SAINT Peters complaynt.
With other Poems.
AT LONDON. Printed by I. R. for G. C. 1595.
The Printer to the Gentlemen Readers.
HAuing beheld (kind Gentlemen) the numberlesse Iudges of not to be reckoned labours, with what kind admiration you haue entertained the Diuine Complaint of holy Peter; and hauing in my hands certaine especiall Poems and diuine Meditations, full as woorthie belonging to the same, I thought it a charitable deede to giue them life in your memories, which els should die in an obscure sacrifice, gently embrace them, gentle censurers of gentle indeuors: so shall you not be fantastike in diuersity of opinions, nor contradict your resolues by [Page] denying your former iudgements, but still bee your selues discreetely vertuous, nor could I other wish, but that the courteous reader of these labors, not hauing already bought Peters Complaint, would not for so small a mite of money loose so rich a treasure of heauenly wisdome as these two Treatises should minister vnto him, the one so needfully depending vpon the other. One thing amongst the rest I am to admonish thee of, that hauing in this Treatise read Maries visitation, the next that should follow is Christs natiuity, but being afore printed in the end of Peters Complaint, we haue heere of purpose omitted; that thou shouldest not be abridged of that and theother like comforts which that other treatise profereth thee.
Yours (kind Gentlemen) in all his abilities. I. B.
The Author to the Reader.
DEare eye that doest peruse my Muses style.
VVith easie censure deeme of my delight:
Giue sobrest countnance leaue sometime to smyle,
And grauest wits to take a breathing flight:
Of mirth to make a trade may be a crime,
But tyred spirites for mirth must haue a time.
The loftie Eagle soares not still aboue,
High flightes will force her from the wing to stoupe,
And studious thoughtes at times men must remoue,
Least by excesse before their time they droupe.
In courser studies tis a sweete repose,
VVith Poets pleasing vaine to temper prose.
Prophane conceits and fayning fits I flie,
Such lawlesse stuffe doth lawlesse speeches fit:
VVith Dauid verse to vertue I applie,
VVhose measure best with measured wordes doth fit:
It is the sweetest note that man can sing,
VVhen grace in vertues key tunes natures string.
The Author to the Reader.
DEare eye that daynest to let fall a looke,
On these sad memories of Peters plaints:
Muse not to see some mud in cleerest brooke,
They once were brittle mould that now are Saints.
Theyr weakenes is no warrant to offend,
Learne by their faults, what in thine owne to mend.
If equities euen-hand the ballance held,
VVhere Peters sinnes and ours were made the weightes:
Ounce, for his dramme: Pound, for his Ounce we yeeld:
His ship would groane to feele some sinners freightes.
So ripe is vice, so greene is vertues bud:
The world doth waxe in ill, but waine in good.
This makes my mourning Muse resolue in teares,
This theames my heauy penne to plaine in prose,
Christs Thorne is sharpe, no head his Garland weares:
Still finest wits are stilling Venus Rose.
In paynim toyes the sweetest vaines are spent:
To Christian workes, few haue their tallents lent.
Licence my single penne to seeke a pheere,
You heauenly sparkes of wit, shew natiue light:
Cloud not with mistie loues your Orient cleere,
Sweet flights you shoote; learne once to leuell right.
Fauour my wish, well-wishing workes no ill:
I mooue the Suite, the Graunt restes in your will.
SAINT PETERS Complaynt.
LAunch foorth my Soule into a maine of teares,
Full fraught with griefe the traffick of thy mind:
Torne sayles will serue, thoughts rent with guilty feares:
Giue care the sterne: vse sighes in lieu of wind:
Remorse, thy Pilot: thy misdeede, thy Carde?
Torment thy Hauen: Shipwracke, thy best reward.
Shun not the shelfe of most deserued shame:
Sticke in the sandes of agonizing dread:
Contènt thee to be stormes and billowes game:
Diuorc'd from grace thy soule to pennance wed:
Flie not from forreine euils, flie from thy hart:
VVorse then the worst of euils is that thou art.
Giue vent vnto the vapours of thy brest,
That thicken in the brimmes of cloudie eyes:
VVhere sinne was hatch'd, let teares now wash the nest:
VVhere life was lost, recouer life with cryes.
Thy trespasse foule: let not thy teares be few:
Baptize thy spotted soule in weeping dewe.
Flie mournefull plaintes, the Ecchoes of my ruth;
VVhose screeches in my freighted conscience ring:
Sob out my sorrowes, fruites of mine vntruth:
Report the smart of sinnes infernall sting.
Tell hartes that languish in the soriest plight,
There is on earth a farre more sorry wight.
A sorry wight, the obiect of disgrace,
The monument of feare, the map of shame,
The mirrour of mishap, the staine of place,
The scorne of time, the infamy of fame:
An excrement of earth, to heauen hatefull,
Iniurious to man, to God vngratefull.
Ambitious heades dreame you offortunes pride:
Fill volumes with your forged Goddesse prayse.
You fancies drudges, plung'd in follies tide:
Deuote your fabling wits to louers layes:
Be you ô sharpest griefes, that euer wrung,
Texte to my thoughtes, Theame to my playning tung.
Sad subiect of my sinne hath stoard my minde.
VVith euerlasting matter of complaint:
My threnes an endlesse Alphabet do finde,
Beyond the panges which Ieremy doth paint.
That eyes with errors may iust measure keepe,
Most teares I wish that haue most cause to weepe.
All weeping eyes resigne your teares to me:
A sea will scantly rince my ordur'de soule:
Huge horrours in high tides must drowned bee,
Of euery teare my crime exacteth tole.
These staines are deepe: few drops, take out no such:
Euen salue with sore: and most, is not too much.
I fear'd with life, to die; by death to liue:
I left my guide, now left, and leauing God.
To breath in blisse, I fear'd my breath to giue:
I fear'd for heauenly raigne, an earthly rod.
These feares I fear'd, feares feeling no mishaps:
O fond, ô faint, ô false, ô faultie laps.
How can I liue, that thus my life deni'd?
VVhat can I hope, that lost my hope in feare?
VVhat trust to one, that truth it selfe defi'de?
VVhat good in him, that did his God forsweare?
O sinne, of sinnes, of euils, the very worst:
O matchlesse wretch: ô catiffe most accurst.
Vaine in my vaunts I vowd if friends had fail'd
Alone Christs hardest fortunes to abide:
Giant in talke, like dwarfe, in triall quaild:
Excelling none, but in vntruth and pride.
Such distance is betweene high words and deeds:
In proofe the greatest vaunter seldome speedes.
Ah rashnes hastie ryse to murdering leape,
Lauish in vowing, blind, in seeing what:
Soone sowing shames, that long remorse must reape:
Nurcing with teares, that ouer-sight begat;
Scout of repentance, harbinger of blame,
Treason to wisedome, mother of ill name.
The borne-blind begger, for receiued sight,
Fast in his faith and loue, to Christ remain'd,
Hee stouped to no feare, he feard no might:
No change his choice: no threats his truth distain'd.
One wonder wrought him in his dutie sure:
I, after thousands did my Lord abiure.
Could seruile feare of rendring natures due,
VVhich growth in yeeres was shortly like to claime,
So thrall my loue, that I should thus eschue
A vowed death, and misse so faire an ayme?
Die, die, disloyall wretch, thy life detest:
For sauing thine, thou hast forsworne the best.
Ah life, sweet drop, drownd in a sea of sowers,
A flying good, posting to doubtfull end,
Still loosing months and yeeres to gaine new howers:
Faine, time to haue, and spare, yet forst to spend;
Thy growth, decrease, a moment, all thou hast:
That gone, ere knowne: the rest: to come, or past.
Ah life, the maze of countlesse straying waies,
Open to erring steps, and strow'd with baits,
To winde weake sences into endlesse strayes,
A loofe from vertues rough vnbeaten straights;
A flower, a play, a blast, a shade, a dreame,
A liuing death, a neuer turning streame.
And could I rate so high a life so base?
Did feare with loue cast so vneuen account,
That for this goale I should runne Iudas race,
And Caiphas rage in crueltie surmount?
Yet they esteemed thirtie pence his price,
I, worse then both, for nought deny'd him thrise.
Ma
The mother sea from ouerflowing deepes,
Sends forth her issue by diuided vaines:
Yet backe her of-spring to theyr mother creepes,
To pay theyr purest streames with added gaines;
But I that drunke the drops of heauenly flud,
Bemyr'd the gyuer with returning mud.
Is this the haruest of his sowing toyle?
Did Christ manure thy hart to breed him bryers?
Or doth it need this vnaccustomd soyle,
VVith hellish dunge to fertile heauens desires?
No, no, the Marle that periuries doth yeeld,
May spoyle a good, not fat a barraine field.
VVas this for best deserts the duest meede?
Are highest worthes well wag'de with spitefull hire?
Are stoutest vowes repeal'd in greatest neede?
Should friendship at the first affront retire?
Blush crauen sott, lurke in eternall night:
Crouch in the darkest caues from loathed light.
Ah wretch, why was I nam'd sonne of a doue,
VVhose speeches voyded spight, and breathed gall?
No kin I am vnto the bird of loue:
My stony name much better sutes my fall,
My othes were stones; my cruell tongue the sling:
My God, the marke: at which my spight did fling.
VVere all the Iewish tiranies too few,
To glut thy hungry lookes with his disgrace:
That thou more hatefull tirannies must shew:
And spit thy poyson in thy Makers face?
Didst thou to spare his foes put vp thy sword:
To brandish now thy tongue against thy Lord?
Ah tongue, that didst his prayse and Godhead sound,
How wert thou stain'd with such detesting words
That euery word was to his hart a wound,
And launst him deeper then a thousand swordes?
VVhat rage of man, yea what infernall spirite,
Could haue disgorg'd more loathsome dregs of spite?
VVhy did the yeelding sea like marble way
Support a wretch more wauering then the waues?
Mat
VVhom doubt did plunge, why did the water stay,
Vnkind, in kindnesse; murthering, while it saues?
O that this toung had then been fishes food,
And I deuour'd before this cursing moode.
Their surges, depthes, and seas vnfirme by kinde,
Rough gusts, and distance both from ship and shoare,
VVere titles to excuse my staggering minde,
Stout feete might falter on that liquid floare.
But here, no seas, no blastes, no billowes were,
A puffe of womans winde bred all my feare.
O coward troupes far better arm'd then harted,
VVhom angry words, whom blowes could not prouok,
Ioh.
VVhom though I taught how sore my weapon smarted,
Yet none repaide me with a wounding stroke.
O no: that stroke could but one moitie kill,
I was reseru'd both halfes at once to spill.
Ah, whether was forgotten loue exilde?
VVhere did the truth of pledged promise sleepe?
VVhat in my thoughts begat this ougly child,
That could through rented soule thus fircely creepe?
O viper, feare their death by whom thou liuest,
All good thy ruynes wrecke, all euels thou giuest.
Threats threw me not, torments I none assayde:
My fray, with shades: conceits dyd make me yeeld,
VVounding my thoughts with feares: selfely dismayd,
I neyther fought nor lost, I gaue the field;
Infamous foyle: a Maidens easie breath
Dyd blow me downe, and blast my soule to death.
Titles I make vntruths, am I a rocke?
That with so soft a gale was ouer-throwne?
Am I fit Pastor for the faithfull flocke,
To guide theyr soules, that murdred thus mine owne?
A rock of ruine, not a rest to stay,
A Pastor, not to feed, but to betray.
Fidelitie was flowne, when feare was hatched,
Incompatible brood in vertues nest:
Courage can lesse with cowardise be matched,
Prowesse nor loue lodg'd in deuided brest;
O Adams child, cast by a sillie Eue,
Heire to thy Fathers foyles, and borne to greeue.
In Thabors ioyes I eger was to dwell,
An earnest friend while pleasures light did shine,
But when ecclipsed glory prostrate fell,
These zealous heates to sleepe I did resigne;
And now, my mouth hath thrise his name defil'd,
That cry'd so loud three dwellings there to build.
VVhen Christ attending the distressefull hower,
VVith his surcharged brest did blesse the ground,
Prostrate in pangs, rayning a bleeding shower,
Me, like my selfe, a drowsie friend he found;
Thrise in his care, sleepe closde my carelesse eye,
Presage, how him my tongue should thrise deny.
Parting from Christ my fainting force declin'd,
VVith lingring foote I followed him a loofe,
Base feare out of my hart his loue vnshrind,
Ma [...] Lu [...]
Huge in high words, but impotent in proofe;
My vaunts did seeme hatcht vnder Sampsons locks,
Yet womans wordes did giue me murdring knocks.
So farre luke warme desires in crasie loue,
Farre off in neede with feeble foote they trayne:
In tydes they swimme, low ebbes they scorne to proue,
They seeke their friends delights, but shun their paine.
Hire of a hireling minde is earned shame:
Take now thy due: beare thy begotten blame.
Ah, coole remisnes, vertues quartane feuer,
Pyning of loue, consumption of grace:
Old in the cradle, languor dying euer,
Soules wilfull famine, sinnes soft stealing pace,
The vndermining euill of zealous thought,
Seeming to bring no harmes till all be brought.
O portresse of the doore of my disgrace;
VVhose toung, vnlockt the truth of vowed minde;
VVhose wordes, from cowardes hart did courage chase,
And let in death-full feares my soule to blinde,
O, hadst thou been the portresse to my tombe:
VVhen thou wert portresse to that cursed roome.
Yet loue, was loath to part; feare, loath to die:
Stay, daunger life, did counterplead their causes:
I fauouring stay, and life, bad daunger flie:
But daunger did except against these clauses.
Yet stay, and liue, I would, and daunger shunne:
And lost my selfe, while I my verdict wonne.
I stayde, yet did my staying farthest part:
I liu'd; but so, that sauing life, I lost it:
Daunger I shun'd, but to my sorer smart:
I gayned nought, but deeper domage crost it,
VVhat daunger, distance, death is worse then this,
That runnes from God and spoyles his soule of blisse?
O Iohn my guide into this earthly hell,
16
Too well acquainted in so ill a court,
VVhere rayling mouthes with blasphemies did swell,
VVith taynted breath infecting all resort.
VVhy didst thou lead me to this hell of euills:
To shew my selfe a fiend among the diuels?
Euill president, the tyde that wafts to vice,
Dumme Orator, that woes with silent deedes,
VVriting in workes lessons of ill aduise,
The doing tale that eye in practise reedes:
Taster of ioyes: to vnacquainted hunger:
VVith leauen of the olde seasoning the yonger,
It seemes no fault to doe that all haue done:
The number of offenders hides the sinne:
Coatch drawne, with many horse doth easely runne.
Soone followeth one where multitudes begin.
O, had I in that court much stronger bin;
Or not so strong as first to enter in.
Sharpe was the weather in that stormie place,
Ioh
Best suting hearts benum'd with hellish frost,
VVhose crusted malice could admit no grace,
VVhere coales were kindled to the warmers cost.
VVhere feare, my thoughts canded with ysie colde:
Heate, did my tongue to periuries vnfolde.
O hatefull fire (ah that I euer saw it)
Too hard my hart was frozen for thy force,
Farre hotter flames it did require to thawe it,
Thy hell resembling heate did freeze it worse.
O that I rather had congeal'd to yse:
Then bought thy warm'th at such a damning price.
O wakefull bird, proclaimer of the day,
VVhose piercing note doth daunt the Lions rage:
6.
Thy crowing did my selfe to me bewray,
4.
My frights, and brutish heates it did aswage.
But ô, in this alone vnhappie cocke:
That thou to count my foyles wert made the clocke.
O bird, the iust rebuker of my crime,
The faithfull waker of my sleeping feares:
Be now the daylie clocke to strike the time,
VVhen stinted eyes shall pay their taske of teares.
Vpbraide mine eares with thine accusing crow:
To make me rew that first it made me know.
O milde reuenger of aspiring pride,
Thou canst dismount high thoughts to low effects:
Thou mad'st a cocke me for my fault to chide,
My lofty boastes this lowlie bird corrects.
VVell might a cocke correct me with a crow:
VVhom hennish cackling first did ouer-throw.
VVeake weapons did Golias fumes abate,
17.
VVhose storming rage did thunder threates in vaine:
His bodie huge harnest with massie plate,
Yet Dauids stone brought death into his braine.
VVith staffe and sling as to a dog he came:
And with contempt did boasting fury tame.
Yet Dauid had with Beare and Lyon fought,
His skilfull might excusd Golias foyle:
The death is easd that worthy hand hath wrought,
Some honour liues in honorable spoile.
But I on whom all infamies must light:
VVas hisd to death with wordes of womens spight.
Small gnats enforst th'Egiptian king to stoupe,
Yet they in swarmes and arm'd with piercing stings:
Exod [...]
Smart, noyse, annoyance, made his courage droupe,
No small incombrance such small vermine brings:
I quaild at words that neither bit nor stoung,
And those deliuered from a womans toung.
Ah feare, abortiue impe of drouping mind:
Selfe ouer-throw; false friend; root of remorce:
Sighted, in seeing euils; in shunning blind;
Foyld without field; by fancie not by force;
Ague of valour; phrensie of the wise;
True honours staine; loues frost; the mint of lies.
Can vertue, wisedome, strength by women spild
In Dauids, Salomons and Sampsons falls,
2. R [...] 3. R [...] Iud [...]
VVith semblance of excuse my errour guild,
Or lend a marble glose to muddy walles?
O no their fault had show of some pretence,
No veyle can hide the shame of my offence.
The blaze of beauties beames allur'd their lookes,
Their lookes, by seeing oft, conceiued loue:
Loue, by affecting, swallowed pleasures hookes:
Thus beautie, loue, and pleasure them did mooue.
These Syrens sugred tunes rockt them a sleepe:
Enough, to damne, yet not to damne so deepe.
But gratious features dazeled not mine eies,
Two homely droyles were authors of my death:
Not loue, but feare, my sences did surprize:
Not feare of force, but feare of womans breath.
And those vnarm'd, ill grac'd, despisd, vnknowne:
So base a blast my truth hath ouer-throwne.
O women, woe to men: traps for their fals,
Still actors in all tragicall mischances:
Earthes necessarie euils, captiuing thralls,
Now murdring with your tongs, now with your glances,
Parents of life, and loue: spoylers of both,
The theeues of harts: false do you loue or loth.
In time, ô Lord, thine eyes with mine did meete,
In them I reade the ruines of my fall:
Their chearing raies that made misfortune sweete,
Into my guiltie thoughts pourd floods of gall,
Their heauenly lookes that blest where they beheld,
Darts of disdaine, and angrie checks did yeeld.
O sacred eyes, the springs of liuing light,
The earthly heauens, where Angels ioy to dwell:
How could you deigne to view my deathfull plight,
Or let your heauenly beames looke on my hell?
But those vnspotted eyes encountred mine,
As spotlesse Sunne doth on the dounghill shine.
Sweet volumes stoard with learning fit for Saints,
VVhere blisfull quires imparadize their minds,
VVherein eternall studie neuer faints,
Still finding all, yet seeking all it finds,
How endlesse is your laborinth of blisse,
VVhere to be lost the sweetest finding is?
Ah wretch how oft haue I sweet lessons read,
In those deare eyes the registers of truth?
How oft haue I my hungrie wishes fed,
And in their happie ioyes redress'd my ruth?
Ah that they now are Heralds of disdaine:
That erst were euer pittiers of my paine.
You flames diuine that sparkle out your heats,
And kindle pleasing fires in mortall hearts:
You nectar'd Aumbryes of soule feeding meates,
You gracefull quiuers of loues deerest darts:
You did vouchsafe to warme, to wound, to feast:
My cold, my stony, my now famishd brest.
The matchles eyes, match'd onely each by other,
VVere pleasd on my ill matched eyes to glaunce:
The eye of liquid pearle, the purest mother,
Broch'd teares in mine to weepe for my mischance;
The cabinets of grace vnlockt their treasure,
And did to my misdeed their mercies measure.
These blazing Comets, lightning flames of loue,
Made me their warming influence to know;
My frozen hart theyr sacred force did proue,
VVhich at their lookes did yeeld like melting snow,
They did not ioyes in former plentie carue,
Yet sweet are crums where pined thoughts do starue.
O liuing mirrours, seeing whom you shew,
which equall shadows worths with shadowed things:
Yea make things nobler then in natiue hew,
By being shap'd in those life-gyuing springs;
Much more my image in those eyes was grac'd,
Then in my selfe, whom sinne and shame defac'd.
All-seeing eyes, more worth then all you see,
Of which one is the others onely price:
I worthlesse am, direct your beames on mee,
VVith quickning vertue cure my killing vice.
By seeing things, you make things worth the sight,
You seeing, salue, and beeing seene delight.
O Pooles of Hesebon, the bathes of grace,
Ca [...]
VVhere happy spirits diue in sweet desires:
VVhere Saints reioyce to glasse theyr glorious face,
VVhose banks make Eccho to the Angels quires;
An Eccho sweeter in the sole rebound,
Then Angels musick in the fullest sound.
O eyes, whose glaunces are a silent speech,
In ciphred words high misteries disclosing:
VVhich with a looke all Sciences can teach,
VVhose textes to faithfull harts neede little glosing:
VVitnesse vnworthy I, who in a looke,
Learn'd more by rote, then all the scribes by booke.
Tough malice still possest theyr hardned minds,
I, though too hard, learn'd softnes in thine eye,
VVhich yron knots of stubborne will vnbinds,
Offring them loue, that loue with loue will buy,
Thys did I learne, yet they could not discerne it,
But woe, that I had now such neede to learne it.
O Sunnes, all but your selues in light excelling,
VVhose presence, day, whose absence causeth night,
VVhose neighbour course, brings Sommer colde expelling,
VVhose distant periods freeze away delight.
Ah, that I lost your bright and fostring beames,
To plunge my soule in these congealed streames.
O gracious spheres where loue the Center is,
A natiue place for our selfe-loaden soules:
The compasse, loue, a cope that none can mis:
The motion, loue that round about vs rowles:
O Spheres of loue, whose Center, cope and motion,
Is loue of vs, loue that inuites deuotion.
O little worlds, the summes of all the best,
VVhere glory, heauen, God, sonne: all vertues, stars;
VVhere fire, a loue that next to heauen doth rest,
Ayre, light of life, that no distemper marres;
The water, grace, whose seas, whose springes, whose showers.
Cloth natures earth with euerlasting flowers.
VVhat mixtures these sweet elements do yeeld,
Let happy worldlings of those worlds expound,
But simples are by compounds farre exceld,
Both sute a place, where all best things abound.
And if a banisht wretch gesse not amisse:
All but one compound frame of perfect blisse.
I, out-cast from these worlds exiled rome,
Poore Saint, from heauen, from fire cold Salamander:
Lost fish, from those sweet waters kindly home,
From land of life, stray'd pilgrim still I wander.
I know the cause: these worlds had neuer hell,
In which my faults haue best deseru'd to dwell.
O Bethelem cesterns, Dauids most desire,
2. Reg.
From which my sinnes like fierce Philistims keepe,
To fetch your drops what champions should I hire,
That I therein my withered heart may steepe.
I would not shed them like that holy king,
His were but tipes, these are the figured thing.
O turtle twins all bath'd in virgins milke,
Vpon the margin of full flowing bankes:
Can. 5. 12.
VVhose gracefull plume surmounts the finest silke,
VVhose sight enamoreth heauens most happie rankes,
Could I forsweare this heauenly paire of doues,
That cag'd in care for me were groning loues.
Twice Moses wand did strike the stubborne rocke,
Ere stony veynes would yeeld their christall blood:
Exod. 1 verse. 6▪
Thy eyes, one looke seru'd as an onely knocke,
To make my hart gush out a weeping flood.
VVherein my sinnes as fishes spawne their frye,
To shew their inward shames, and then to dye.
But ô, how long demurre I on his eyes,
VVhose looke did pearce my hart with healing wound:
Launcing impostumd sore of periurd lyes,
VVhich these two issues of mine eyes hath found:
VVhere runne it must, till death the issues stop,
And penall life hath purgd the finall drop.
Like solest Swan that swimmes in silent deepe,
And neuer sings but obsequies of death,
Sigh out thy plaints, and sole in secret weepe,
In suing pardon, spend thy periurd breath.
Attire thy soule in sorrowes mourning weede:
And at thine eyes let guiltie conscience bleede.
Still in the limbecke of thy dolefull breast,
These bitter fruits that from thy sinnes do grow,
For fuel, selfe accusing thoughts be best,
Vse feare, as fire the coales let pennance blow:
And seeke none other quintescence but teares,
That eyes may shed what entred at thine eares.
Come sorrowing teares the of spring of my griefe,
Scant not your parent of a needefull aide;
In you I rest, the hope of wish'd reliefe,
By you my sinnefull debts must be defraide.
Your power preuailes, your sacrifice is gratefull,
By loue obtayning life to men most hatefull.
Come good effects of ill deseruing cause;
Ill gotten impes, yet vertuously brought forth:
Selfe-blaming probates, of infringed lawes,
Yet blamed faults redeeming with your worth;
The signes of shame in you each eye may read,
Yet while you guiltie proue, you pittie plead.
O beames of mercy beate on sorrowes clowde,
Poure suppling showres vpon my parched ground:
Bring forth the fruite to your due seruice vowde,
Let good desires with like deserts be crownd.
VVater young bloming vertues tender flower,
Sinne did all grace of riper groth deuower.
VVeepe Balme and mirrhe you sweet Arabian trees,
VVith purest gummes perfume and pearle your ryne:
Shed on your hony drops you busie bees,
I barraine plaint must weepe vnpleasant bryne,
Hornets I hyue, salt drops their labour plyes,
Suckt out of sinne, and shed by showring eyes.
If Dauid night by night did bath his bed,
Esteeming longest dayes to short too mone:
Psal. 6
Inconsolable teares if Anna shed,
VVho in her sonne her solace had forgone.
Tob,
Then I to dayes, and weekes, to months and yeares,
Do owe the hourely rent of stintlesse teares.
If loue, if losse, if fault, if spotted fame,
If daunger, death, if wrath or wrecke of weale,
Entitle eyes true heires to earned blame,
That due remorse in such euents conceale,
Then want of teares might well enroll my name,
As chiefest Saint in Calender of shame.
Loue, where I lou'd, was due, and best deseru'd,
No loue could ayme at more loue-worthy marke,
No loue more lou'd then mine of him I seru'd,
Large vse he gaue, a flame for euery spark.
This loue I lost, this losse a life must rue,
Yea life is short to pay the ruth is due.
I lost all that I had, and had the most,
The most that will can wish, or wit deuise:
I least performd, that did most vainely boast,
I staind my fame in most infamous wise.
VVhat daunger then, death, wrath, or wreck can moue,
More pregnant cause of teares then this I proue?
If Adam sought a veyle to scarfe his sinne,
Taught by his fall to feare a scourging hand,
[...]3, 7,
If men shall wish that hils should wrap them in,
VVhen crymes in finall doome come to be scand:
VVhat mount, what caue, what center can conceale
My monstrous fact, which euen the birds reueale?
Come shame the liuery of offending minde:
The ougly shroud, that ouershadoweth blame:
The mulct, at which foule faults are iustly fynde,
The dampe of sinne, the common sluce of fame.
By which impostum'd tongues, their humors purge,
Light shame on me, I best deseru'd the scourge.
Caines murdering hand imbrude in brothers blood,
More mercy then my impious toung may craue:
Gene [...]
He kild a riuall with pretence of good,
In hope Gods doubled loue alone to haue.
But feare so spoild my vanquisht thoughts of loue:
That periurde oathes my spightfull hate did proue.
Poore Agar from her phere enforc'd to flye,
VVandring in Barsabeian wildes alone:
Doubting her child throgh helples drought would dye,
Laide it aloofe and set her downe to moane.
The heauens with praiers: her lap with teares she fild,
A mothers loue in losse is hardly stild.
But Agar now bequeath thy teares to me,
Gene, [...]
Feares, not effects, did set aflote thine eyes:
But wretch I feele more then was feard of thee,
Ah, not my sonne, my soule it is that dyes.
It dyes for drought yet had a spring in sight,
VVorthy to dye, that would not liue and might.
Faire Absolons foule faults compard with mine,
2, Re [...]
Are brightest sands, to mud of Sodome lakes.
High aymes, yong spirits, birth of royall line,
Made him play false where kingdomes were the stakes,
He gazd on golden hopes, whose lustre winnes
Sometime the grauest wittes to grieuous sinnes.
But I whose crime cuts off the least excuse,
A kingdome lost, but hop'd no mite of gaine,
My highest marke, was but the worthlesse vse,
Of some few lingring howres of longer paine;
Vngratefull child, his parent he pursude,
I, Gyants warre with God himselfe renude.
Ioy infant Saints, whom in the tender flower
[...]2.
A happy storme did free from feare of sinne,
Long is their life that die in blisfull hower,
Ioyfull such ends as endles ioyes begin.
Too long they liue, that lyue till they be nought,
Life sau'd by sinne, base purchase deerely bought.
This lot was mine, your fate was not so fearce,
VVhom spotlesse death in cradle rockt a sleepe,
Sweet Roses mixt with Lillies strow'd your hearce,
Death virgin white in martirs red did steepe.
Your downy heads both pearles and rubies crownd,
My hoary locks did femall feares confound.
You bleating Ewes that waile thys vvoluish spoyle,
Of sucking Lambes new bought with bitter throwes,
To balme your babes your eyes distill theyr oyle,
Each hart to tombe her child wide rupture showes;
Rue not theyr death whom death did but reuiue:
Yeeld ruth to me that liu'd to die aliue.
VVith easie losse sharpe wreacks dyd he eschew,
That Sindonles aside did naked slyp,
Once naked grace no outward garment knew,
Rich are his robes whom sinne did neuer stryp,
I that in vaunts displaid prides fayrest flags,
Disrob'd of grace, am wrapt in Adams rags.
VVhen traytor to the Sonne, in Mothers eyes,
I shall present my humble sute for grace,
VVhat blush can paint the shame that will arise,
Or write my inward feeling in my face?
Might she the sorrow with the sinner see,
Though I dispisde: my griefe might pittyed bee.
But ah, how can her eares my speech endure,
Or sent my breath still reeking hellish steeme?
Can Mother like what did the Sonne abiure,
Or hart deflowr'd a virgins loue redeeme?
The Mother nothing loues that Sonne doth loath,
Ah lothsome wretch detested of them both.
O sister Nymphes the sweet renowned payre,
That blesse Bethania bounds with your aboade:
Shall I infect that sanctified ayre,
Or staine those steps where Iesus breath'd and trode?
No: let your prayers perfume that sweetned place:
Turne me with Tygers to the wildest chase.
Could I reuiued Lazarus behold,
11.
The thyrd of that sweet Trinitie of Saints?
VVould not astonisht dread my sences hold?
Ah yes, my hart euen with his naming faints;
I seeme to see a messenger from hell,
That my prepared torments comes to tell.
O Iohn, ô Iames, we made a triple corde
17.
Of three most louing and best loued friends:
[...]8.
My rotten twist was broken with a word,
Fit now to fuel fire among the fiends;
It is not euer true, though often spoken,
That triple twisted corde is hardly broken.
The dispossessed deuils that out I threw,
In Iesus name, now impiously forsworne,
Triumph to see mee caged in theyr mew,
Trampling my ruines with contempt and scorne;
My periuries were musick to their daunce,
And now they heape disdaines on my mischaunce.
Our rock (say they) is riuen, ô welcome hower,
Our Eagles wings are clypt that wrought so hie:
Our thundering Cloude made noise but cast no shower,
He prostrate lyes that would haue scal'd the sky;
In womans tongue our runner found a rub,
Our Cedar now is shrunke into a shrub.
These scornefull wordes vpbraid my inward thought,
Proofes of their damned prompters neighbour voice:
Such vgly guests still wait vpon the nought,
Fiends swarm to soules that swarue from vertues choise,
For breach of plighted truth, this true I trie:
Ah, that my deede thus gaue my word the lie.
Once, and but once, too deere a once to twice it,
A heauen, in earth, Saints, nere my selfe I saw;
Sweet was the sight, but sweeter loues did spice it,
But sightes and loues did my misdeed with-draw.
From heauen and Saints to hell and diuels estrang'd,
Those sights to frights, those loues, to hates are chang'd.
Christ, as my God, was tempted in my thought,
As man, he lent mine eyes their dearest light;
But sinne, his temple hath to ruine brought:
And now, he lightneth terrour from his sight,
Now of my lay vnconsecrate desires,
Prophaned wretch I tast the earned hires.
Ah sinne, the nothing that doth all things file;
Out-cast from heauen, earths curse, the cause of hell:
Parent of death, author of our exile,
The wrecke of soules, the wares that fiends do sell.
That men to monsters; Angels turnes to diuels:
VVrong, of all rights; selfe ruine: root of euils.
A thing most done, yet more then God can doe,
Dayly new done; yet euer done amisse:
Friended of all, yet vnto all a foe,
Seeming a heauen, yet banishing from blisse.
Serued with toyle, yet paying nought but paines
Mans deepest losse, though false, esteemed gaine.
Shot, without noyse: wound without present smart:
First seeming light; prouing in fyne a lode▪
Entring with ease, not easily wonne to part,
Far in effects from that the showes abode:
Endorc'd with hope, subscribed with dispaire;
Vgly in death, though life did faine it faire.
O forfeiture of heauen: eternall debt,
A moments ioy; ending in endlesse fires:
Our natures scumme; the worlds entangling Net:
Night of our thoughts: death of all good desires.
VVorse then all this: worse then all tongues can say,
VVhich man could owe, but onely God defray.
This fawning viper, dumme till he had wounded,
VVith many mouthes doth now vpbraid my harmes:
My sight was vaild till I my selfe confounded,
Then did I see the dissinchanted charmes.
Then could I cut the anotomy of sinne,
And search with Linxes eyes what lay within.
Bewitching euill, that hides death in deceits,
Still borrowing lying shapes to maske thy face,
Novv know I the deciphring of thy sleights,
A cunning, deerely bought with losse of grace;
Thy sugred poyson now hath wrought so well,
That thou hast made me to my selfe a hell.
My eye, reades mournfull lessons to my hart,
My hart, doth to my thought the griefes expound,
My thought, the same doth to my tongue impart,
My tongue, the message in the eares doth sound;
My eares, back to my hart theyr sorrowes send,
Thus circkling griefes runne round without an end.
My guilty eye still seemes to see my sinne,
All things Charecters are to spell my fall,
VVhat eye doth reade without, hart rues within,
VVhat hart doth rue, to pensiue thought is gall;
VVhich when the thought would by the tongue disgest
The eare conuayes it backe into the brest.
Thus gripes in all my parts do neuer fayle,
VVhose onely league is now in bartring paines,
VVhat I in grosse, they traffique by retayle,
Making each others miseries theyr gaines;
All bound for euer, prentizes to care,
VVhile I in shop of shame trade sorrowes ware.
Pleasd with displeasing lot I seeke no change,
I wealthiest am when richest in remorce;
To fetch my ware no seas nor lands I range,
For customers to buy I nothing force.
My home-bred goods at home are bought and sold,
And still in me the interest I hold.
My comfort now is comfortlesse to liue,
In Orphan state deuoted to mishap:
Rent from the roote, that sweetest fruit did giue,
I scorn'd to graffe in stocke of meaner sap.
No iuice can ioy me but of Iesse flower,
VVhose heauenly roote hath true reuiuing power.
At sorrowes dore I knockt, they crau'd my name;
I aunswered one, vnworthy to be knowne;
VVhat one, say they? one worthiest of blame.
But who? a wretch, not Gods, nor yet his owne.
A man? O no, a beast; much worse, what creature:
A rocke: how cald? the rocke of scandale, Peter,
From whence? from Caiphas house, ah dwell you there.
Sinnes farme I rented, there, but now would leaue it▪
VVhat rent? my soule; what gaine? vnrest, and feare,
Deere purchase. Ah too deere, will you receiue it?
VVhat shall we giue? fit teares, and times, to plaine me▪
Come in, say they; thus griefes did entertaine me.
VVith them I rest true prisoner to theyr Iayle,
Chain'd in the yron linkes of basest thrall,
Tyll grace vouchsafing captiue soule to bayle,
In wonted See degraded loues enstall.
Dayes, passe in plaints: the nights without repose,
I wake, to weepe, I sleepe in waking woes.
Sleepe, deaths allye, obliuion of teares,
Silence of passions, balme of angry sore,
Suspence of loues, securitie of feares,
VVrathes lenitiue, harts ease, stormes calmest shore,
Sences and soules repriuall from all cumbers,
Benumming sence of ill, with quiet slumbers.
Not such my sleepe, but whisperer of dreames,
Creating strange chymeraes, fayning frights:
Of day discourses giuing fansie theames,
To make dumme shewes with worlds of antick sights,
Casting true griefes in fansies forging mold,
Brokenly telling tales rightly fore-told.
This sleepe most fitly suteth sorrowes bed,
Sorrow, the smart of euill, Sinnes eldest child▪
Best, when vnkind in killing who it bred,
A racke for guiltie thoughts, a bit, for wild.
The scourge, that whips, the salue that cures offence:
Sorrow, my bed, and home, while life hath sence.
Heere solitary Muses nurse my griefes,
In silent lonenesse burying worldly noyse,
Attentiue to rebukes, deafe to reliefes,
Pensiue to foster cares carelesse of ioyes:
Ruing lifes losse vnder deathes dreary roofes,
Solemnizing my funerall behoofes.
A selfe contempt, the shroud: my soule, the corse:
The beere, an humble hope: the herse cloth, feare:
The mourners, thoughts, in blacks of deepe remorse:
The herse, grace, pittie, loue, and mercy beare.
My teares, my dole: the priest, a zealous will:
Pennance, the tombe: and dolefull sighes, the knill.
Christ, health of feuer'd soule, heauen of the mind,
Force of the feeble, nurse of Infant loues,
Guide to the wandring foote, light of the blind,
VVhom weeping winnes, repentant sorrow moues.
Father in care, mother in tender hart:
Reuiue and saue me slaine with finnefull dart.
If king Manasses sunke in depth of sinne,
VVith plaints and teares recouered grace and crowne:
A worthlesse worme some milde regard may winne,
And lowly creepe, where flying threw it downe.
A poore desire I haue to mend my ill;
I should, I would, I dare not say, I will.
I dare not say; I will, but wish I may,
My pride is checkt, high wordes the speaker spilt:
My good, ô Lord, thy gift; thy strength my stay:
Giue what thou bidst, and then bid what thou wilt.
VVorke with me what thou of me do'st request:
Then will I dare the most, and vow the best.
Prone looke, crost armes, bent knee, and contrite hart,
Deepe sighes, thicke sobs, dew'd eyes & prostrate praiers,
Most humbly beg release of earned smart,
And sauing shroud in mercies sweete repaires.
If iustice should my wrongs with rigor wage:
Feares, would dispaires: ruth, breed a hopelesse rage.
Lazar at pitties gate I vlcered lye,
Crauing the reffues crummes of childrens plate:
My sores, I lay in view to mercies eye,
My rags, beare witnesse of my poore estate:
The wormes of conscience that within me swarme:
Proue that my plaints are lesse then is my harme,
VVith mildnesse, Iesu, measure my offence:
Let true remorse thy due reuenge abate:
Let teares appease when trespasse doth incense:
Let pittie temper thy deserued hate.
Let grace forgiue, let loue forget my fall:
VVith feare I craue, with hope I humbly call.
Redeeme my lapse with raunsome of thy loue,
Trauerse th'inditement, rigors doome suspend:
Let frailtie fauour, sorrowes succour moue,
Be thou thy selfe, though changling I offend.
Tender my sute, clense this defiled denne,
Cancell my debts, sweet Iesu, say Amen.
The end of Saint Peters complaint.
MARY MAGDALENS BLVSH.
THE signes of shame that staine my blushing face▪
Rise from the feeling of my rauing fits,
VVhose ioy, annoy: whose guerdon, is disgrace:
VVhose solace, flyes: whose sorrow, neuer flits:
Bad seede I sow'd: worse fruite is now my gaine:
Soone dying mirth begat long liuing paine.
Now pleasure ebbes: reuenge beginnes to flow:
One day doth wreake the wrath that many wrought:
Remorse doth tcach my guiltie thoughts to know,
How cheape I sould, that Christ so deerely bought.
Faults long vnfelt doth conscience now bewray,
VVhich cares must cure, and teares must wash away.
All ghostly dynts that grace at me did dart,
Like stubborne rocke I forced to recoyle;
To other flights an ayme I made my hart,
whose wounds, then wel-come, now haue wrought my foyle.
VVoe worth the bow, woe worth the archers might,
That draue such arrowes to the marke so right.
To pull them out, to leaue them in, is death:
One, to this world: one, to the world to come:
VVounds may I weare, and draw a doubtfull breath:
But then my wounds will worke a dreadfull dome.
And for a world, whose pleasures passe away:
I lose a world, whose ioyes are past decay.
O sence, ô soule, ô had, ô hoped blisse,
You wooe, you weane, you draw, you driue me back.
Your crosse encountring, like their combate is,
That neuer end but with some deadly wrack.
VVhen sence doth winne, the soule doth loose the field,
And present haps, make future hopes to yeeld.
O heauen, lament: sence robbeth thee of Saints:
Lament ô soules, sence spoyleth you of grace.
Yet sence doth scarse deserue these hard complaints,
Loue is the thiefe, sence but the entring place.
Yet graunt I must, sence is not free from sinne,
For theefe he is that theefe admitteth in.
¶ Marie Magdalens complaynt at Christes death.
SIth my life from life is parted:
Death come take thy portion.
VVho suruiues, when life is murdred,
Liues by meere extortion.
All that liue, and not in God:
Couch their life in deaths abod.
Seely starres must needes leaue shining,
VVhen the sunne is shaddowed.
Borrowed streames refraine their running,
VVhen head springs are hindered.
One that liues by others breath,
Dieth also by his death.
O true life, since thou hast left me,
Mortall life is tedious.
Death it is to liue without thee,
Death of all most odious.
Turne againe or take me to thee,
Let me dye or liue thou in mee.
VVhere the truth once was, and is not,
Shaddowes are but vanitie:
Shewing want, that helpe they cannot:
Signes, not salues of miserie.
Paynted meate no hunger feedes,
Dying life each death exceedes.
VVith my loue, my life was nestled
In the somme of happinesse;
From my loue, my life is wrested
To a world of heauinesse.
O, let loue my life remoue,
Sith I liue not where I loue.
O my soule, what did vnloose thee
From thy sweete captiuitie?
God, not I, did still possesse thee:
His, not mine, thy libertie.
O, two happie thrall thou wart,
VVhen thy prison, was his hart.
Spightfull speare, that break'st this prison,
Seate of all felicitie,
VVorking this, with double treason,
Loues and liues deliuerie:
Though my life thou drau'st away,
Maugre thee my loue shall stay.
Times goe by turnes.
THE lopped tree in time may grow againe,
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower:
The soriest wight may finde release of paine,
The dryest soyle sucke in some moystning shower.
Times goe by turnes, and chaunces chaunge by course:
From foule to faire: from better happe, to worse.
The sea of fortune doth not euer flowe,
She drawes her fauours to the lowest ebbe:
Her tydes hath equall times to come and goe,
Her Loome doth weaue the fine and coursest webbe.
No ioy so great, but runneth to an end:
No hap so hard, but may in fine amend.
Not alwaies fall of leafe, nor euer spring,
No endles night, yet not eternall day:
The saddest birds a season find to sing,
The roughest storme a calme may soone alay.
Thus with succeeding turnes God tempereth all:
That man may hope to rise, yet feare to fall.
A chaunce may winne that by mischaunce was lost,
The net that holdes no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crost,
Fewe, all they neede: but none, haue all they wish,
Vnmedled ioyes here to no man befall,
VVho least, hath some, who most, hath neuer all.
Looke home.
REtyred thoughts enioy their owne delights,
As beautie doth in selfe beholding eye:
Mans mind a mirrour is of heauenlie sights,
A briefe wherein all meruailes summed lye.
Of fayrest formes, and sweetest shapes the store,
Most gracefull all, yet thought may grace them more.
The mind a creature is, yet can create,
To natures patterns adding higher skill:
Of finest works wit better could the state,
If force of wit had equall power of will.
Deuise of man in working hath no end,
VVhat thought can think an other thought can mend.
Mans soule of endlesse beauties image is,
Drawne by the worke of endles skill and might;
This skilfull might gaue many sparkes of blisse,
And to discerne this blisse a natiue light,
To frame Gods image as his worthes requird,
His might, his skill, his word, and will conspird.
All that he had his image should present,
All that it should present he could afford:
To that he could afford his will was bent,
His will was followed with performing word.
Let this suffize, by this conceiue the rest,
He should, he could, he would, he did the best.
Fortunes falshood.
IN worldly meriments lurketh much miserie,
Slie fortunes subtilties in baites of happinesse
Shrowd hookes, that swallowed, without recouerie
Murder the innocent with mortall heauinesse.
She sootheth appetites with pleasing vanities,
Till they be conquered with cloaked tyrannie,
Than, changing countenance, with open enmities,
She triumphes ouer them, scorning their slauerie.
VVith fawning flatterie deaths doore she openeth,
Alluring passengers to bloodie destenie:
In offers bountifull, in proofe shee beggereth;
Mens ruines registring her false felicitie.
Her hopes are fastened in blisse that vanisheth,
Her smart inherited with sure possession,
Constant in crueltie, shee neuer altereth,
But from one violence, to more oppression.
To those that follow her, fauours are measured
As easie premises to hard conclusions;
VVith bitter corrosiues her ioyes are seasoned,
Her highest benefits are but illusions.
Her wayes, a laborinth of wandring passages:
Fooles common pilgrimage, to cursed deieties:
VVhose fond deuotion and idle menages
Are wagde with wearinesse in fruitlesse drudgeries.
Blind in her fauorites foolish election,
Chaunce is her arbiter in giuing dignities:
Her choyse of visions, shewes most discretion,
Sith welth the vertuous might wrest from pietie.
To humble suppliants tyrant most obstinate:
She suters aunswereth with contrarieties:
Proud with petition, vntaught to mitigate
Rigour with clemencie in hardest cruelties.
Like Tygre fugitiue from the ambitious,
Like weeping Crodocile to scornefull enemies
Suing for amitie where shee is odious,
But to her followers forswearing curtesies.
No wind so changeable, no sea so wauering,
As giddie Fortune in reeling varieties;
Now mad, now mercifull, now fierce, now fauoring:
In all things mutable, but mutabilities.
Scorne not the least.
WHere wards are weake, & foes encountring strong:
VVhere mightier doe assault, then doe defend:
The feebler part puts vp enforced wrong,
And silent sees, that speech could not amend.
Yet higher powers must thinke, though they repine,
VVhen sunne is set: the little starres will shine.
VVhile Pike doth range, the silly Tench doth flie,
And crouch in priuie creekes, with smaller fish:
Yet Pikes are caught when little fish goe bie:
These, fleet a flote; while those, doe fill the dish.
There is a time euen for the wormes to creepe:
And sucke the dew while all their foes doe sleepe.
The Marlyne cannot euer sore on high,
Nor greedy Grey-hound still pursue the chase:
The tender Larke will finde a time to flie,
And fearefull Hare to runne a quiet race.
He that high growth on Ceders did bestow:
Gaue also lowly Mush-rumpts leaue to grow.
In Amans pompe poore Mardocheus wept;
Yet God did turne his fate vpon his foe.
The Lazar pinde, while Diues feast was kept,
Yet he, to heauen; to hell did Diues goe.
VVe trample grasse, and prize the flowers of May:
Yet grasse is greene, when flowers doe fade away.
The Natiuitie of Christ.
BEholde the father, is his daughters sonne:
The bird that built the nest, is hatch'd therein:
The olde of yeares, an houre hath not out-runne:
Eternall life, to liue doth now beginne.
The word is dumme: the mirth of heauen doth weepe:
Might feeble is: and force doth faintly creepe.
O dying soules, behold your liuing spring:
O dazeled eyes, behold your sonne of grace:
Dull eares, attend what word this word doth bring:
Vp heauie hartes; with ioye your ioye embrace.
From death, from darke, from deafenesse, from dispaires:
This life, this light, this word, this ioye repaires.
Gift better then him selfe, God doth not know:
Gift better then his God, no man can see;
This gift doth here the giuer giuen bestow;
Gift to this gift let each receiuer bee.
God is my gift, himselfe he freely gaue me;
Gods gift am I, and none but God shall haue me.
Man altered was by sinne from man to beast;
Beastes foode is haye, haye is all mortall flesh;
Now God is flesh, and lies in Manger prest;
As haye, the brutest sinner to refresh.
O happie fielde wherein this fodder grew,
VVhose tast, doth vs from beasts to men renew.
¶ Christs childhood.
TIll twelue yeres age, how Christ his childhood spent,
All earthly pennes vnworthy were to write,
Such acts, to mortall eyes he did present:
VVhose worth, not men, but Angels must recite.
No natures blots, no childish faults defilde,
VVhere grace was guide, and God did play the childe.
In springing locks, lay couched hoarie wit,
In semblance young, a graue and auncient port,
In lowly lookes, high Maiestie did sit:
In tender tongue, sound sence of sagest sort,
Nature imparted all that shee could teach,
And God supplied, where nature could not reach.
His mirth, of modest meane a mirrour was,
His sadnesse, tempered with a milde aspect:
His eye, to try each action was a glas,
VVhose lookes, did good approue, and bad correct.
His natures gifts, his grace, his word and deede,
VVell shewed that all did from a God proceede.
A child my choyse.
LEt folly praise that fancie loues, I praise and loue that child,
Whose hart, no thought: whose tong, no word: whose hand no deed defild.
I praise him most, I loue him best, all praise and loue is his:
While him I loue, in him I liue, and cannot liue amisse.
Loues sweetest mark, lawdes highest theme, mans most desired light,
To loue him, life: to leaue him, death: to liue in him, delight.
He mine, by gift: I his, by debt: thus each, to others due:
First friend he was: best friend he is: all times will try him true.
Though young, yet wise: though smal, yet strong: though man, yet God he is:
As wise, he knowes: as strong, he can: as God, he loues to blisse,
His knowledge rules: his strength, defends: his loue, doth cherish all:
His birth, our ioye: his life, our light: his death, our end of thrall.
Alas, he weepes, he sighes, he pants, yet doo his Angels sing:
Out of his teares, his sighes and throbs, doth buda ioyfull spring.
Almightie babe, whose tender armes can force all foes to flie:
Correct my faults, protect my life, direct me when I die.
Content and rich.
IDwell in graces court,
Enrich'd with vertues rights:
Faith, guides my wit: loue, leades my will:
Hope; all my mind delights.
In lowly vales I mount
To pleasures highest pich:
My seely shrowd true honor brings,
My poore estate is rich.
My conscience, is my crowne:
Contented thoughts, my rest▪
My hart is happie in it selfe:
My blisse is in my brest.
Enough, I reckon welth:
A meane, the surest lot,
That lies too high, for base contempt;
Too low, for enuies shot.
My wishes are but few,
All easie to fulfill:
I make the limites of my power,
The bondes vnto my will.
I haue no hopes but one,
VVhich is of heauenly raigne,
Effects attaind, or not desir'd,
All lower hopes resraine.
I feele no care of coyne,
VVeldoing is my welth:
My minde to me an empire is
VVhile grace affordeth health.
I clyp high-clyming thoughts,
The wings of swelling pride,
Their fall is worst that from the hight,
Of greatest honour slide.
Sith sayles of largest size
The storme doth soonest teare,
I beare so low and small a sayle
As freeth me from feare.
I wrastle not with rage
VVhile furies flame doth burne,
It is in vaine to stop the streame
Vntill the tide doth turne.
But when the flame is out,
and ebbing wrath doth end,
I turne a late enraged foe
Into a quiet friend.
And taught with often proofe,
A tempered calme I finde;
To be most solace, to it selfe;
Best cure, for angrie minde.
Spare diet, is my fare;
My clothes, more fit, then fine;
I know I feede and cloth a foe:
That pamp'red, would repine.
I enuie not their happe,
VVhom fauour doth aduance:
I take no pleasure in their paine,
That haue lesse happie chance.
To rise by others fall,
I deeme a loosing gaine:
All states with others ruines built,
To ruine runne a-maine.
No change of fortunes calmes,
Can cast my comforts downe:
VVhen fortune smiles, I smile to thinke,
How quickly shee will frowne.
And when in froward moode
She proues an angrie foe:
Small gaine I found to let her come,
Lesse losse to let her goe.
Losse in delayes.
SHun delayes, they breed remorse,
Take thy time while time doth serue thee,
Creeping Snayles haue weakest force,
Flie theyr fault least thou repent thee,
Good is best when soonest wrought,
Lingring labours come to nought.
Hoise vp saile, while gale doth last;
Tide and wind stay no mans pleasure:
Seeke not time, when time is past,
Sober speede is wisedomes leysure:
After wits are dearely bought,
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.
Time weares all his lockes before,
Take thou hold vpon his fore-head,
VVhen he flies he turnes no more,
And behind his scalpe is naked,
VVorkes aiournd haue many stayes,
Long demurres breede new delayes.
Seeke thy salue while sore is greene,
Festred wounds aske deeper launcing;
After cures are seldome seene,
Often sought scarce euer chauncing,
Time and place giue best aduise,
Out of season out of prise.
Crush the Serpent in the head,
Breake ill egges ere they be hatched,
Kill bad Chickins in the tread,
Fligge, they hardly can be catched.
In the rysing, stifle ill,
Least it grow against thy will.
Drops doe pierce the stubborne flint,
Not by force but often falling,
Custome kils with feeble dint,
More by vse then strength preuailing.
Single sands haue little waight,
Many make a drowning fraight.
Tender twigs are bent with ease,
Aged trees doe breake with bending,
Young desires make little prease,
Growth doth make them past amending.
Happy man that soone doth knock,
Bable babes against the rocke.
Loues seruile Lot.
LOue, mistris is of many minds,
Yet few know whom they serue,
They reckon least how little loue
Theyr seruice doth deserue.
The will shee robbeth from the wit,
The sence from reasons lore,
Shee is delightfull in the rine,
Corrupted in the core;
Shee shroudeth vice in vertues vaile,
Pretending good in ill,
Shee offereth ioy, affoordeth griefe,
A kisse where shee doth kill.
A honny shower raines from her lyps,
Sweet lights shine in her face,
Shee hath the blush of virgine mind,
The minde of Vipers race.
She makes thee seek, yet feare to find,
To find, but not enioy;
In many frownes some gliding smiles,
Shee yeelds to more anoy.
She wooes thee to come neere her fire,
Yet doth shee draw it from thee,
Farre off she makes thy hart to frie,
And yet to freeze within thee.
Shee letteth fall some luring baits
For fooles to gather vp:
Too sweet, too sowre to euery tast
Shee tempereth her cup.
Soft soules she bindes in tender twist,
Small Flyes in spinners webbe,
Shee sets a floote some luring streames,
But makes them soone to ebbe.
Her watrie eyes haue burning force:
Her floods and flames conspire.
Teares kindle sparkes, sobbes fuell are:
And sighes doe blow her fire.
May neuer was the Month [...]oue,
For May is full of flowers,
But rather Aprill wet by kind,
For loue is full of showers.
Like tyrant cruell wounds she giues,
Like Surgeon salue shee lends,
But salue and sore haue equall force,
For death is both their ends.
VVith soothing wordes, inthralled soules:
Shee chaines in seruile bands,
Her eye in silence hath a speach,
VVhich eye best vnderstands.
Her little sweete hath many fowres,
Short hap immortall harmes,
Her louing lookes, are murdring dartes,
Her songs bewitching charmes.
Like winter rose, and sommer Ise
Her ioyes are still vntimely,
Before her hope, behind remorse,
Faire first, in fine vnseemely.
Moodes passions, fancies iealous fits,
Attend vpon her traine;
She yeeldeth rest without repose,
A heau'n in hellish paine.
Her house is slouth, her doore deceite,
And slipperie hope her staires,
Vnbashfull boldnesse bids her guests,
And euery vice repaires.
Her diet is of such delight,
As please till they be past,
But then the poyson kils the hart,
That did entise the tast.
Her sleepe in sinne, doth end in wrath,
Remorse rings her awake,
Death cals her vp, shame driues her out,
Dispaires her vp-shot make.
Plowe not the Seas, sowe not the sands,
Leaue off your idle paine,
Seeke other mistres for your minds,
Loues seruice is in vaine.
Life is but losse.
BY force I liue in will I wish to dye,
In plaint I passe the length of lingring dayes,
Free would my soule from mortall body flye,
And tread the tracke, of deaths desired wayes;
Life is but losse, where death is deemed gaine,
And loathed pleasures breede displeasing paine.
VVho would not dye to kill all murdering greeues,
Or who would liue in neuer dying feares?
VVho would not wish his treasure safe from theeues,
And quit his hart from pangues, his eyes from teares?
Death parteth but two, euer fighting foes,
VVhose ciuill strife, doth worke our endlesse woes.
Life is a wandring course to doubtfull rest,
As oft a cursed ryse to damning leape;
As happie race to winne a heauenly crest,
None being sure, what finall fruites to reape.
And who can like, in such a life to dwell,
VVhose wayes are straite to heau'n, but wyde to hell.
Come cruell death why lingrest thou so long,
VVhat doth withhold thy dint from fatall stroke?
Now prest I am alas thou doest me wrong,
To let me liue more anger to prouoke:
Thy right is had, when thou hast stopt my breath,
VVhy should'st thou stay, to worke my double death?
If Saules attempt in falling on his blade,
As lawfull were, as ethe to put in vre:
If Sampsons leaue, a common law were made,
Of Abels lot if all that would were sure.
Then cruell death thou should'st the tyrant play,
VVith none but such as wished for delay.
VVhere life is lou'd, thou ready art to kill,
And to abridge with sodaine pangues their ioy,
VVhere life is loath'd thou wilt not worke their will,
But dost adiourne their death to their annoy,
To some thou art a fierce vnbidden guest,
But those that craue thy helpe thou helpest least.
Auant ô viper, I thy spight defie,
There is a God that ouer-rules thy force,
VVho can thy weapons to his will apply,
And shorten or prolong our brittle course:
I on his mercie, not thy might relye,
To him I liue, for him I hope to dye.
I dye aliue.
O Life what lets thee from a quicke decease?
O death what drawes thee from a present pray?
My feast is done my soule would beat ease,
My grace is said, ô death come take away.
I liue, but such a life as euer dies,
I die but such a death, as neuer ends,
My death to end my dying life denies,
And life my liuing death no whit amends.
Thus still I dye, yet still I do reuiue,
My liuing death by dying life is fed:
Grace more then nature keepes my hart aliue,
VVhose idle hopes and vaine desires are dead.
Not where I breath, but where I loue I liue,
Not where I loue, but where I am I dye:
The life I wish, must future glory giue,
The deathes I feele, in present dangers lye.
What ioy to line.
I wage no warre, yet peace I none enioy,
I hope, I feare, I fry in freezing cold,
I mount in mirth still prostrate in annoy,
I all the world embrace, yet nothing hold.
All wealth is want where chiefest wishes faile,
Yea life is loath'd, where loue may not preuaile.
For that I loue, I long, but that I lack,
That others loue I loath, and that I haue:
All worldly fraights to me are deadly wrack,
Men, present hap, I future hopes doe craue.
They louing where they liue, long life require,
To liue where best I loue, death I desire.
Heere loue is lent for loane of filthy gaine,
Most friends befriend thēselues with friendships shew
Heere, plentie perril, want doth breed disdaine,
Cares common are, ioyes faulty, short & few.
Here honour enuide, meanenes is dispis'd,
Sinne deemed solace, vertue little pris'd.
Heere beauty is a baite that swallowed choakes,
A treasure sought still to the owners harmes:
A light that eyes to murdring sighs prouokes,
A grace that soules enchant with mortall charmes.
A luring ayme to Cupids fiery flights,
A balefull blisse that damnes where it delights.
O who would liue, so many deaths to try?
VVhere will doth wish that wisedome doth reproue,
VVhere nature craues that grace must needs denie,
VVhere sence doth like, that reason cannot loue,
VVhere best in shew, in finall proofe is worst,
VVhere pleasures vpshot is to die accurst.
Lifes death loues life.
WHo liues in loue, loues least to liue,
And long delayes doth rue:
If him he loue by whom he liues,
To whom all loue is due.
VVho for our loue did choose to liue,
And was content to die:
VVho lou'd our loue more then his life,
And loue with life did buy.
Let vs in life, yea with our life,
Requite his liuing loue,
For best we liue when least we liue,
If loue our life remoue.
VVhere loue is hote, life hatefull is,
Their grounds doe not agree:
Loue where it loues, life where it liues,
Desireth most to be.
And sith loue is not where it liues,
Nor liueth where it loues:
Loue hateth life, that holdes it backe,
And death it best approues.
For seldome is he wonne in life,
VVhom loue doth most desire:
If wonne by loue yet not inioyde,
Till mortall life expire.
Life out of earth, hath not aboad,
In earth loue hath no place,
Loue setled hath her ioyes in heau'n,
In earth life all her grace.
Mourne therefore no true louers death:
Life onely him annoyes,
And when he taketh leaue of life,
Then loue beginnes his ioyes.
At home in Heauen.
FAire soule, how long shall veyles thy graces shroud?
How long shall this exile with-hold thy right,
VVhen will thy sunne disperse this mortall cloud,
And giue thy glories scope to blaze their light?
O that a Starre more fit for Angels eyes,
Should pyne in earth, not shyne aboue the skyes.
Thy ghostly beautie offred force to God,
It cheyn'd him in the linkes of tender loue.
It woon his will with man to make abode:
It stai'd his Sword, and did his wrath remoue.
It made the rigor of his iustice yeeld,
And Crowned mercie Empresse of the feeld.
This lull'd our heauenly Sampson fast a sleepe,
And laid him in our feeble natures lap.
This made him vnder mortall load to creep
And in our flesh his god-head to enwrap.
This made him soiourne with vs in exile:
And not disdayne our tytles in his stile.
This brought him from the rankes of heau'nly quires,
Into this vale of teares, and cursed soyle:
From flowers of grace, into a world of bryers:
From life to death, from blisse to balefull toyle.
This made him wander in our Pilgrim weede,
And tast our torments, to relieue our neede.
O soule do not thy noble thoughtes abase?
To lose thy loues in any mortall wight:
Content thine eye at home with natiue grace,
Sith God him selfe is rauisht with thy sight.
If on thy beautie God enamored bee:
Base is thy loue of any lesse then hee.
Giue not assent to muddy minded skill,
That deemes the feature of a pleasing face,
To be the sweetest baite to lure the will:
Not valewing right the worth of ghostly grace▪
Let Gods and Angels censure winne beliefe,
That of all beauties iudge our soules the chiefe.
Queene Hester was of rare and pearlesse hew,
And Iudeth once for beautie bare the vaunt,
But he that could our soules endowments vew,
Would soone to soules the Crowne of beauty graunt,
O soule out of thy selfe seeke God alone:
Grace more then thine, but Gods, the world hath none.
Lewd Loue is Losse.
MIsdeeming eye that stoupest to the lure
Of mortall worthes not worth so worthy loue▪
All beauties base, all graces are impure:
That do thy erring thoughts from God remoue.
Sparkes to the fire, the beames yeelde to the sunne,
All grace to God from whom all graces runne.
If picture moue, more should the patterne please,
No shaddow can, with shaddowed things compare,
And fayrest shapes whereon our loues do seaze:
But seely signes of Gods high beauties are.
Goe steruing sence, feede thou on earthly mast,
True loue in Heau'n, seeke thou thy sweet repast.
Gleane not in barren soyle these offall eares,
Sith reap thou maiest whole haruests of delight.
Base ioyes with griefes, bad hopes do end in feares:
Lewd loue with losse, euill peace with deadly fight:
Gods loue alone doth end with endlesse ease,
VVhose ioyes in hope, whose hope concludes in peace.
Let not the luring traine of fansies trap,
Or gracious features proofes of natures skill,
Lull reasons force a sleepe in errors lap,
Or draw thy wit to bent of wanton will;
The fayrest flowers, haue not the sweetest smell,
A seeming heauen, proues oft a damning hell.
Selfe-pleasing soules that play with beauties bayte,
In shyning shroud may swallow fatall hooke,
VVhere eager sight, or semblant faire doth waite,
A locke it proues that first was but a looke;
The fish with ease into the Net doth glide,
But to get out the way is not so wide.
So long the flie doth dallie with the flame,
Vntill his singed wings doe force his fall,
So long the eye doth follow fancies game,
Till loue hath left the hart in heauie thrall;
Soone may the minde be cast in Cupids Iayle,
But hard it is imprisoned thoughts to bayle.
O loath that loue, whose finall ayme is lust,
Moth of the mind, eclypse of reasons light,
The graue of grace, the mole of natures rust,
The wrack of wit, the wrong of euery right;
In summe, an euill whose harmes no tongue can tell,
In which to liue is death, to dye is hell.
Loues Garden griefe.
VAine loues auaunt infamous is your pleasure,
Your ioy deceit,
Your iewels iests, & worthlesse trash your treasure,
Fooles common bait.
Your pallace is a prison that allureth
To sweet mishap, and rest that paine procureth.
Your garden griefe, hedg'd in with thornes of enuie,
And stakes of strife:
Your Allyes errour graueled with iealousie,
And cares of life.
Your bankes are seates enwrapt with shades of sadnes,
Your Arbours breed rough fittes of raging madnes.
Your beds are sowne with seedes of all iniquitie,
And poys'ning weedes:
VVhose stalks euill thoughts, whose leaues words full of vanitie,
VVhose fruite misdeedes.
VVhose sap is sinne, whose force and operation,
To banish grace, and worke the soules damnation.
Your trees are dismall plants of pyning corrosiues,
VVhose roote is ruth.
VVhose barke is bale, whose timber stubborne fantasies:
VVhose pyth vntruth.
On which in liew of birdes whose voyce delighteth:
Of guiltie conscience screching note affrighteth.
Your coolest summer gales are scalding sighings,
Your showers are teares,
Your sweetest smell the stench of sinfull liuing,
Your fauoures feares
Your gardener sathan, all you reape is miserie:
Your gaine remorse and losse of all felicitie.
From Fortunes reach.
LEt fickle fortune runne her blindest rase:
I setled haue an vnremoued mind:
I scorne to be the game of fansies chase,
Or vane to shew the chaunge of euery wind,
Light giddy humors stinted to no rest,
Still chaunge their choyce, yet neuer chose the best.
My choyse was guided by fore-sightfull heede,
It was auerred with approuing will,
It shalbe followed with performing deede:
And seal'd with vow, till death the chooser kill,
Yea death though finall date of vaine desires,
Endes not my choyse, which with no time expires.
To beauties fading blisse I am no thrall:
I bury not my thoughts in mettall Mynes,
I aime not at such fame, as feareth fall,
I seeke and find a light that euer shynes:
VVhose glorious beames display such heauenly sights,
As yeeld my soule a summe of all delights.
My light to loue, my loue to lyfe doth guyde
To life that liues by loue, and loueth light:
By loue to one, to whom all loues are tyde
By dewest debt, and neuer equall right.
Eyes light, harts loue, soules truest life he is,
Consorting in three ioyes, one perfect blisse.
FINIS.