerous for an Elegy,  
And this too great, to be expressed by me.  
Though every pen should share a distinct part,  
Yet art thou Theme enough to tire all Art;  
Let others carve the rest, it shall suffice  
I on thy Tomb this Epitaph incise.   

Here lies a King, that ruled as he thought fit  
The universal Monarchy of wit;  
Here lie two Flamens, and both those, the best,  
Apollo's first, at last, the true God's Priest.    

An Elegy on Dr. DONNE: By Sir Lucius Carie.  
POets attend, the Elegy I sing  
Both of a doubly-named Priest, and King:  
In stead of Coats, and Pennons, bring your Verse,  
For you must be chief mourners at his Hearse,  
A Tomb your Muse must to his Fame supply,  
No other Monuments can never die;  
And as he was a twofold Priest; in youth,  
Apollo's; afterwards, the voice of Truth,  
God's Conduit-pipe for grace, who chose him for  
His extraordinary Ambassador,  
So let his Liegiers with the Poets join,  
Both having shares, both must in grief combine:  
Whilst Johnson forceth with his Elegy  
Tears from a griefe-unknowing Scythians eye,  
(Like Moses at whose stroke the waters gushed  
From forth the Rock, and like a Torrent rushed.)  
Let Lawd his funeral Sermon preach, and show  
Those virtues, dull eyes were not apt to know,  
Nor leave that Piercing Theme, till it appears  
To be good friday, by the Church's Tears;  
Yet make not grief too long oppress our Powers,  
Lest that his funeral Sermon should prove ours.  
Nor yet forget that heavenly Eloquence,  
With which he did the bread of life dispense,  
Preacher and Orator discharged both parts  
With pleasure for our sense, health for our hearts,  
And the first such (Though a long studied Art  
Tell us our soul is all in every part,)  
None was so marble, but whilst him he hears,  
His Soul so long dwelled only in his ears.  
And from thence (with the fierceness of a flood  
Bearing down vice) victualled with that blessed food  
Their hearts; His seed in none could fail to grow,  
Fertile he found them all, or made them so:  
No Druggist of the Soul bestowed on all  
So catholicly a curing Cordial.  
Nor only in the Pulpit dwelled his store,  
His words worked much, but his example more,  
That preached on worky days, His Poetry  
Itself was oftentimes divinity,  
Those Anthems (almost second Psalms) he writ  
To make us know the Cross, and value it,  
(Although we owe that reverence to that name  
We should not need warmth from an under flame.)  
Creates a fire in us, so near extreme  
That we would die, for, and upon this theme.  
Next, his so pious Litany, which none can  
But count Divine, except a Puritan,  
And that but for the name, nor this, nor those  
Want any thing of Sermons, but the prose.  
Experience makes us see, that many a one  
Owes to his Country his Religion;  
And in another, would as strongly grow,  
Had but his Nurse and Mother taught him so,  
Not he the ballast on his Judgement hung;  
Nor did his preconceit do either wrong;  
He laboured to exclude what ever sin  
By time or carelessness had entered in;  
Winnowed the chaff from wheat, but yet was loath  
A too hot zeal should force him, burn them both;  
Nor would allow of that so ignorant gall,  
Which to save blotting often would blot all;  
Nor did those barbarous opinions own,  
To think the Organs sin, and faction, none;  
Nor was there expectation to gain grace  
From forth his Sermons only, but his face;  
So Primitive a look, such gravity  
With humbleness, and both with Piety;  
So mild was Moses countenance, when he prayed  
For them whose Satanisme his power gain said;  
And such his gravity, when all God's band  
Receiv ' his word (through him) at second hand;  
Which joined, did flames of more devotion move  
Then ever Argive Helen's could of love.  
Now to conclude, I must my reason bring,  
Where fore I called him in his title King,  
That Kingdom the Philosophers believed  
To excel Alexander's, nor were grieved  
By fear of loss (that being such a Prey  
No stronger than ones self can force away)  
The Kingdom of ones self, this he enjoyed,  
And his authority so well employed,  
That never any could before become  
So Great a Monarch, in so small a room;  
He conquered rebel passions, ruled them so,  
As under-spheares by the first Mover go,  
Banished so far their working, that we can  
But know he had some, for we knew him man.  
Then let his last excuse his first extremes,  
His age saw visions, though his youth dreamed dreams.   

On. Dr. DONNES' death: By Mr. maine of Christ-Church in Oxford.  
WHo shall presume to mourn thee, Donne, unless  
He could his tears in thy expressions dress,  
And teach his grief that reverence of thy Hearse,  
To weep lines, learned, as thy Anniverse,  
A Poëme of that worth, whose every tear  
Deserves the title of a several year.  
Indeed so far above its Reader, good,  
That we are thought wits, when 'tis understood,  
There that blessed maid to die, who now should grieve?  
After thy sorrow, 'twere her loss to live;  
And her fair virtues in another's line,  
Would faintly down, which are made Saints in thine.  
Hadst thou been shallower, and not writ so high,  
Or left some new way for our pens, or eye,  
To shed a funeral tear, perchance thy Tomb  
Had not been speechless, or our Muses dumb;  
But now we dare not write, but must conceal  
Thy Epitaph, lest we be thought to steal,  
For, who hath read thee, and discerns thy worth,  
That will not say, thy careless hours brought forth  
Fancies beyond our studies, and thy play  
Was happier, than our serious time of day?  
So learned was thy chance; thy haste had wit,  
And matter from thy pen flowed rashly fit,  
What was thy recreation turns our brain,  
Our rack and paleness, is thy weakest strain.  
And when we most come near thee, 'tis our bliss  
To imitate thee, where thou dost amiss,  
Here light your muse, you that do only think,  
And write, and are just Poets, as you drink,  
In whose weak fancies wit doth ebb and flow,  
Just as your reckon rise, that we may know  
In your whole carriage of your work, that here  
This flash you wrote in Wine, and this in Beer,  
This is to tap your Muse, which running long  
Writes flat, and takes our ear not half so strong;  
Poor Suburb wits, who, if you want your cup,  
Or if a Lord recover, are blown up.  
Could you but reach this height, you should not need  
To make, each meal, a project ere you feed,  
Nor walk in relics, clothes so old and bare,  
As if left off to you from Ennius were,  
Nor should your love, in verse, call Mistress, those,  
Who are mine hostess, or your whores in prose;  
From this Muse learn to Court, whose power could move  
A Cloistered coldness, or a Vestal love,  
And would convey such errands to their ear,  
That Ladies knew no odds to grant and hear;  
But I do wrong thee, Donne, and this low praise  
Is written only for thy younger days.  
I am not grown up, for thy riper parts,  
Then should I praise thee, through the Tongues, and Arts,  
And have that deep Divinity, to know,  
What mysteries did from thy preaching flow,  
Who with thy words could charm thy audience,  
That at thy sermons, ear was all our sense;  
Yet have I seen thee in the pulpit stand,  
Where we might take notes, from thy look, and hand;  
And from thy speaking action bear away  
More Sermon, than some teachers use to say.  
Such was thy carriage, and thy gesture such,  
As could divide the heart, and conscience touch.  
Thy motion did confute, and we might see  
An error vanquished by delivery.  
Not like our Sons of Zeal, who to reform  
Their hearers, fiercely at the Pulpit storm,  
And beat the cushion into worse estate,  
Then if they did conclude it reprobate,  
Who can out pray the glass, then lay about  
Till all Predestination be run out.  
And from the point such tedious uses draw,  
Their repetitions would make Gospel, Law.  
No, In such temper would thy Sermons flow,  
So well did Doctrine, and thy language show,  
And had that holy fear, as, hearing thee,  
The Court would mend, and a good Christian be.  
And Ladies though unhandsome, out of grace,  
Would hear thee, in their unbought looks, & face▪  
More I could write, but let this crown thine Urn,  
We cannot hope the like, till thou return.   

Upon Mr J. Donne, and his Poems.  
Who dares say thou art dead, when he doth see  
(Unburied yet) this living part of thee?  
This part that to thy being gives fresh flame,  
And though thouart Done, yet will preserve thy name.  
Thy flesh (whose channels left their crimson hue,  
And whey-like ran at last in a pale blue)  
May show thee mortal, a dead palsy may  
Seize on't, and quickly turn it into clay;  
Which like the Indian earth, shall rise refined:  
But this great Spirit thou hast left behind,  
This Soul of Verse (in its first pure estate)  
Shall live, for all the World to imitate▪  
But not come near, for in thy Fancies flight  
Thou dost not stoop unto the vulgar sight,  
But, hover highly in the air of Wit,  
Hold'st such a pitch, that few can follow it;  
Admire they may. Each object that the Spring  
(Or a more piercing influence) doth bring  
T'adorn Earth's face, thou sweetly didst contrive  
To beauty's elements, and thence derive  
Unspotted Lilies white; which thou didst set  
Hand in hand, with the veine-like Violet,  
Making them soft, and warm, and by thy power,  
Couldst give both life, and sense, unto a flower.  
The Cherries thou hast made to speak, will be  
Sweeter unto the taste, then from the tree.  
And (spite of winter storms) amidst the snow  
Thou oft hast made the blushing Rose to grow.  
The Sea-nymphs, that the watery caverns keep,  
Have sent their Pearls and Rubies from the deep  
To deck thy love, and placed by thee, they drew  
More lustre to them, than where first they grew.  
All minerals (that Earth's full womb doth hold  
Promiscuously) thou couldst convert to gold,  
And with thy flaming raptures so refine,  
That it was much more pure then in the Mine.  
The lights that gild the night, if thou didst say,  
They look like eyes, those did outshine the day;  
For there would be more virtue in such spells,  
Then in Meridian's, or cross Parallels:  
What ever was of worth in this great Frame,  
That Art could comprehend, or Wit could name,  
It was thy theme for Beauty; thou didst see,  
Woman, was this fair World's Epitome.  
Thy nimble Satyrs too, and every strain  
(With nervy strength) that issued from thy brain,  
Will lose the glory of their own clear bays,  
If they admit of any others praise.  
But thy diviner Poems (whose clear fire  
Purges all dross away) shall by a Choir  
Of Cherubims, with heavenly Notes be set  
(Where flesh and blood could ne'er attain to yet)  
There purest Spirits sing such sacred Lays,  
In Panegyrique Alleluiaes.  
Arth. Wilson.   

In memory of Doctor Donne: By Mr R. B.  
Done dead? 'Tis here reported true, though I  
Ne'er yet so much desired to hear a lie,  
'Tis too too true, for so we find it still,  
Good news are often false, but seldom, ill:  
But must poor fame tell us his fatal day,  
And shall we know his death, the common way,  
Me thinks some Comet bright should have foretold  
The death of such a man, for though of old  
'Tis held, that Comets Princes death foretell,  
Why should not his, have needed one as well?  
Who was the Prince of wits, 'mongst whom he reigned,  
High as a Prince, and as great State maintained?  
Yet wants he not his sign, for we have seen  
A dearth, the like to which hath never been,  
Treading on harvests heels, which doth presage  
The death of wit and learning, which this age  
Shall find, now he is gone; for though there be  
Much grain in show, none brought it forth as he,  
Or men are misers; or if true want raises  
The dearth, then more that dearth Donnes' plenty praises.  
Of learning, languages, of eloquence,  
And Poesy, (past ravishing of sense,)  
He had a magazine, wherein such store  
Was laid up, as might hundreds serve of poor.  
But he is gone, O how will his desire  
Torture all those that warmed them by his fire?  
Me thinks I see him in the pulpit standing,  
Not ears, or eyes, but all men's hearts commanding,  
Where we that heard him, to ourselves did fain  
Golden chrysostom was alive again;  
And never were we wearied, till we saw  
His hour (and but an hour) to end did draw.  
How did he shame the doctrine-men, and use,  
With helps to boot, for men to bear th'abuse  
Of their tired patience, and endure th'expense  
Of time, O spent in harkening to nonsense,  
With marks also, enough whereby to know,  
The speaker is a zealous dunce, or so.  
'Tis true, they quitted him, to their poor power,  
They hummed against him; And with face most sour:  
Called him a strong lined man, a Macaroon,  
And no way fit to speak to clouted shoes,  
As fine words [truly] as you would desire,  
But [verily,] but a bad edifier.  
Thus did these beetles slight in him that good,  
They could not see, and much less understood.  
But we may say, when we compare the stuff  
Both brought; He was a candle, they the snuff.  
Well, Wisdom's of her children justified,  
Let therefore these poor fellows stand aside;  
Nor, though of learning he deserved so highly,  
Would I his book should save him; Rather slily  
I should advise his Clergy not to pray,  
Though of the learned sort; Me thinks that they  
Of the same trade, are Judges not so fit,  
There's no such emulation as of wit.  
Of such, the Envy might as much perchance  
Wrong him, and more, then th'other's ignorance.  
It was his Fate (I know't) to be envied  
As much by Clerks, as lay men magnified;  
And why? but 'cause he came late in the day,  
And yet his Penny earned, and had as they.  
No more of this, lest some should say, that I  
Am strayed to Satire, meaning Elegy.  
No, no, had DONNE need to be judged or tried,  
A Jury I would summon on his side,  
That had no sides, nor factions, past the touch  
Of all exceptions, freed from Passion, such  
As nor to fear nor fratter, e'er were bred,  
These would I bring, though called from the dead:  
Southampton, Hambleton, Pembroke, Dorsets Earls,  
Huntingdon, Bedford's Countesses (the Pearls  
Once of each sex.) If these suffice not, I  
Ten decem tales have of Standards by:  
All which, for DONNE, would such a verdict give,  
As can belong to none, that now doth live.  
But what do I? A diminution 'tis  
To speak of him in verse, so short of his,  
Whereof he was the master; All indeed  
Compared with him, piped on an Oaten reed.  
O that you had but one 'mongst all your brothers  
Could write for him, as he hath done for others:  
(Poets I speak to) When I see't, I'll say,  
My eyesight betters, as my years decay,  
Mean time a quarrel I shall ever have  
Against these doughty keepers from the grave,  
Who use, it seems their old Authority,  
When (Verses men immortal make) they cry:  
Which had it been a Recipe true tried,  
Probatum esset, DONNE had never died.  
For me, if e'er I had least spark at all  
Of that which they Poetic fire do call,  
Here I confess it fetched from his hearth,  
Which is gone out, now he is gone to earth.  
This only a poor flash, a lightning is  
Before my Muse's death, as after his.  
Farewell (fair soul) and deign receive from me  
This Type of that devotion I owe thee,  
From whom (while living) as by voice and pen  
I learned more, then from a thousand men:  
So by thy death, am of one doubt released,  
And now believe that miracles are ceased.  

Epitaph.  
Here lies Deane Donne; Enough; Those words  
Show him as fully, as if all the stone  
His Church of Paul's contains, were through inscribed alone  
Or all the walkers there, to speak him, bribed.  
None can mistake him, for one such as He  
DONNE, Deane, or Man, more none shall ever see.  
Not man? No, though unto a Sun each eye  
Were turned, the whole earth so to overspie,  
A bold brave word; Yet such brave Spirits as knew  
His Spirit, will say, it is less bold than true.    

Epitaph upon Dr. DONNE, By Endy: Porter.  
THis decent Urn a sad inscription wears,  
Of Donnes' departure from us, to the spheres;  
And the dumb stone with silence seems to tell  
The changes of this life, wherein is well  
Expressed, A cause to make all joy to cease,  
And never let our sorrows more take ease;  
For now it is impossible to find  
One fraught with virtues, to enrich a mind;  
But why should death, with a promiscuous hand  
At one rude stroke impoverish a land?  
Thou strict Attorney, unto stricter Fate,  
Didst thou confiscate his life out of hate  
To his rare Parts? Or didst thou throw thy dart,  
With envious hand, at some Plebeian heart;  
And he with pious virtue stepped between  
To save that stroke, and so was killed unseen  
By thee? O 'twas his goodness so to do,  
Which humane kindness never reached unto.  
Thus the hard laws of death were satisfied,  
And he left us like Orphan friends, and died.  
Now from the Pulpit to the people's ears,  
Whose speech shall send repentant sighs, and tears?  
Or tell me, if a purer Virgin die,  
Who shall hereafter write her Elegy?  
Poets be silent, let your numbers sleep,  
For he is gone that did all fancy keep;  
Time hath no Soul, but his exalted verse;  
Which with amazements, we may now rehearse.   
FINIS