A new spring of divine poetrie. I. Day. philomusus composuit - inest sua gratia parvis

A new spring of divine poetrie. I. Day. philomusus composuit - inest sua gratia parvis

Table of contents

Title page

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Vo•um Auctoris.

TO HIS FRIEND THE AVTHOVR.

TO HIS ESTEEMED LOVING FRIEND IAMES DAY, in Commendation of his Booke.

The Preface.

THE WORLDES METAMORPHOSIS.

CHRISTS BIRTH AND PASSION.

CANT. 8. 7. Much water cannot quench love, neither can the floods drowne it.

Mans naturall infirmity.

The Melancholicke Soules comfort.

The Soule in love with Christ.

Lord why hidest thou thy face from me.

Christs Resurrection.

Sanctificat.

A Meditation on a Mans shadow.

A Meditation on Childrens rashnesse.

A Meditation on a good Father having a bad Sonne.

A Meditation on a Weathercocke.

A Meditation on Cockfighting.

A Meditation on an Echo and a Picture.

A Meditation on Noahs Dove.

A Meditation on a Shippe.

A Meditation on a Windmill.

A Meditation on Organs.

A Meditation on an Apes love.

On contempt of the World.

A Meditation on a meane.

On Sathans tempting Eve.

On a Spunge.

On Cain and Abels offerings.

On an Apprentices Boxe.

On Eves Apple.

On a faire house having ill passage to it.

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A NEW SPRING OF DIVINE POETRIE.

1. Day philomusus composuit—inest sua gratia parvis.

HEB DDIUV HEB DDIM

Printed at London by T. C. for Humphry Blunden, at his shop neere the Castle Taverne, in Corne-hill. 1637

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T ake heede, my Muse, what? patroniz'd by none?

O ben't o're bold; can infants stand alone?

M ake haste unto some sheltring place, or now

I nvoke the favour of some smiling brow,

S tirre not abroad, unlesse some gracious eye

T ake pitty on thee in thy infancy.

R ather become a silvan Muse, and then

I nvolue thy selfe into some private den,

S uch times as these are not for vulgar notes,

B rought through a rusticke pipe, but quainter throtes,

R iper inventions, and the nimblest wits,

I ngenious faneies, such, these times befits,

D ar'st thou to stirre abroad, upheld by none?

G oe, goe and prattle at thy Helicon,

E ndeavour for to get Apolloes bayes,

T ip thou thy rusticke tongue with silver Phrase,

R ipen thy shallow braine, then crouch and sing

V nder the shaddow of some sheltring wing,

D raw neere, but softly speake, but not to loud,

G et some protection else I often voude

E ver to keepe thee in eternall night

Vo [...]um Auctoris.

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MOst mighty God, thou that alone canst save,

And raise a stinking Laz'rus from his grave,

That heal'st the sick, and let'st the tongue-tide speake,

That mak'st the weakest strong, and strongest weake,

Into my fainting Soule, doe thou infuse

Thy Spirit, make my tributary Muse,

Pay stipend at thy footestoole, let her be

No more Apolloes, onely now for thee,

Ope thou her sealed lips, that shee may bring

Thee glory: teach, O teach her how to sing.

TO HIS FRIEND THE AVTHOVR.

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FAine would I speake, but yet my tongueti' de muse

In Rivers, thirstlesse; and when she hath most use

Of speech, is strucken dumbe: shee's plenteous poore,

And knew shee lesse to say, shee could say more.

Shee doth enjoy, and yet shee cannot finde

Beginning, too much light hath strucke her blinde;

I could admire thee Iames, and though in truth

The downy Characters of blooming youth,

Searce write thee man, yet if we measure yeares

By vertue, thou a Nestor wilt appeare.

For when most men doe fill their greedy mawes

With Comicke laughter, and the sweaty plause

Of vulgar palmes, others write wounding lines,

And will accuse (though they be worse) the times.

Thou steer'st another course, and spend'st thy oyle

In sacred objects, and in holy toyle,

[Page]No sinfull eloquence thy verse defames,

No lustfull sports, nor Cupidinean flames,

Thy Poesye doth neither frowne, nor smile,

There's nor Satyricke, nor Venereous stile,

And must these workes be hid? and car'st thou lesse

To give them to the mothes, then to the Presse?

Free them from darkenesse Iames, that they may be

A light to others, and a crowne to thee;

For ere they shall be long obscur'd, I say

Like Phosphorus Ile usher in thee DAY.

H. G.

TO HIS ESTEEMED LOVING FRIEND IAMES DAY, in Commendation of his Booke.

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THy shining workes (O DAY) doe seeme so bright,

Surely Thou'lt have an ever lasting light;

If these thy radient beames breake forth so soone,

How glorious will thy splendor be at noone:

Tis but thy morning, yet thy Sunne displayes

His beauty, and sends downe his golden rayes,

Well (DAY) Ile tell thee this; though envy spight

And Critickes snarle, thou'lt never have a night.

T. I.

The Preface.

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YOV wanton Lads, that spend your winged time,

And chant your eares, in reading lustfull rime,

Who like transform'd Acteon range about,

And beate the woods to finde Diana out,

I'st this you'ld have? then hence: here's no content

For you, my Muse ne're knew what Venus meant;

But stay: I may subvert your rude conceit;

And every verse may proove a heavenly baite:

O that ye were such captives! then yould be

Thrice happy: such as these are onely free,

Leave, leave your wanton toyes; and let alone

Apollo sporting at his Helicon,

Let Vulcan deale with Venus, whats to thee

Although shee dandle Cupids on her knee?

Be not inchanted with her wanton charmes,

Let her not hugge thee in her whorish armes,

But wisely doe (as Neptune did) in spite

Of all, spue out the Lady Aphrodite,

Come, come fond lad, what? would'st thou faine espye,

A glorious object for thy wandring eye?

And glut thy sight with beauty? would'st behold

A visage that will make thy Venus cold?

If this be all, Ile give thy eye delight:

Come see that face that lendes the Sunne his light,

[Page]Come see that face that makes the heavens to shine,

Come see that glorious face, that lends thee thine,

Come and behold that face which if thou see,

Aright, t'will make the earth a heaven to thee,

Come see that glistring face from which arise

Such glorious beames that dazels Angels eyes,

What canst have more; but dost thou thinke that such

A comely visage will not let thee touch?

Or dost thou thinke a Sunne that shines so cleare,

Will scorne to let a lesser Orbe come neere?

No thou mistak'st: say, dost thou truely thirst,

For him? I dare avouch hee lov'd thee first,

Be not dismaid, It needes no more dispute,

Come give this glorious face a kinde salute.

THE WORLDES METAMORPHOSIS.

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BEfore all time, when every thing did lye,

The Chaos.

Wrapt in a Chaos of deformity,

When all things nothing were, and could present

No comely frame, no heaven, no element,

No earth, no water, fire or ayre alone

But all as twere compounded all in one,

Then with a word our Tri-une Iove did bring,

This nothing Chaos into every thing;

Yea then our great Iehovah did present

A severall region to each element,

Then Time, his houres began to measure out,

And he most nimbly garison'd about,

This new created Orbe: he tooke his flight

And hurried restlesse on both day and night,

His motion was so quicke, that scarce twas ey'd,

He for ten thousand worlds won't squint aside,

Nor once turne backe his head; by chance I viewd

His flight▪ his wings I thought were then renewd.

[Page]Yea his unwearied feathers did so soare

Swiftly, as if they never flew before,

As when the Thracians from their snaky bow

Did make there featherd darts so swiftly goe,

That they out ranne all sight, so time did flie,

As if he strove with winged Mercurie;

No weapon all this while for his defence

He bore, he dealt with none but innocence,

And now those foggy mists that so did lye,

Cloyster'd together from eternity

Were all dispersd; yea now twas very bright

And darkenesse was unfetter'd from the light;

When this was done, our great Iehovah lent

The world (as yet scarce made) a firmament,

He separated waters wondrous well,

Then Seas with surging billowes ganne to swell,

And tossed to and fro with every wave,

As if the fretfull region would out brave

Her owne Creator; they were not content

With their but now appointed regiment,

Their watry mountaines did so oft aspire

To Heaven, as if they would be placed higher,

But now great Iove lookt on they did not dare

Surpasse their stations, nay, nor once impaire

Their bounds, he quickly queld their lusty prankes,

And causd the waves to crouch within their bankes,

When he had conquerd this unruly stran,

Within two dayes he crownes Leviathan,

King of the liquid region, and doth give

Ten thousand thousand more with him to live,

Then fruitfull earth which is the Ocean barres

Appeares, and heavens bespangled all with starres,

The Sunne begins his beauty to present,

And proudly danceth up the Orient,

[Page]He nor his horses can no longer sleepe,

But gallop from the orientall deepe,

He rid so fast that in few houres was spide

All bravely wrapt in his meridian pride,

But when he clamber'd to the highest brinke,

He view'd the fabricke, then began to sinke,

And all the way as hee did homewards goe,

He laughed, to see so brave a frame below,

Still whipping on his Iades, untill his head

Was safely laid into his Westerne bed.

Silver Lucina as yet did not enter,

But lay immured within the reeking center,

Whilst he had mounted on his flaming seate,

And viewd a glorious orbe, wondrous, compleate,

With that the purple Lady straight prepares,

Attended with ten thousand thousand starres,

Shee clambers up in this her rich aray,

And viewes the goodly building all the way,

Sweete smiles shee cast from her admiring eye,

Whilst all her little babes stood twinkling by,

Playing the wantons by their mothers side,

As if they were inamour'd with the pride

Of such a Fabricke: to expresse their mirth,

Some shot from heaven, as though they'd live on Earth,

This done, sweete Phoebe soone beganne to drop

Her borrowed beames into her brothers lap,

And ever since to see this glorious sight

One laughes at day; the other smiles at night.

And can you blame them? earth is spread with bowres,

And trees, and proudly deckt with sundry flowers,

Shee that ere while in dunghill Chaos lay,

Is now with Vi'lets purp'ld every day,

[Page]And damaskt all with Roses, yea shees clad

With sweeter herbes then ever Ceres had,

Her fruitfull wombe brings forth most dainty cates,

And lovely fruites, these are her comely brattes,

No rusticke Plowman now doth take the paines

To peirce her entrailes, or to squeeze her veines,

But heaven and shee unites, they scorne to see

A bastard weede, disgrace their pedigree,

Shee's overspread with pinkes and Daffadillies,

Carnations, Roses, and the whitest Lilies,

Those fondlings lolling in her armes doe lye,

Shaking their heads, and in her bosome dye;

These in their mothers sides doe take their rest,

Till they doe drop their leaves into her brest,

And now the little birds doe every day,

Sit singing in the boughs, and chirpe, and play,

The Phesant and the Partridge slowly flye,

Vndaunted even before the Faulcons eye,

Now comes Behemoth with his Lordly gate,

Gazing, as if he stood admiring at

So rich a frame, first having fixt his sight

On glorious earth, he alwayes tooke delight

In viewing that; and would not looke on high,

Nay all the glorious spangles of the skye

Could not entice him, ever from his birth

He spent his time in looking on the earth.

All other beasts their greedy eyes did fling

On lovely earth, as did their crowned King:

Yea now the Lion with the Lambe did goe,

And knew not whether blood were sweete or no,

The little Kids to shew their wanton pride,

Came dancing by the loving Tigers side,

[Page]The Hare being minded with the Hounds to play,

Would give a sporting touch, and so away,

And then returne, being willing to be found,

And take his turne to chace the wanton Hound.

The busie Mice sat sporting all the day,

Meane while the Cat did smile to see them play.

The Foxe stands still, to see the Geese asleepe,

The harmelesse Wolfe now grazeth with the Sheepe,

Here was no raping, but all beasts did lye

As link'd in one, O Heavenly Sympathy!

The goodly Pastures springing from the Clay,

Did wooe their mouthes to banquet, all the way

Was spread with dainty herbes, and as they found

Occasion, they would oft salute the ground,

Those uncontrouled creatures then begunne

To sport, and all lay basking in the Sunne,

No creature was their Lord, gainesaid by none,

As if that Heaven and earth were all their owne.

Thus when this mighty builder did inrobe

Himselfe with night, and Chaos to a globe

Convert, of this he tooke a serious view,

And did as twere create it all anew,

He made a little Orbe, cald man▪ the same,

Onely compacted in a lesser frame,

For what is all this all, that man in one

Doth not enjoy. A man thats onely blowne

With heavens breath, a man that doth present

Life, Spirit, sense, and every element:

Yea in this little world great Iove did place

His glorious Image, and this miry face

Was heavens picture, twas this face alone

That still lookt up to his Creators throne,

[Page]Then God did make (a place to be admir'd,

Surely twas heaven it selfe had then conspir'd,

To finde it out,) a garden sweetly blowne,

With pleasant fruite, and man's exempt from none,

Of all these plants, except a middle tree,

And what can one among a thousand bee!

O glorious place, that God doth now provide

For durty clay! the earth in all her pride,

He tramples on: and heav'n that's so beset

With spangles and each glistring Chrysolet

Doth give attendance, yea it serves to be

A covering for his head, his Canopie.

Thus man of heaven and earth is all possest,

This span of durt, is Lord of all the rest,

Me think's I see how all the Creatures bring

Their severall Congies to their new made King,

Behemoth which ere while did range about

Vncheckt, and tossing up his bony snowt,

Feard none: now having cast his rowling eyes

Vpon his Lord, see how he crouching lyes,

Behind a sheltring bush, he seemes to be,

Imploring aide of every spreading tree,

The Lyon which ere while was in his pride,

Squinting by chance his gogle-eyes aside,

Espies his King, he dares not stay for haste,

Spues out his meate halfe chaw'd, and will not taste

Of his intended food; but sneakes away,

Counting his life to be his chiefest prey,

It was but now the raven was espide,

Sporting her wings upon the Tigars hide,

But now, O how her feather'd say les doe soare,

As if shee vowd to touch the earth no more!

[Page]See how the Goates doe clamber to the top

Of highest mountaines, and the Conies drop

Into their holes, see how the Roebucke flings

himselfe, almost exchanging legs for wings.

Why? what's the matter, that ye haste away,

Ye that ere while, were sporting all the day?

Tell me yee Creatures, say, what fearefull sight

Hath put you to this unexpected flight?

Speake, speake thou giddy lambe, wer't not thou spide

At play but now? why then dost skip aside?

What? is it man that frights you? can his face

Stretch out your legs unto their swiftest pace?

Can one looke daunt you all? what neede this bee?

Are ye not made of Clay, as well as hee?

Have ye not one Creator? are ye not

His elder Brothers, and the first begot?

Why start ye then? is it not strange to see

One weake-one make ten thousand strong ones flee?

But ah I neede not aske, I know it now,

You spied your makers image in his brow.

T'was even so indeed, no time to stay,

Your Lord was comming, fit, he should have way.

And thus these Creatures dares not come in sight;

Surely t'was heavens Idea, causd the fright.

Now see how flattering earth doth strive alone

To please this Lord; each tree presents a done,

See how the fruite hangs with a comely grace,

And wooes his hands to rent them from their place,

O how they bow, and would not have him bring

His hands to them, they bend unto their King,

But if by chance he will not plucke and taste,

They breake the boughes, and so for griefe they waste.

[Page]See how the little pinkes when they espie

Their Lord, doe Curtsy as he passeth by,

The wanton Dazies shake their leavy heads,

The purple Vilets startle from their beds,

The Primrose sweete and every flowre that growes,

Bestrowes his way with odours as he goes;

Thus did the herbes, the trees, the pleasant flowres

Welcome their Lord into his Eden bowres.

But all this while, the earth with all her pride,

Shee nor her store could not aford a bride

Fitting for man, no, no, to end the strife

The man himselfe must yeeld himselfe a wife,

It was not meete for him to be alone.

Then did our one-in-three our three-in-one

Cast him into a sleepe, and did divide

His ribbes, and brought a woman from his side.

When this was done, the devill did entice

The wife from Gods, unto his Paradice,

See how the lying serpent maketh choise

Of the forbidden tree: a tacite voice

It hath indeede most lovely to the eye,

Presents it to her, and shee by and by

Forsooth must taste: and so must Adam too.

What cannot women by entreaties doe!

God he intends a wife for mans reliefe,

But oftentimes shee prooves the greatest griefe.

Was there but one forbid? and must shee bee

So base a wretch to taste of such a tree?

Must Adam too? Ah see how shee pluckes downe

Her husbands glory, and kickes off his crowne!

O see how angry God himselfe comes downe,

To curse these wretches! heaven begins to frowne,

[Page]Alas poore naked soules, me thinkes I see

Transformed Adam crouch behind a tree,

T'is time to runne when once God doth reject him,

Tis not his leavy armour can protect him,

Heaven and hell with all the spight they can

Strive for revenge against this monster man.

O how the Creatures frowne, and bend their brow,

As if they all conspir'd and tooke a vow

Against this caytive, hearke how earth complaines

That shee by man is barrd of mod'rate raines,

Shees now become a strumpet, fruitfull seedes,

And dainty flowers, are turn'd to bastard weedes,

Disrob'd of all her glory, lost her pride,

The creatures now lie starving by her side,

O how shee sighes, and sends up hideous cryes,

To see poore cattell fall before her eyes,

For want of foode: they rip their mothers wombe

For meate, but finding none, doe makt their tombe,

Harke how the buls and angry Lyons roare

To heaven, and tell how man decreast their store,

Heare how the little Lambes which yesterday

Did honour to their King, and gave him way,

O how they begge for vengeance to come downe

On man, and dispossesse him of his Crowne,

See, see what raping and what cruell thrall

Is us'd: tis man alone that murders all,

The Lion mild ere while for want of foode,

Doth fill his paunch with unaccustom'd blood,

The wolfe which lately was more apt to keepe

The tender lambes, now prosecutes the sheepe,

Surely the ravenous beasts (did not they spye

The glimpse of heaven within mans purblind eye,)

[Page]Would straight devoure him, did not mercy now

Come downe and smooth her fathers wrinkled brow:

The earth would scorne to beare him, but divide

Her selfe, and make this Dathan sincke in pride;

The earth would not indure the plough to passe

Into her iron sides, the heavens as brasse

Would soone become, and both doe what they can

To starve up this deformed monster man.

See how this Caytife causeth discontent,

And raiseth discord in each element,

How often have I seene the raging fire

Vnto the top of highest Towres aspire,

And clamber mighty buildings? tis unbound,

Surely t'would burne the fabricke to the ground,

Did not our God looke from his mercy seat,

And make the watry sister quell the heate.

How is the ayre poysned with misty fogges,

And churlish vapours; onely such that clogs

The Corps with deadly humours, such that brings

The Pestilence, yea such that quickely flings

Loathsome diseases alwayes tipt with death,

Did not Iove fanne it with his mighty breath.

Harke how the impatient seas beginne to thunder,

As if they'd rent their prison walls in sunder;

See how the mounting waves doe swiftly flye

To heaven, as if they meant to tell the skye

How basely man hath dealt: O how they roare,

Beating their foming waves against the shore,

Chiding their sister earth that dares to beare

So base a wretch; see how the waves doe teare

Her bowels, and with all the spight they can

Strive for to drowne this wretched Caytife man.

CHRISTS BIRTH AND PASSION.

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O Thou most Sacred Dove that I may write

Thy praises, drop thou from thy soaring flight

A quill: come aide my muse, for shee intends

To sing such love no mortall comprehends,

Guide thou her stamring tongue, and let her be

Strongly protected in her infancy,

Then shee'll tell how the King of Kings by birth

Forsooke his throne, to live on dunghill earth,

Then shee'le declare how great creating Iove,

Whose starre-bepaved pallace is above

All whose attendance is a glorious troope,

Of glitt'ring cherubs, unto whom doe stoope

Each glorious Angell, flinging himselfe downe,

Presenting at his feete his pearely crowne,

To be his pallace heaven it selfe's not meete,

And dunghill earth's too little for his feete;

Yet this great King-creating King did slide

To earth, and laid his Diadem aside,

Exchanging it for thornes, and did untire

His glorious selfe, and clad himselfe in mire;

[Page]At whose appearance singing Angels shot

Like starres from heaven (newes nere to be forgot)

Yea winged Cherubs from the highest came

As Heavens Heralds to divulge his fame.

All heaven did obey sance but for earth

(Vngratefull soile unworthy of the birth

Of such a babe) twas readier to intombe

The dying Lord, then to afford a roome,

Proud Salem was too high to entertaine

Poore Maries babe, twas kept for Herods traine,

And Rome that seavenhild Citty was too greate

To lodge this Child, tis Caesars royall seate,

T'is Bethlem, little Bethlem must suffice

To lighten Iosephs Consorts weary thighes,

And thats almost too proud to lodge him in,

No private house, but even a vulgar Inne,

And tha're not harbourd in the choisest roomes,

No, not so well as with the common groomes,

But this (ah most unworthy) worthy guests

Is thrust (and gladly too) among the beasts,

He that before was wont to take his rest,

All coverd in his fathers silken breast,

Is now constrained to lay his worthy head,

Vpon an undeserved strawy bed,

He that was wont to heare the pleasant tones

Of sweete-voyc'd Angels, now the saddest grones

Of dolefull Mary, mixt with brinish teares,

These onely these are harbour'd in his eares,

The Babe is scarcely borne, but sought to dye,

As yet not learn'd to goe, but forc'd to flye,

And to avoid the Tetrarchs furious Curse,

Hard hearted Egypt's now become a Nurse,

[Page]He that can make both Heaven and earth to dread,

Loe patiently takes all, and hides his head,

Yet hee'le returne, no, not the bitter wrongs,

Nor spightfull usage, nor the smarting thongs,

Nor sharpest scourges, no nor blackest hell,

Can quench the boundlesse love, nor yet expell

His strong affections, let the traitors set

A thorny crowne on's head, and also wet

His glorious face with spittle, and deride,

And scourge till blood falls trickling downe his side,

Nay though he be constrain'd to leave his breath,

And's dying soule is heavy unto death,

He can't but smile upon his bitter foe,

And love the traitors whe're they will or no,

Yet see how sordid man repayeth all

His kindnesse, with an undeserved thrall,

Whil'st he (sad soule) lay prostrate all alone,

Fast fixing both his eyes at heavens throne,

And sending up such sighes, as though he'd make

The weakned vaults of heaven and earth to shake,

His sweate dropt downe like dew, and as he stood

He staind Mount Olives with his Crimson blood,

Whilst all his sad Disciples drowsy lye,

Scarce able to hold up a sluggish eye,

Now he's betraid by Iudas, he that bore

The bagge, and was intrusted with the store,

He that did scorne the traitors name, and cry,

Who shall betray thee Lord? Lord speake? is't I?

Yet now an abject Christ becomes, to be,

And thirty pence is valu'd more then he,

The bloody steward with a treacherous kisse

Forsooke his Master and eternall blisse,

[Page]And sould the body of a Lord so good

To souldiers, such as thirsted after blood,

And then for feare the Innocent should passe

Vntoucht, was straight accused by Caiaphas,

Condemn'd by Pontius Pilate, to expell

The guilt, he washt his hands, and all was well,

O see what force weake water had to quench

His sparkling Conscience, and his flaming sence!

Alas not Nilus, no nor Iordans flood

Can cleanse the staines of such a Crimson blood;

No tis the streames of a repenting eye

Tis onely this takes out a scarlet dye,

Thus our Astrea stands arraign'd to dye

And nothing's to be heard but Crucifye:

When this alarum sounded to the hight

And heav'n and hell conspired both to fight

Against this Captaine, then his daunted troope

Forsooke their Lord, each soule began to droope;

Yet gracious he imparted his renowne

He wonne the battell and gave them the Crowne,

Yea he became a curse that knew no sinne

He was inrob'd and disinrob'd ag'in,

His temples crown'd with thornes, his glorious face

Was spit upon and beate with all disgrace

That abject slaves could use, and then they cry,

To blinded Christ who beate thee? prophecy.

Ah stupid soules as if that piercing sight

That viewes all secrets in the darkest night,

That tries the thoughts of every heart, and stares

Into each soule is now as blind as theirs;

Thus was he basely us'd, but all's not done

The hell-invented fury is to come,

[Page]By vulgar slaves the very Sonne of God

Is falsely scourg'd and forc'd to kisse the rod,

Yea he whose nostrils able are to cast

Out flame, and burne the world at every blast,

Whose mighty breath is able for to fanne

Ten thousand worlds, and puffe out every man

Like chaffe, and make the flanting world to tosse

Like waves, is now compeld to beare his crosse;

Whereon his body in a vulgar streete

Hung naked pierc'd with nayles both hands and feete:

The well of water, he that gave the first

To all his creatures, now's himselfe a thirst,

Yea he to whom all thirsty creatures call

For drinke, must now drinke vinegar with gall,

They pierc'd his side from whence came watry blood,

More soveraigne farre then all Bethesda's flood,

These tyrants thus (though to themselves denide)

Did make a way to heaven through his side.

Alas my muse for sighes can scarce prolong

The fatall tuning of so dire a song,

To see heavens faire Idea seeme so foule

Sobbing and sighing out his burdned soule,

Those eyes which now seeme dim, were once so bright,

From hence it was that Phoebus begd his light,

Those armes which now hang weake did from their birth

Support the tottring vaults of heaven and earth,

That tongue that now lyes speechlesse in his head,

A word of that would soone revive the dead,

One touch of those Pale fingers would suffice

To heale the sicke and make the dead man rise:

Those legges which now are peircd by abject slaves

were kindly entertaind amongst the waves:

[Page]The coate whose warmth did give his sides reliefe

The hem, the very hem could cure a griefe;

But now strength's weake, th'omnipotent's a crying

For aid, health's sicke and life it selfe's a dying,

His head hangs drooping and his eyes are fixt,

His weakned armes growne pale, the sunne's eclipst

(O boundlesse love, thus thus thou didst expose

Thy selfe to damned paines to save thy foes)

Hell fought against him, heaven began to frowne

And justice soone sent vengeance posting downe,

Who clad with fury, being angry shakes

Her ugly head whose haire doth nurture snakes,

Shee layes about her greedy of her prey

Quencheth her thirst with blood and so away,

And mercy now lies cover'd in a cloud

And will not heare although his sighes are loud

(Although his cries are such that cause a stone

To heare, yet sinne makes heav'n forget her owne)

Heav'n frownes as if shee had her owne forgot,

Mercy lookes off as if shee knew him not,

He suffred paines that hell it selfe devisd,

So much, that justice cride I am suffic'd:

His tortures were so high, so great, so sore,

That hell cride out: I can inflict no more:

Which done the heavens closd up their lamping light

And turn'd the day into a dismall night;

Bright Phoebus vaild his face and would not see,

Wormes actors of so bloody treachery:

And quivering earth her wonted rigour lackt

And straight stood trembling at so dire a fact:

The buri'd Saints arose to see betwixt

Two dusky clouds, their glorious Sunne eclipst:

[Page]Thus heav'n it selfe with the terrestriall Ball'

Doth joyne to celebrate his funerall:

The Landlord of the globe who first did raise

Earths fabricke, was a tenant for three dayes;

But when once Christ did cease to be turmoyld

Heaven and he was gladly reconcil'd,

Mercy came dancing from the angry denne

Tost off her cloudy mantle, smild againe,

Pearch'd on her brightest throne, and makes a vow

To smooth the wrinckled furrowes of her brow:

And grim fac'd vengeance shee thats onely fed

With poyson, dares not shew her snaky head

For feare: all angers banisht cleane away,

Sterne justice now hath not a word to say,

And now the Fathers anger being done

Double imbraces entertaine the Sonne:

As when a tender mother sometime beates

Her wanton boy for his unruly feates

Shee wipes his blubberd face and by and by

Presents a thousand gugoyes to his eye,

Shee angry with her selfe beginnes to seeke

His former love teares trickling downe her cheeke,

Quickly forgetting what was done amisse,

Ending her anger in a lovely kisse,

Doubtlesse her fondling burnes the rod and then

Come peace my babe kisse and be friends agen.

Iust so when God inflicted on his Sonne

His bittrest wrath, the anger being done

O then how soone he doubled his renowne?

Adorn'd his Temple with a richer Crowne?

Angry with those that would not heare his moane

Ready to fling grim vengeance from his throne,

[Page]And chide with mercy shee that once did runne

To hide her selfe from this his dying Sonne,

And for this fact would surely overthrow

The fabricke, did not Iustice hold the blow.

Thus heaven was friends againe, but sordid man

Poore mortall dust whose dayes are but a span

Doth strive against his God, like dogges that storme

And barke and brawle and fome at Phoebes horne:

Ah Lord, why are they so extreame to thee?

What is the cause thou madst their blindmen see?

Or why didst thou their fury thus inrage?

Because thou didst revive their dead mens age?

Me thinkes tis strange good God thou shouldst enflame

Their anger by restoring legges too lame.

How is it Lord thou sowedst glorious seedes

And loe a harvest all compact of weedes?

Thou gavest them life, and spentst thy dearest breath

For them, and now thou art repaid with death:

What griefe was ere like thine? would not thy mone

Quickly dissolve an adamantine stone?

Wold not those sighs (which could not peirce their eares)

Have turnd a rocke into a sea of teares?

Would not those wrongs thou bor'st without reliefe,

Make every cave, to echo out thy griefe?

For greedy Lions are more kind then men,

They entertaind thy limbe within their denne:

Forget their wonted humours and became

As carefull shepherdes to thy tender Lambe,

The croking raven, shee whose natures wilde

Became a tender nurse unto thy Childe,

And to obey thy voice the stony rocke

Became a springing fountaiue to thy flocke,

[Page]Yea rather then thy babes shall live in thrall,

The very sea it selfe provides a wall,

The flames forget their force, through thy constraint

Lose heate and know not how to burne a Saint,

Yea when thy souldiers wanted day to fight,

The Sun stood still and lent them longer light:

When boistrous seas did shew their lusty prancks,

Scorning to be imprison'd in their banckes,

And with their billowes vaulted up so high,

As if they meant to scale the starry sky,

And boundlesse Boreas from his frozen Cave

Rusht out and proudly challeng'd every wave,

One nod of thine did quell those seas agen,

And sent proud Boreas to his sullen denne:

Thus thou the senselesse creatures oft did'st checke,

And mad'st the proudest pliant to thy becke,

For devils trembled and that breath of thine

Made them seeke shelter in a heard of swine,

They knew thy greatnesse and confest thy name.

Hell sent forth Heraulds to divulge thy fame

But man (Lord whats he made of?) stupid soule

Is now more greedy then the raping foule:

Harder then flint, his nature is so grimme,

That questionlesse the Lyon chang'd with him:

Hotter then flame, more boystrous then the winde,

More fierce then waves, and hels not more unkinde.

Yet thou (O matchlesse love) didst undergoe

An undeserved curse to save thy foe:

Yea guiltlesse thou because thou would'st suffice

For guilty man, becom'st a Sacrifice.

Thou Grand Physitian for thy patients good

Didst mixe thy Physicke with thy dearest blood:

[Page]Man from the sweetest flower did sucke his griefe

But thou from venome didst extract reliefe,

From pleasures limbecke man distild his paine

Thou out of sorrow pleasure drawd againe,

Sweete Eden was the garden where there grew

Such sugred flowers, yet there our poyson blew,

Sad Gethseman the arbour where was pluckt,

Though bitter herbes, yet thence was hony suckt:

So have I seene the busie Bee to feed,

Extracting honey from the sowrest weed,

Whilst Spiders wandring through a pleasant bowre

Sucke deadly poyson from the sweetest flower,

Thus, thus sweete Christ, thy sicknesse was our health,

Thy death, our life, thy poverty our wealth,

Thy griefe our mirth, our freedome was thy thrall,

Thus thou by being conquerd conquerest all.

CANT. 8. 7. Much water cannot quench love, neither can the floods drowne it.

O How my heart is ravisht! thoughts aspire

To thinke on thee my Christ: my zeales on fire,

What shall I doe my love? me thinkes mine eyes

Behold thee still, yet still I Tantalize;

Ten thousand lets stand arm'd and all agree,

Conspiring how to part my love and me.

Presumption like Olympus scales the skye,

A mountaine for to part my Love and I.

[Page]Despaire presents a gulfe, a greedy grave

Much like the jawes of the infernall Cave:

But what of this? though hils are nere so high

Whose sunne-confronting tops upbraide the skye

Ile trample o're, and make them know tis meete

Their proudest heads should stoope and kisse my feete:

Ile stride o're cares deeper then Neptunes well,

Whose threatning jawes doe yawne as wide as hell:

Although the sea boyles in her angry tides

And watry mountaines knocke at Heavens sides,

Though every puffe of Neptunes angry breath

Should raise a wave and every wave a death,

Ile scorne his threates should stop my course, or quell

My pace, though every death presents a hell:

Yea Ile adventure through those swelling stormes

Whose billowes seemes to quench great Phoebes hornes,

Mountaines shall be as molehilles, every wave

Tost in the fretfull region, shall outbrave

No more then streames that shew their wanton pranckes,

Gliding along by Thames his petty banckes:

But grant that seas should swell, and tossing tides

With stormes should crush my waving vessels sides:

Suppose for footemen mountaines are too steepe,

Each hill too high, and every cave too deepe:

Suppose all earth conspire to stop: care I?

My faith will lend me wings and then Ile flye:

O how Ile laugh to see that mounting clay!

O how Ile smile at that that stopt my way!

O how I laugh to see the Ocean straine

Her banckes for to oppose and all in vaine!

And can you blame me? when I'me once above

Ile care for none, for none but thou my Love.

[Page]Thou art my path: I shall not goe awry:

My sight shall never faile: thou art my eye:

Thou art my clothing: I shan't naked be:

I am no bondman: thou hast made me free;

I am not pin'd with sickenesse: thou art health:

I am no whit impoverisht, thou art wealth.

Mans naturall infirmity.

VVHat meanes my God? why dost present to me

Such glorious objects? can a blind man see?

Why dost thou call? why dost thou becken so?

Wouldst have me come? Lord can a Cripple go?

Or why dost thou expect that I should raise

Thy glory with my voice? the dumbe can't praise.

Vnscale my duskye eyes, then Ile expresse

Thy glorious objects strong attractivenesse:

Dip thou my limbes in thy Bethesdaes lake,

Ile scorne my earthly crutches, Ile forsake

My selfe: touch thou my tongue and then Ile sing

An Allelujah to my glorious King.

Raise me from this my grave, then I shall be

Alive, and Ile bestow my life on thee

Till thou Eliah-like dost overspread

My limbs, l'me blind, l'me lame, I'me dumbe, I'me dead:

The Melancholicke Soules comfort.

O That I had a sweete melodious voice!

O that I could obtaine the chiefest choice

[Page]Of sweetest musicke! pre-thee David lend

Thy well-resounding harpe, that I may send

Some praises to my God: I know not how

To pay by songs my heart-resolved vow:

How shall I sing good God? thou dost afford

Ten thousand mercies, trebled songs O Lord

Cannot requite thee! O that I could pay

With lifetime songs the mercies of one day!

I oft beginne to sing, and then before

My songs halfe finisht, God gives sense for more.

Alas poore soule art puzzeld? canst not bring

Thy God some honour though thou strive to sing?

The Cause is this, thou art become his debter

Heele make thee play-on musicke that is better.

I Cannot play, my sobs doe stop my course,

My grones doe make my musicke sound the worse.

What nought but grones? ah shall th' Almighties eares

Be fild with sighes all vsherd in with teares?

I this is musicke: such a tune prolongs

Gods love, and makes him listen to thy songs:

Tis this that makes his ravisht soule draw nigher,

Tis this outstrips the Thracian with his Lyre,

Tis this inchants thy God, tis this alone

That drags thy spouse from heaven to heare thy tone:

No better Musicke then thy sobs and cries,

If not a Davids harpe, get Peters eyes.

The Soule in love with Christ.

VVHat though my Love doth neate appeare?

And makes Aurora blush to see her?

[Page]Though nature paints her cheekes with red

And makes proud Venus hide her head?

What though her crimson lips so mute

Doe alwayes wooe a new salute,

What though her wanton eyes doe shine

Like glistring starres and dazell mine?

Tis Christ alone,

Shall be my owne,

Tis him I will embrace,

Tis he shall be

A Spouse to me,

All beauty's in his face.

What though the earth for me prepares

A present from her golden Quarres,

And braggeth of her earely gaines,

Exhausted from her silver vaines?

What though shee shew her painted brates

And bids me smell her Violates?

And deckes her selfe in spring attire,

To make my ravisht soule admire?

Yet all this shant

My Soule inchant

Ile smile to see her pride

I know where lies

A better prize

For Christ hath broch'd his side.

What though the world doth me invite

And daily play the Parasite?

Or with her gilded tales intice

Me, to a seeming Paradise?

And paints her face and all day long

Sits breathing out a Syrens song?

[Page]And shewes her pompe, and then in fine

Tells me, that shee and hers are mine?

Yet none of this,

Shall be my blisse,

Ile scorne the painted whore

I will deride

Her and her pride

For Christ is this and more.

What though insinuating pleasure,

Preferres me to her chiefest treasure

And every day, and every night

Doth feede me with a new delight

And slumbers me with lullaby

Dandling me on her whorish thigh?

What though with her sublime pretencēs

Shee strives t'imprison all my senses?

Yet shee shant be

A trap to me

Her freedome is but thrall,

Her greatest coy

Will but annoy,

Till Christ doth sweeten all.

Or what though profit with her Charmes

Grasping the world within her armes

Vnlades her selfe? and bids me see

What paines shee takes, and all for me;

And then invites me to her bower

Filling my coffers every houre?

What though shee thus inlarge my store

With every day a thousand more?

Yet let her packe

And turne her backe,

[Page]Her purest gold's but-drosse

Her greatest paines

Produce no gaines

Till Christ come all is losse.

Or what though Fortune should present

Her high Olympicke regiment.

And never my Ambition checke,

But still be pliant to my becke?

What though she lends me wings to flie

Vnto the top of Dignity,

And make proud Monarches with her wheele

Vncrowne their heads to Crowne my heele,

Ile not depend

On such a friend,

Tis Christ is all my stay:

Shee can revoke

The highest spoke,

Her wheeles turnd every day.

Let none of these in me take place:

Fond Venus hath a Vulcans face:

And so till heaven be pleasd to smile

Poore earth sits barren all the while:

The world thats apt to winne a foole

It is my burden, not my stoole:

Nor pleasure shall enchant my mind,

Shees smooth before, but stings behind:

I will disdaine

Their greatest gaine,

And fortun's but a feather,

Tis none of these

Can give me ease,

But Christ's the same for ever.

Lord why hidest thou thy face from me.

[Page]

VVHat drowsie weather's this? the angry skies

Doe threaten stormes, and heav'n it selfe denies

Her lovely visage, ah these darkned dayes

Doe make my vitals drowsie, and decayes

My soules delight: good God can I controule

Or drive these pensive humours from my soule?

Ah no I can't my lively spirits keepe,

Such drowsie weather's fit for nought but sleepe.

O thou eternall light that hast the sway

In Ioves broad wals, thouscepter of the day,

Thou heav'ns bright torch, thouglistring worlds bright eye,

Why dost thou hide and so obscurely lye?

Come wrap thy selfe in thy compleate attire,

Shew forth thy glory, make my soule admire

Thy splendor, come and doe no longer stay

But with thy glorious beames bestrow my way,

Extirpe these foggy mists from out mine eyes,

That I may plainly see where heaven lyes.

Then Ile awake, sweete Christ, doe thou display

Thy glittering beames, send out a Summers day,

I'le rub my slumbring eyes, O then I'le roame

A life-time journey from my native home:

The soule will sleepe and can't hold up her eyes

Vntill the sunne of righteousnesse arise.

Christs Resurrection.

[Page]

COme Rise my heart, thy Master's risen,

Why slug'st thou in thy grave?

Dost thou not know he broke the prison?

Thou art no more a slave.

He rowled of the sealed stone

That once so pondrous lay,

And left the watchmen all alone

And bravely scapt away.

When flesh, the world, and Satan too

Wont suffer thee to quatch,

Learne of thy Master what to doe

And cozen all the watch.

Let not these clogging earthly things

Make thee (poore soule) forsake him,

Goe, ask of Faith, she'le lend thee wings,

Haste, fly, and overtake him.

But harke my soule, I'le tell thee where

Thy Master sits in state:

Goe knocke at heavens dore, for there

He entred in of late.

If Peter now had kept the key

Thou mightst get in with ease,

But Iustice onely beares the sway

And lets in whom shee please.

[Page]

Shee's wondrous sterne and suffers not

A passenger to enter,

Without thy Masters ticket got

Thou mayst not touch her Center.

But come my soule, let me advise,

What needst thou to implore

The Saints for ayde? I know where lies

For thee a private doore.

Dost not remember since the pride

Of base perfidious men

Did thrust thy Master through the side

(Wert not thou wounded then.)

When Iustice is so sterne that thou

Vnto a straight art driven,

(Come hearke and I will tell thee now)

Creepe through that wound to heaven.

Sanctificat.

O My head, alas my bones,

O my wounded joynts doe smart,

Flesh ere while as hard as stones,

Now it akes in every part:

Lord 'tis thy Art.

All thy Iudgements could not scare

Me, nor make my soule to fly,

Now one angry looke can reare

Me, and make me pensive lye

In misery.

[Page]

Lord there where I tooke my rise,

There did I begin to reele,

Surfetted in Paradise,

And there I got a bruised heele,

Which now I feele.

Surely my disease was great,

Sicke, and yet I felt no paine;

Hungry, yet I could not eate:

Sore, yet could I not complaine:

Yet all was gaine.

For, good God, thy care was such

That thou gavest me much reliefe,

Yea thou lendedst me a Crutch,

And didst make me know my griefe:

Lord thou art chiefe.

Thou hast made the rocke to weepe

And my stony heart to groane,

Thou hast rais'd me from my sleepe,

And dost smile to heare my tone;

And lov'st my mone.

But what need'st thou lend a Crutch,

Thou canst make me perfect whole?

Thou canst heale me with a touch,

By this thou know'st a woman stole,

Cure for her dole.

When leave I this halting pace?

When shall I most perfect be?

When thou shalt my glistring face,

In the land of glory see.

Lord perfect me.

A Meditation on a Mans shadow.

[Page]

WHen as the Sunne flings downe his richest rayes,

And with his shining beames adornes my wayes,

See how my shadow trackes me where I goe,

I stop, that stops; I walke, and that doth so:

I runne with winged flight, and still I spye

My waiting shadow runne as fast as I.

But when a sable cloud doth disaray

The Sunne, and robs me of my smiling day:

My shadow leaves me helpelesse all alone,

And when I most neede comfort I have none:

Iust so it is; let him that hath the hight

Of outward pompe, expect a parasite:

If thou art great, thy honours will draw nigh:

These are the shadowes to prosperity:

O how the worldlings make pursuite to thee,

With cap in hand and with a bended knee:

But if disastrous fate should come betwixt

Thee and thy Sunne, thy splendor's all eclipst:

Thy friends forsake thee, and thy shadow's gone,

And thou (poore sunne-lesse thou) art left alone,

This is thy Soules estate, the worldly gaine

And greatest pompe, in stormy times are vaine:

They are but shadowes when distresse comes nigh,

They are as nothing to a faithfull eye.

Yet here's my comfort Lord, if I can see

My shadow, I must needes a substance be.

O let me not with worldly shadowes clogge

My selfe, grant me more wit then Esops dogge.

A Meditation on Childrens rashnesse.

[Page]

WHen Mothers are desirous for to play

The wantons with their babes, and shew the way

To finde their feete: to give their brats content,

They wagge their sporting fingers, and present

A penny in the forehead, or some pap,

To win the Children to the Mothers lap:

How soone will they their little grissels stretch,

And runne apace, aspiring for to fetch

This petty object? never caring though

Their way be full of stumbling blockes below:

Thou art that Mother Lord, thou usest charmes,

And still art dandling, Christ within thine armes

Presents most glorious objects to our eyes,

And shewes us where thy choisest mercies lies;

Why then are we so backward? why so slow?

Or why so loth into thy armes to goe?

Small molehils seeme as mountaines in our way,

And every light affliction makes us stay:

Why should we stop at petty strawes below?

Make us thy Children Lord we shant doe so.

A Meditation on a good Father having a bad Sonne.

QVerkus of late was minded to dispute

Of this, A tree thats good brings forth good fruite.

Hence he concludes such parents that have bin

Converted, bring forth children void of sinne.

[Page]Peace Querkus peace, and hold thy tongue for shame

Dost not perceive that thy conclusion's lame?

May not a graine thats free from chaffe and cleare

Cast in the ground, bring forth a chaffy eare.

A Meditation on a Weathercocke.

SEe how the trembling Weathercocke can find

Noe setled place, but turnes with every wind,

If blustring Zephyr blowes and gives a checke,

How soon's this cocke made pliant to his becke,

If Boreas gets the day, twill change its side,

And turne inspite of bragging Zephyrs pride:

Thus temporizers turne at every puffe,

And yet forsooth they thinke they're good enough,

If stand, they stand: if he that seemes to be

The greatest turne, they turne as fast as he,

I wonder at such wav'ring feathers, did I

So often turne t'would make me wondrous giddy.

Lord let that wind that blowes upon thy flocke,

Turne me, and make me Lord thy weather cocke.

A Meditation on Cockfighting.

SEe how those angry creatures disagree,

Whilst the spectators sit and laugh to see.

Doe not two neighbours often doe the same,

Whilst that the Lawyers laugh to see the game?

A Meditation on an Echo and a Picture.

[Page]

SEe how Apelles with his curious art,

Pourtraies the picture out in every part:

If he can give't a voyce, no doubt he can

Compleatly make the shape a living man:

Surely his worke would to his praise redound,

Could he but give the shape he made, a sound:

What wants the Echo of a living creature

But Shape? and what but voice this comely feature?

Yet both can't meete together: God alone,

Will have this secret Art to be his owne.

A Meditation on Noahs Dove.

VVHen God the floods from lands did undivide

And made the skye aspiring mountaines hide,

When heaven raind seas, and fountaines were unbound,

And all mankind except eight soules were drownd;

Then did Ioves Pilot Noah make an Arke

And thrust this little world into a barke:

Yea then he sent a Dove to range about

The Floods, to answer his uncertaine doubt:

O how shee wanders up and downe the Seas,

Fluttring her weary wings but findes no ease!

Shee sees no food, no resting place, no parke,

But soone returnes into her wished Arke.

Observe how tender Noah, full of Love,

Opens the window to this weary Dove.

[Page]Puts forth his hands to meete her, takes her in,

But by and by shee flutters out agin:

Shee findes an Olive leafe, and that shee brings

Betweene her bill, hov'ring her tyred wings

Vpon the Arke: still Noah is the same,

Lets in his wandring Dove thats now made tame

With restlesse flight; once more shee gets away,

And now shee spies the earth (that lately lay

Sok'd in the impartiall deluge) in her pride,

Adornd with dainty hearbes on every side;

When food is plenty, this ungratefull Dove

Forgets her Noah, and his former love:

Minds nothing but her selfe, shee that before

Did crouch unto thee Arke, returnes no more.

Thou art that Noah Lord, and Christ the boate,

Afflictions are the waters that doe floate:

Man is that wandring Dove, that often flies

Vnto his Christ for shelter, else he dyes.

How apt are we good God to use our wings,

And flye to thee when all these outward things

With floods are drowned up, though we have bin

So vile, how apt art thou to catch us in?

O how our God when we have bin astray

Puts forth his armes to meete us in the way,

And take us home! we are no sooner in

But by and by we flutter out agin:

This time by chance like Noahs Dove we see,

The upper branches of some Olive tree,

I meane some petty shelter: still we flye

Vnto our God for aide or else we dye.

How apt are we, when outward things forsake us,

To haste to God? how apt's our God to take us?

[Page]The third time we are gone, now floods are husht

The Sun confronting mountaines bravely washt,

The Seas give place, the lowest vallies seene,

Yea all the earth most sweetly deckt in greene:

Now we forget our God and post away,

And after make an everlasting stay:

When worldly wealth comes in, and we can rest

Vpon the creature: O how we detest

Our former refuge! if we find a Parke,

We ne're returne unto our wonted Arke.

A Meditation on a Shippe.

MArke how the floting vessell shewes her pride

And is extold with every lofty tide;

But when it ebbes, and all the floods retire

See how the bragging barke is plungd in mire:

Iust so good God, how apt are we to swim

When mercies fill our banckes unto the brim?

When worldly wealth appeares, and we can see

Such outward blessings flow: then who but we?

But when it ebbes, and thou dost once unlinke

These mercies from us: O how soone we sinke;

Good God let not the great estate possesse

Me with presumption, nor despaire the lesse:

Let me not sinke when such an ebbe appeares,

No, let me swim in true repentant teares:

A Meditation on a Windmill.

[Page]

OBserve it alwaies tis the makers skill

To place the windmill on the highest hill;

It stands unusefull till the potent windes

Puffe up the lofty sayles and then it grinds:

Iust thus it is: the hypocrite's the mill,

His actions sayles, ambition is the hill,

The wind that drives him is a blast of fame,

If blowne with this he runnes, if not hee's tame:

He stirres not till a puffe of praise doth fill

His sailes: but then, O how he turnes the mill!

Lord drive me with thy Spirit, then Ile be

Thy windmill, and will grind a grist for thee.

A Meditation on Organs.

HArke how the Organist most sweetely plaiēs

His Psalmes upon the tone-divided Kayes:

Each touch a sound, but if the hand don't come

And strike the kayes, how soon's the musicke dumbē?

A mod'rate stroke doth well, but if too hard

The Organ's broke, and all the raptures mard.

I am that Organ Lord, and thou alone

Canst play, each prayer is a pleasant tone,

Affliction is the hand that strikes the kayes:

(O Lord from me the sweetest musicke raise;)

If thou don't strike at all how can I speake

Thy worthy prayses, if too hard I breake:

Strike mildly Lord, strike soft, and then Ile sing,

And charoll out the glory of my King.

A Meditation on an Apes love.

[Page]

VVHen once the foolish Ape hath fild her nest

With little brats, there's one among the rest,

Shee most affects: to shelter this from harmes,

Shee alwayes hugges it in her wanton armes.

Vntill at length shee squeezeth out the breath,

Of this her fondling, Loves the cause of death:

The Worlds this wanton Ape, that still delights

In hugging some peculiar favourites,

Of those that are thus dandled by this Ape,

There doth not one among a thousand scape.

On contempt of the World.

A Loft O Soule; soare up, doe not turmoyle

Thy selfe by grabbling on a dunghill soyle:

Tosse up thy wings, and make thy soaring plumes

Outreach the loathsome stench and noysome fumes

That spring from sordid earth: come, come, and see

Thy birth, and learne to know thy pedigree:

What? wast thou made of Clay? or dost thou owe

Homage to earth? say, is thy blisse below?

Dost know thy beauty? dost thou not excell?

Can the Creation yeeld a parallel?

The world can't give a glasse to represent

Thy shape, and shall a durty element

Bewitch thee? thinke, is not thy birth most high?

Blowne from the mouth of all the trinity,

[Page]The breath of all-creating Iove, the best

Of all his workes, yea thee of all the rest

He chose to be his Picture: where can I

But in thy selfe see Immortality

'Mong all his earthly creatures? Thou art chiefe

Of all his workes: and shall the world turne theefe

And steale away thy love? wert not for thee

The heav'n aspiring mountaine should not bee,

The heavens should have no glistring starre, no light,

No Sunne to rule the day, no Moone the night:

The Globe had bin ('twas not the makers will

To make it for it selfe) a Chaos still:

Thou art Ioves priestly Aaron to present

The creatures service, while they give assent

By serving thee, why then's the world thy rest?

'Tis but thy servants servant at the best:

It gives attendance to refined mire,

That Iove hath wrapt thee in as thy attire;

For whats the body but a lumpe of clay

Carv'd neatly out, in which the soule beares sway?

Tis servant to the soule: what limbe can stirre,

Nay darst to quatch, if once shee make demurre?

See how the captiv'd members trembling stand

Wondrous submissive to her dire command!

O how the legs doe runne with eager flight

To overtake the object of delight!

See how the armes doe graspe as if they'd rent

To hold the thing that gives the soule content.

Why whats the body when the soule's away?

Nought but a stincking carkasse made of clay.

What's heav'n without a God? or what's the skye

If once bright Phoebus close his radiant eye?

[Page]The world was for our bodies, they for none

But for our soules, our soules for God alone:

What madnesse then for men of such a birth

To nuzell all their dayes on dunghill earth,

Still hunting after with an eager sent

An object which can never give content;

For what contentment in the world can lye,

That's onely constant in inconstancy?

It ebbes and flowes each minuie: thou maist brag

This day of thousands, and to morrow beg:

The greatest wealth is subject for to reele,

The globe is plac'd on Fortunes tottering wheele:

As when the gladding sunne begins to show

And scatter all his golden beames below,

A churlish cloud soone meetes him in the way,

And sads the beauty of the smiling day:

Or as a stately ship a while behaves

Herselfe most bravely on the slumbring waves,

And like a Swanne sailes nimbly in her pride

The helpefull windes concording with the tide

To mend her pace: but by and by, the wind

The fretfull Seas, the heav'ns and all combin'd

Against this bragging barke, O how they fling

Her corkey sides to heaven, and then they bring

Her backe: shee that ere while did sayle so brave

Cutting the floods, now's tost with every wave:

Iust so, the waving world gives joy and sorrow,

This day a Croesus, and a Iob to morrow:

How often have I seene the miser blesse

Himselfe in wealth, and count it for no lesse

Then his adored God: straight comes a frowne

Flying from unhappy fate, and whirleth downe

[Page]Him, and his heapes of gold, and all that prize

Is lost, which he but now did Idolize.

But grant the world (as never 'twill) to be

A thing most sure most full of constancy,

What is thy wealth unlesse thy God doth blesse

Thy store, and turne it to a happinesse?

What though thy Table be compleatly spread

With farre-fetcht dainties, and the purest bread

That fruitfull earth can yeeld? all this may bee,

If thou no stomacke hast, what's all to thee?

What though thy habitation should excell

In beauty, and were Edens parallel?

Thou being pesterd with some dire disease,

How can thy stately dwelling give thee ease?

Thy joyes will turne thy griefe, thy freedome thrall,

Vnlesse thy God above doth sweeten all:

When thou (poore soule) liest ready to depart,

And hear'st thy Conscience snarling at thine heart,

Though heapes of gold should in thy coffers lye,

And all thy worthlesse friends stand whining by,

'Tis none, 'tis none of these can give thee health,

But thou must languish in the midst of wealth.

Then cease thou mad man and pursue no more

The world, and know shee's but a painted whore,

Thou catchest shadowes, labourst in thy dreames,

And thirst's amongst th' imaginary streames.

A Meditation on a meane.

[Page]

LOrd in excesse I see there often lies

Great dangers, and in wants great miseries:

Send me a meane, doe thou my wayes preserve,

For I may surfet Lord, as well as starve.

On Sathans tempting Eve.

ARt thou turn'd Fencer Sathan? prethee say?

Surely thou art not active at thy play.

Challenge a Woman? fie thou art to blame,

Suppo [...]e thou getst the day, thou getst no fame.

But prethee speake, hast any cause to prate?

Thou bruis'd her heele, what though? shee broke thy pate.

On a Spunge.

THe Spunge it selfe drinkes water till it swell it,

But never empties till some strength expell it:

Lord, of our selves we're apt to soake in sinne,

But thou art faine to squeeze it out agin.

On Cain and Abels offerings.

[Page]

ARt angry Cain? what doe thy thoughts repine?

Is Abels offring better tooke then thine?

Didst not thou bring thy God a lovely prize

And crowne his Altar with a sacrifice,

Art not thou elder? did not thy offring too

Come from thy God? what more could Abell doe?

Ile tell thee Cain how Abel got the start,

He with his offring, offered up his heart.

On an Apprentices Boxe.

THe Prentise after all his yearely paines,

Filleth his small mouth'd box with Christmas gaines,

Yet though he fill his box unto the brim

Vnlesse he breake it up, whats all to him?

A miser's such a Boxe, thats nothing worth,

Till death doth breake it up, then all comes forth:

Convert good God, or strike with some disease,

Breake up such small mouth'd boxes, Lord as these.

On Eves Apple.

EVE for thy fruite thou gav'st too deare a price,

What? for an Apple give a Paradise?

If now a dayes of fruite such gaines were made

A Costermonger were a devillish trade.

On a faire house having ill passage to it.

[Page]

A House to which the builders did impart

The full perfection of their curious art,

Most bravely furnisht, in whose roomes did lye,

Footeclothes of Velvet, and of tapestry;

I wondred at (as who could not but doe it)

To see so rough so hard a passage to it:

So Lord I know thy heaven's a glorious place,

Wherein the beauty of thy glistring face

Inlightens all: thou in the wals dost fixe,

The Iasper and the purest sardonyx,

Thy gates are pearles, and every dore beset

With Saphires, Emeralds, and the Chrysolet:

Each Subject weares a crowne, the which he brings

And flings it downe to thee, the King of Kings.

But why's the way so thorny? tis great pitty

The passage is no wider to thy Citty,

Poore Daniel through his den and Shadrake's driven

With his associates through the fire to Heaven,

But yet we can't complaine, we may recall

The time to minde when there was none at all,

T'was Christ that made this way, and shall we be

Who are his Servants, farre more nice then he?

No, Ile adventure too, nay, Ile get in,

Ile tracke my Captaine thorow thicke and thin.

FINIS.

[Page]

Information about this book

Title statement

A new spring of divine poetrie. I. Day. philomusus composuit - inest sua gratia parvis

Day, James, fl. 1637.

Edition statement

1637

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2005-12 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A19974

ID [STC]

STC 6410

ID [STC]

ESTC S109421

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

99845068

ID [PROQUEST]

99845068

ID [VID]

9944

Availability

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.

Series

Early English books online.

Notes

(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A19974)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 9944)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1475-1640 ; 986:02)

Source

— A new spring of divine poetrie. I. Day. philomusus composuit - inest sua gratia parvis, Day, James, fl. 1637..

Extent

[8], 44, [8], 45-46, [2] p.

By T[homas] C[otes] for Humphry Blunden, at his shop neere the Castle Taverne, in Corne-hill,. Printed at London :: 1637.. (Printer's name from STC.) (With an interpolated, unpaginated gathering signed (F) following quire F. Variant: lacking quire (F) ("may represent an early issue"--STC).) (The last leaf is blank.) (Reproduction of the original in the Henry E. Huntington Library and Art Gallery.)

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