Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

Table of contents

§

Title page

INFINITATI SACRUM, 16. Auguſti 1601. METEMPSYCOSIS. Poêma Satyricon. EPISTLE.

THE PROGRESSE OF THE SOULE.

HOLY SONNETS.

La Corona. 1.

ANNVNCIATION. 2

NATIVITIE. 3

TEMPLE. 4

CRVCIFYING. 5

RESVRRECTION. 6

ASCENTION. 7

Holy Sonnets.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

EPIGRAMS.

Hero and Leander.

Pyramus and Thisbe.

Niobe.

A burnt ſhip.

Fall of a wall.

A lame begger.

A ſelfe accuſer.

A licentious perſon.

Antiquary.

Diſinherited.

Phryne.

An obſcure writer.

Raderus.

Mercurlus Gallo-Belgicus.

§

ELEGIE. I.

Elegie II.

Elegie III.

Elegie IV.

Elegie V.

Elegie VI.

Elegie VII.

Elegie VIII.

THE STORME. To Mr Chriſtopher Brooke.

THE CALME.

To Sr Henry Wotton.

The Croſſe.

Elegie on the Lady Marckham.

Elegie on Mris Boulſtred.

To Sr Henry Goodyere.

To Mr Rowland Woodward.

To Sr Henry Wootton.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

To Sr Edward Herbert. at Iulyers.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford. On New-yeares day.

To the Counteſſe of Huntingdon.

To M. I. W.

To M. T. W.

To M. T. W.

To M. C. B.

To M. S. B.

To M. B. B.

To M. R. W.

To M. I. L.

To M. I. P.

To E. of D. with ſix holy Sonnets.

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

To M. M. H.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford. Begun in France but never perfected.

A Letter to the Lady Carey, and Mrs Eſſex Riche, From Amyens.

To the Counteſſe of Salisbury. Auguſt. 1614.

An Epithalamion, Or mariage Song on the Lady Elizabeth, and Count Palatine being married on St. Valentines day.

ECCLOGUE. 1613. December 26.

I. The time of the Mariage.

II. Equality of perſons.

III. Rayſing of the Bridegroome.

IIII. Raiſing of the Bride.

V. Her Apparrelling.

VI. Going to the Chappell.

VII: The Benediction.

VIII. Feaſts and Revells.

IX. The Brides going to bed.

X. The Bridegroomes comming.

XI. The good night.

Epithalamion made at Lincolnes Inne.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

Obſequies to the Lord Harringtons brother. To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

Elegie.

Elegie. The Autumnall.

Elegie.

Elegie on Prince Henry.

Pſalme 137.

Reſurrection, imperfect.

An hymne to the Saints, and to Marqueſſe Hamylton.

§

An Epitaph upon Shakeſpeare.

Sapho to Philaenis.

The Annuntiation and Paſsion.

Goodfriday, 1613. Riding Weſtward.

THE LITANIE.

§

A nocturnall upon S. Lucies day, Being the ſhorteſt day.

Witchcraft by a picture.

§

The Apparition.

§

The good-morrow.

Song.

Womans conſtancy.

§

The Sunne Riſing.

The Indifferent.

Loves Vſury.

The Canonization.

The triple Foole.

Lovers infiniteneſſe.

Song.

The Legacie.

A Feaver.

Aire and Angels.

Breake of day.

The Anniverſarie.

A Valediction of my name, in the window.

Twicknam garden.

Valediction to his booke.

§

Loves growth.

Loves exchange.

§

The Dreame.

A Valediction of weeping.

Loves Alchymie.

The Flea.

The Curſe.

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

To the praiſe of the dead, and the ANATOMIE.

An Anatomy of the World. The firſt Anniverſary.

A Funerall ELEGIE.

OF THE PROGRESSE OF THE SOULE. Wherein, By occaſion of the Religious death of Miſtris ELIZABETH DRVRY, the incommodities of the Soule in this life, and her exaltation in the next, are contemplated. The ſecond Anniverſary.

The Harbinger to the PROGRESSE.

OF THE PROGRESSE OF THE SOULE. The ſecond Anniverſarie.

The Extaſie.

Loves Deitie.

Loves diet.

The Will.

The Funerall.

The Bloſsome.

The Primroſe.

The Relique.

The Dampe.

The Diſſolution.

A Ieat King ſent

Negative love.

The Prohibition.

The Expiration.

The Computation.

Elegie.

Elegie to the Lady Bedford.

Elegie.

§

A Hymne to Chriſt, at the Authors laſt going into Germany.

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

CHAP. I.

CHAP. II.

Chap. III.

CAP. IV.

CAP. V.

SATYRES.

Satyre I.

Satyre II.

Satyre III.

Satyre IIII.

Satyre V.

A Hymne to God the Father:

Letters.

HEN. GOODEERE.

To Sir. H. G.

To Sir H. G.

To Sir H. G.

To Sr. H. G.

To Sr H. G.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

To Sr H. G.

To Sir H. G.

Elegies upon the Author.

TO THE MEMORIE OF MY EVER DESIRED FRIEND Dr. DONNE:

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

On the death of Dr DONNE.

On Doctor Donne, By Dr C. B. of O.

An Elegie upon the incomparable Dr DONNE.

An Elegie upon Dr Donne.

An Elegie upon the death of the Deane of Pauls, Dr. Iohn Donne: By Mr. Tho: Carie.

An Elegie on Dr. DONNE: By Sir Lucius Carie.

On Dr. DONNES death: By Mr. Mayne of Chriſt-Church in Oxford.

Ʋpon Mr J. Donne, and his Poems.

In memory of Doctor Donne: By Mr R. B.

Epitaph.

Epitaph upon Dr. DONNE, By Endy: Porter.

§

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ANNO DNI. 1591

AETATIS SVAE 18

ANTES MVI [...]TO QVE MVDADO

This was for youth, Strength, Mirth, and wit that Time

Most count their golden Age; but t'was not thine.

Thine was thy later yeares, so much refind

From youths Droſse, Mirth, & wit; as thy pure mind

Thought (like the Angels) nothing but the Praiſe

Of thy Creator, in thoſe last, best Dayes.

Wimes this Booke, (thy Embleme) which begins

With Love; but endes, with Sighes, & Teares for ſins.

Will: Marshall. ſculpsit.

IZ: WA:

§

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POEMS, By J. D. WITH ELEGIES ON THE AUTHORS DEATH.

LONDON. Printed by M. F. for IOHN MARRIOT, and are to be ſold at his ſhop in St Dunſtans Church-yard in Fleet-ſtreet. 1633.

INFINITATI SACRUM, 16. Auguſti 1601. METEMPSYCOSIS. Poêma Satyricon.
EPISTLE.

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OThers at the Porches and entries of their Buildings ſet their Armes; I, my picture; if any colours can deliver a minde ſo plaine, and flat, and through light as mine. Naturally at a new Author, I doubt, and ſticke, and doe not ſay quickly, good. I cenſure much and taxe; And this liberty coſts mee more then others, by how much my owne things are worſe then others. Yet I would not be ſo rebellious againſt my ſelfe, as not to doe it, ſince I love it; nor ſo unjuſt to others, to do it ſine talione. As long as I give them as good hold upon mee, they muſt pardon mee my bitings. I forbid no reprehender, but him that like the Trent [Page] Councell forbids not bookes, but Authors, damning what ever ſuch a name hath or ſhall write. None writes ſo ill, that he gives not ſome thing exemplary, to follow, or flie. Now when I beginne this booke, I have no purpoſe to come into any mans debt, how my ſtocke will hold out I know not; perchance waſte, perchance increaſe in uſe; if I doe borrow any thing of Antiquitie, beſides that I make account that I pay it to poſterity, with as much and as good: You ſhall ſtill finde mee to acknowledge it, and to thanke not him onely that hath digg'd out treaſure for mee, but that hath lighted mee a candle to the place. All which I will bid you remember, (for I will have no ſuch Readers as I can teach) is, that the Pithagorian doctrine doth not onely carry one ſoule from man to man, nor man to beaſt, but indifferently to plants alſo: and therefore you muſt not grudge to finde the ſame ſoule in an Emperour, in a Poſt-horſe, and in a Mucheron, ſince no unreadineſſe in the ſoule, but an indiſpoſition in the organs workes this. And therefore though this ſoule could not move when it was a Melon, yet it may remember, and now tell mee, at what laſcivious banquet it [Page] was ſerv'd. And though it could not ſpeake, when it was a ſpider, yet it can remember, and now tell me, who uſed it for poyſon to attaine dignitie. How ever the bodies have dull'd her other faculties, her memory hath ever been her owne, which makes me ſo ſeriouſly deliver you by her relation all her paſſages from her firſt making when ſhee was that aple which Eve eate, to this time when ſhee is hee, whoſe life you ſhall finde in the end of this booke.

THE PROGRESSE OF THE SOULE.

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Firſt Song. I.

I Sing the progreſſe of a deathleſſe ſoule,

Whom Fate, which God made, but doth not controule,

Plac'd in moſt ſhapes; all times before the law

Yoak'd us, and when, and ſince, in this I ſing.

And the great world to his aged evening;

From infant morne, through manly noone I draw.

What the gold Chaldee, or ſilver Perſian ſaw,

Greeke braſſe, or Roman iron, is in this one;

A worke t'outweare Seths pillars, bricke and ſtone,

And (holy writs excepted) made to yeeld to none.

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II.

Thee, eye of heaven, this great Soule envies not,

By thy male force, is all wee have, begot,

In the firſt eaſt, thou now begins to ſhine,

Suck'ſt early balme, and Iland ſpices there,

And wilt anon in thy looſe-rein'd careere

At Tagus, Po, Sene, Thames, and Danon dine.

And ſee at night thy Weſterne land of mine,

Yet haſt thou not more nations ſeene then ſhee,

That before thee, one day beganne to be,

And thy fraile light being quench'd, ſhall long, long out live thee.

III.

Nor holy Ianus in whoſe ſoveraigne boate

The Church, and all the Monarchies did floate;

That ſwimming Colledge, and free Hoſpitall

Of all mankinde, that cage and vivarie,

Of fowles, and beaſts, in whoſe wombe, Deſtinie

Us, and our lateſt nephewes did inſtall

(From thence are all deriv'd, that fill this All)

Did'ſt thou in that great ſtewardſhip embarke

So diverſe ſhapes into that floating parke,

As have beene moved, and inform'd by this heavenly ſparke.

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IV.

Great Deſtiny the commiſſary of God,

That haſt mark'd out a path and period

For every thing, who, where wee of-ſpring tooke,

Our wayes and ends ſeeſt at one inſtant. Thou

Knot of all cauſes, thou whoſe changeleſſe brow

Ne're ſmiles nor frownes, O vouch-ſafe thou to looke

And ſhew my ſtory, in thy eternall booke.

That (if my prayer be fit) I may 'underſtand

So much my ſelfe, as to know with what hand,

How ſcant, or liberall this my lifes race is ſpand.

V.

To my ſixe luſters almoſt now outwore,

Except thy booke owe mee ſo many more,

Except my legend be free from the letts

Of ſteepe ambition, ſleepie povertie,

Spirit-quenching ſickneſſe, dull captivitie,

Diſtracting buſineſſe, and from beauties nets,

And all that calls from this, and to others whets,

O let me not launch out, but let mee ſave

Th'expence of braine and ſpirit; that my grave

His right and due, a whole unwaſted man may have.

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VI.

But if my dayes be long, and good enough,

In vaine this ſea ſhall enlarge, or enrough

It ſelfe; for I will through the wave, and fome,

And ſhall in ſad love wayes, a lively ſpright

Make my darke heavy Poëm light, and light.

For though through many ſtreights, & lands I roame,

I launch at paradiſe, and I ſaile towards home;

The courſe I there began, ſhall here be ſtaid,

Sailes hoiſed there, ſtroke here, and anchors laid

In Thames, which were at Tigrys, and Euphrates waide.

VII.

For the great ſoule which here amongſt us now

Doth dwell, and moves that hand, and tongue, & brow,

Which as the Moone the ſea, moves us, to heare

Whoſe ſtory, with long patience you will long;

(For 'tis the crowne, and laſt ſtraine of my ſong)

This ſoule to whom Luther, and Mahomet were

Priſons of fleſh; this ſoule which oft did teare,

And mend the wracks of th'Empire, and late Rome,

And liv'd when every great change did come,

Had firſt in paradiſe, a low, but fatall roome.

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VIII.

Yet no low roome, nor then the greateſt, leſſe,

If (as devout and ſharpe men fitly gueſſe)

That Croſſe, our joy, and griefe, where nailes did tye

That All, which alwayes was all, every where

Which could not ſinne, and yet all ſinnes did beare;

Which could not die, yet could not chuſe but die;

Stood in the ſelfe ſame roome in Calvarie,

Where firſt grew the forbidden learned tree,

For on that tree hung in ſecurity.

This Soule, made by the Makers will from pulling free.

IX.

Prince of the orchard, faire as dawning morne,

Fenc'd with the law, and ripe as ſoone as borne

That apple grew, which this Soule did

Till the then climing ſerpent, that now creeps

For that offence, for which all mankinde weepes,

Tooke it, and t'her whom the firſt man did wive

(Whom and her race, only forbiddings drive)

He gave it, ſhe, t'her huſband, both did eate;

So periſhed the eaters, and the meate:

And wee (for treaſon taints the blood) thence die and ſweat.

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X.

Man all at once was there by woman ſlaine,

And one by one we'are here ſlaine o'er againe

By them. The mother poiſoned the well-head,

The daughters here corrupts us,

No ſmalneſſe ſcapes, no greatneſſe breake their nets,

She thruſt us out, and by them we are led

Aſtray, from turning, to whence we are fled,

Were priſoners Judges, t'would ſeeme rigorous,

Shee ſinn'd, we here, part of our paine is, thus

To love them, whoſe fault to this painfull love yoak'd us.

XI.

So faſt in us doth this corruption grow,

That now wee dare aske why wee ſhould be ſo,

Would God (diſputes the curious Rebell) make

A law, and would not have it kept? Or can

His creatures will, croſſe his? Of every man

For one, will God (and be juſt) vengeance take?

Who ſinn'd? t'was not forbidden to the ſnake

Nor her, who was not then made; nor i'ſt writ

That Adam cropt, or knew the apple; yet

The worme and ſhe, and he, and wee endure for it.

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XII.

But ſnatch mee heavenly Spirit, from this vaine

Reckoning their vanities, leſſe is their gaine

Then hazard ſtill, to meditate on ill,

Though with good minde, their reaſons like thoſe toyes

Of glaſſie bubles, with the gameſome boyes

Stretch to ſo nice a thinnes through a quill

That they themſelves breake, doe themſelves ſpill,

Arguing is heretiques game, and Exerciſe

As wraſtlers, perfect them; Not liberties

Of ſpeech, but ſilence; hands, not tongues, end hereſies.

XIII.

Juſt in that inſtant when the ſerpents gripe,

Broke the ſlight veines, and tender conduit-pipe,

Through which this ſoule from the trees root did draw

Life, and growth to this apple, fled away

This looſe ſoule, old, one and another day.

As lightning, which one ſcarce dares ſay, he ſaw,

'Tis ſo ſoone gone, (and better proofe the law

Of ſenſe, then faith requires) ſwiftly ſhe flew

To a darke and foggie Plot; Her, her fates threw

There through th'earth-pores, and in a Plant houſ'd her a new.

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XIV.

The plant thus abled, to it ſelfe did force

A place, where no place was; by natures courſe

As aire from water, water fleets away

From thicker bodies, by this root thronged ſo

His ſpungie confines gave him place to grow,

Juſt as in our ſtreets, when the people ſtay

To ſee the Prince, and ſo fill'd the way

That weeſels ſcarce could paſſe, when ſhe comes nere

They throng and cleave up, and a paſſage cleare,

As if, for that time, their round bodies flatned were.

XV.

His right arme he thruſt out towards the Eaſt,

Weſt-ward his left; th'ends did themſelves digeſt

Into ten leſſer ſtrings, theſe fingers were:

And as a ſlumberer ſtretching on his bed;

This way he this, and that way ſcattered

His other legge, which feet with toes upbeare;

Grew on his middle parts, the firſt day, haire,

To ſhow, that in loves buſineſſe hee ſhould ſtill

A dealer bee, and be uſ'd well, or ill:

His apples kinde, his leaves, force of conception kill.

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XVI.

A mouth, but dumbe, he hath; blinde eyes, deafe eares,

And to his ſhoulders dangle ſubtile haires;

A young Coloſſus there hee ſtands upright,

And as that ground by him were conquered

A leafie garland weares he on his head

Enchas'd with little fruits, ſo red and bright

That for them you would call your Loves lips white;

So, of a lone unhaunted place poſſeſt,

Did this ſoules ſecond Inne, built by the gueſt

This living buried man, this quiet mandrake, reſt▪

XVII.

No luſtfull woman came this plant to grieve,

But t'was becauſe there was none yet but Eve:

And ſhe (with other purpoſe) kill'd it quite;

Her ſinne had now brought in infirmities,

And ſo her cradled child, the moiſt red eyes

Had never ſhut, nor ſleept ſince it ſaw light,

Poppie ſhe knew, ſhe knew the mandrakes might;

And tore up both, and ſo coold her childs blood;

Unvirtuous weeds might long unvex'd have ſtood;

But hee's ſhort liv'd, that with his death can doe moſt good.

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XVIII.

To an unfetterd ſoules quick nimble haſt

Are falling ſtars, and hearts thoughts, but ſlow pac'd:

Thinner then burnt aire flies this ſoule, and ſhe

Whom foure new comming, and foure parting Suns

Had found, and left the Mandrakes tenant, runnes

Thought leſſe of change, when her firme deſtiny

Confin'd, and enjayld her, that ſeem'd ſo free,

Into a ſmall blew ſhell, the which a poore

Warme bird oreſpread, and ſat ſtill evermore,

Till her uncloath'd child kickt, and pick'd it ſelfe a dore.

XIX.

Outcrept a ſparrow, this ſoules moving Inne,

On whoſe raw armes ſtiffe feathers now begin,

As childrens teeth through gummes, to breake with paine,

His fleſh is jelly yet, and his bones threds,

All downy a new mantle overſpreads,

A mouth he opes, which would as much containe

As his late houſe, and the firſt houre ſpeaks plaine,

And chirps alowd for meat. Meat fit for men

His father ſteales for him, and ſo feeds then

One, that within a moneth, will beate him from his hen.

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XX

In this worlds youth wiſe nature did make haſt,

Things ripened ſooner, and did longer laſt;

Already this hot cocke in buſh and tree

In field and tent oreflutters his next hen,

He asks her not, who did ſo taſt, nor when,

Nor if his ſiſter, or his neece ſhee be,

Nor doth ſhe pule for his inconſtancie

If in her ſight he change, nor doth refuſe

The next that calls; both liberty doe uſe;

Where ſtore is of both kindes, both kindes may freely chuſe.

XXI.

Men, till they tooke laws which made freedome leſſe,

Their daughters, and their ſiſters did ingreſſe,

Till now unlawfull, therefore ill; t'was not

So jolly, that it can move this ſoule; Is

The body ſo free of his kindneſſes,

That ſelfe preſerving it hath now forgot,

And ſlackneth ſo the ſoules, and bodies knot,

Which tēperance ſtreightens; freely on his ſhe friends

He blood, and ſpirit, pith, and marrow ſpends,

Ill ſteward of himſelf, himſelfe in three yeares ends.

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XXII.

Elſe might he long have liv'd; man did not know

Of gummie blood, which doth in holly grow

How to make bird-lime, nor how to deceive

With faind calls, his nets, or enwrapping ſnare

The free inhabitants of the Plyant aire.

Man to beget, and woman to conceive

Askt not of rootes, nor of cock-ſparrowes, leave:

Yet chuſeth hee, though none of theſe he feares,

Pleaſantly three, then ſtreightned twenty yeares

To live, and to encreaſe, himſelfe outweares.

XXIII.

This cole with overblowing quench'd and dead,

The Soule from her too active organs fled

T'a brooke; a female fiſhes ſandie Roe

With the males jelly, newly lev'ned was,

For they intertouched as they did paſſe,

And one of thoſe ſmall bodies, fitted ſo,

This ſoule inform'd, and abled it to roe

It ſelfe with finnie oares, which ſhe did fit,

Her ſcales ſeem'd yet of parchment, and as yet

Perchance a fiſh, but by no name you could call it.

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XXIV.

When goodly, like a ſhip in her full trim,

A ſwan, ſo white that you may unto him

Compare all whiteneſſe, but himſelfe to none,

Glided along, and as he glided watch'd,

And with his arched necke this poore fiſh catch'd.

It mov'd with ſtate, as if to looke upon

Low things it ſcorn'd, and yet before that one

Could thinke he ſought it, he had ſwallowed cleare

This, and much ſuch, and unblam'd devour'd there

All, but who too ſwift, too great, or well arm'd were

XXV.

Now ſwome a priſon in a priſon put,

And now this Soule in double walls was ſhut,

Till melted with the Swans digeſtive fire,

She left her houſe the fiſh, and vapour'd forth;

Fate not affording bodies of more worth

For her as yet, bids her againe retire

T'another fiſh, to any new deſire

Made a new prey; For, he that can to none

Reſiſtance make, nor complaint, ſure is gone.

Weakneſſe invites, but ſilence feaſts oppreſſion.

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XXVI.

Pace with the native ſtreame, this fiſh doth keepe,

And journeyes with her, towards the glaſſie deepe,

But oft retarded, once with a hidden net

Though with great windowes, for when need firſt taught

Theſe tricks to catch food, thē they were not wrought

As now, with curious greedineſſe to let

None ſcape, but few, and fit for uſe to get,

As, in this trap a ravenous pike was tane,

Who, though himſelfe diſtreſt, would faine have ſlain

This wretch; So hardly are ill habits left again.

XXVII.

Here by her ſmallneſſe ſhee two deaths orepaſt,

Once innocence ſcap'd, and left the oppreſſor faſt;

The net through-ſwome, ſhe keepes the liquid path,

And whether ſhe leape up ſometimes to breath

And ſuck in aire, or finde it underneath,

Or working parts like mills, or limbecks hath

To make the wether thinne, and airelike faith

Cares not, but ſafe the Place ſhe's come unto

Where freſh, with ſalt waves meet, and what to doe

She knowes not, but betweene both makes a boord or two

[Page]

XXVIII.

So farre from hiding her gueſts, water is

That ſhe ſhowes them in bigger quantities

Then they are. Thus doubtfull of her way,

For game and not for hunger a ſea Pie

Spied through this traiterous ſpectacle, from high,

The ſeely fiſh where it diſputing lay,

And t'end her doubts and her, beares her away,

Exalted ſhe'is, but to the exalters good,

As are by great ones, men which lowly ſtood.

It's raiſ'd, to be the Raiſers inſtrument and food.

XXIX.

Is any kinde ſubject to rape like fiſh?

Ill unto man, they neither doe, nor wiſh:

Fiſhers they kill not, nor with noiſe awake,

They doe not hunt, nor ſtrive to make a prey

Of beaſts, nor their yong ſonnes to beare away;

Foules they purſue not, nor do undertake

To ſpoile the neſts induſtruous birds do make;

Yet them all theſe unkinde kinds feed upon,

To kill them is an occupation,

And lawes make faſts, & lents for their deſtruction.

[Page]

XXX.

A ſudden ſtiffe land-winde in that ſelfe houre

To ſea-ward forc'd this bird, that did devour

The fiſh; he cares not, for with eaſe he flies,

Fat gluttonies beſt orator: at laſt

So long hee hath flowen, and hath flowen ſo faſt

That leagues o'er-paſt at ſea, now tir'd hee lyes,

And with his prey, that till then languiſht, dies,

The ſoules no longer foes, two wayes did erre,

The fiſh I follow, and keepe no calender

Of the other; he lives yet in ſome great officer.

XXXI.

Into an embrion fiſh, our Soule is throwne

And in due time throwne out againe, and growne

To ſuch vaſtneſſe, as if unmanacled

From Greece, Morea were, and that by ſome

Earthquake unrooted, looſe Morea ſwome,

Or ſeas from Africks body had ſevered

And torne the hopefull Promontories head,

This fiſh would ſeeme theſe, and, when all hopes faile,

A great ship overſet, or without ſaile

Hulling, might (when this was a whelp) be like this whale.

[Page]

XXXII.

At every ſtroake his brazen finnes do take

More circles in the broken ſea they make

Then cannons voices, when the aire they teare:

His ribs are pillars, and his high arch'd roofe

Of barke that blunts beſt ſteele, is thunder-proofe,

Swimme in him ſwallowed Dolphins, without feare,

And feele no ſides, as if his vaſt wombe were

Some Inland ſea, and ever as hee went

Hee ſpouted rivers up, as if he ment

To joyne our ſeas, with ſeas above the firmament.

XXXIII.

He hunts not fiſh, but as an officer,

Stayes in his court, at his owne net, and there

All ſuitors of all ſorts themſelves enthrall;

So on his backe lyes this whale wantoning,

And in his gulfe-like throat, ſucks every thing

That paſſeth neare. Fiſh chaſeth fiſh, and all,

Flyer and follower, in this whirlepoole fall;

O might not ſtates of more equality

Conſiſt? and is it of neceſſity

That thouſand guiltleſſe ſmals, to make one great, muſt die?

[Page]

XXXIV.

Now drinkes he up ſeas, and he eates up flocks,

He juſtles Ilands, and he ſhakes firme rockes.

Now in a roomefull houſe this Soule doth float,

And like a Prince ſhe ſends her faculties

To all her limbes, diſtant as Provinces.

The Sunne hath twenty times both crab and goate

Parched, ſince firſt lanch'd forth this living boate.

'Tis greateſt now, and to deſtruction

Neareſt; There's no pauſe at perfection.

Greatneſſe a period hath, but hath no ſtation.

XXXV.

Two little fiſhes whom hee never harm'd,

Nor fed on their kinde, two not throughly arm'd

With hope that they could kill him, nor could doe

Good to themſelves by his death: they did not eate

His fleſh, nor ſuck thoſe oyles, which thence outſtreat,

Conſpir'd againſt him, and it might undoe

The plot of all, that the plotters were two,

But that they fiſhes were, and could not ſpeake.

How ſhall a Tyran wiſe ſtrong projects breake,

If wreches can on them the common anger wreake?

[Page]

XXXVI.

The flaile-find Threſher, and ſteel-beak'd Sword-fiſh

Onely attempt to doe, what all doe wiſh.

The Threſher backs him, and to beate begins;

The ſluggard Whale yeelds to oppreſſion,

And t'hide himſelfe from ſhame and danger, downe

Begins to ſinke; the Swordfiſh upward ſpins,

And gores him with his beake; his ſtaffe-like finnes,

So were the one, his ſword the other plyes,

That now a ſcoffe, and prey, this tyran dyes,

And (his owne dole) feeds with himſelfe all companies.

XXXVII.

Who will revenge his death? or who will call

Thoſe to account, that thought, and wrought his fall?

The heires of ſlaine kings, wee ſee are often ſo

Tranſported with the joy of what they get,

That they, revenge, and obſequies forget,

Nor will againſt ſuch men the people goe,

Becauſe h'is now dead, to whom they ſhould ſhow

Love in that act. Some kings by vice being growne

So needy of ſubjects love, that of their won

They thinke they loſe, if love be to the dead Prince ſhown.

[Page]

XXXVIII.

This Soule, now free from priſon, and paſſion,

Hath yet a little indignation

That ſo ſmall hammers ſhould ſo ſoone downe beat

So great a caſtle. And having for her houſe

Got the ſtreight cloyſter of a wreched mouſe

(As baſeſt men that have not what to eate,

Nor enjoy ought, doe farre more hate the great

Then they, who good repos'd eſtates poſſeſſe)

This Soule, late taught that great things might by leſſe

Be ſlain, to gallant miſchiefe doth herſelfe addreſſe.

XXXIX.

Natures great maſter-peece, an Elephant,

The onely harmleſſe great thing; the giant

Of beaſts; who thought, no more had gone, to make one wiſe

But to be juſt, and thankfull, loth to offend,

(Yet nature hath given him no knees to bend)

Himſelfe he up-props, on himſelfe relies

And foe to none, ſuſpects no enemies,

Still ſleeping ſtood; vex't not his fantaſie

Blacke dreames, like an unbent bow, careleſly

His ſinewy Proboſcis did remiſly lie.

[Page]

XL.

In which as in a gallery this mouſe

Walk'd, and ſurveid the roomes of this vaſt houſe,

And to the braine, the ſoules bed chamber, went,

And gnaw'd the life cords there; Like a whole towne

Cleane undermin'd, the ſlaine beaſt tumbled downe,

With him the murtherer dies whom envy ſent

To kill, not ſcape, for, only hee that ment

To die, did ever kill a man of better roome,

And thus he made his foe, his prey, and tombe:

Who cares not to turn back, may any whither come.

XLI.

Next, hous'd this Soule a Wolves yet unborne whelp,

Till the beſt midwife, Nature, gave it helpe,

To iſſue. It could kill, as ſoone as goe,

Abel, as white, and milde as his ſheepe were,

(Who in that trade of Church, and kingdomes, there

Was the firſt type) was ſtill infeſted ſoe,

With this wolfe, that it bred his loſſe and woe;

And yet his bitch, his ſentinell attends

The flocke ſo neere, ſo well warnes and defends,

That the wolfe, (hopeleſſe elſe) to corrupt her, intends.

[Page]

XLII.

Hee tooke a courſe, which ſince, ſucceſfully,

Great men have often taken, to eſpie

The counſels, or to breake the plots of foes,

To Abels tent he ſtealeth in the darke,

On whoſe skirts the bitch ſlept; ere ſhe could barke,

Attach'd her with ſtreight gripes, yet hee call'd thoſe,

Embracements of love; to loves worke he goes,

Where deeds move more then words; nor doth ſhe ſhow,

Nor much reſiſt, nor needs hee ſtreighten ſo

His prey, for, were ſhee looſe, ſhe would not barke, nor goe.

XLIII.

Hee hath engag'd her; his, ſhe wholy bides;

Who not her owne, none others ſecrets hides,

If to the flocke he come, and Abell there,

She faines hoarſe barkings, but ſhe biteth not,

Her faith is quite, but not her love forgot.

At laſt a trap, of which ſome every where

Abell had plac'd, ends all his loſſe, and feare,

By the Wolves death; and now juſt time it was

That a quicke ſoule ſhould give life to that maſſe

Of blood in Abels bitch, and thither this did paſſe.

[Page]

XLIV.

Some have their wives, their ſiſters ſome begot,

But in the lives of Emperours you ſhall not

Reade of a luſt the which may equall this;

This wolfe begot himſelfe, and finiſhed

What he began alive, when hee was dead,

Sonne to himſelfe, and father too, hee is

A ridling luſt, for which Schoolemen would miſſe

A proper name. The whelpe of both theſe lay

In Abels tent, and with ſoft Moaba,

His ſiſter, being yong, it us'd to ſport and play.

XLV.

Hee ſoone for her too harſh, and churliſh grew,

And Abell (the dam dead) would uſe this new

For the field, being of two kindes made,

He, as his dam, from ſheepe drove wolves away,

And as his Sire, he made them his owne prey.

Five yeares he liv'd, and coſened with his trade,

Then hopeleſſe that his faults were hid, betraid

Himſelfe by flight, and by all followed,

From dogges, a wolfe; from wolves, a dogge he fled;

And, like a ſpie to both ſides falſe, he periſhed.

[Page]

XLVI.

It quickned next a toyfull Ape, and ſo

Gameſome it was, that it might freely goe

From tent to tent, and with the children play,

His organs now ſo like theirs hee doth finde,

That why he cannot laugh, and ſpeake his minde,

He wonders. Much with all, moſt he doth ſtay

With Adams fift daughter Siphatecia,

Doth gaze on her, and, where ſhe paſſeth, paſſe,

Gathers her fruits, and tumbles on the graſſe,

And wiſeſt of that kinde, the firſt true lover was.

XLVII.

He was the firſt that more deſir'd to have

One then another; firſt that ere did crave

Love by mute ſignes, and had no power to ſpeake;

Firſt that could make love faces, or could doe

The valters ſomberſalts, or us'd to wooe

With hoiting gambolls, his owne bones to breake

To make his miſtreſſe merry; or to wreake

Her anger on himſelfe. Sinnes againſt kinde

They eaſily doe, that can let feed their minde

With outward beauty, beauty they in boyes and beaſts do find.

[Page]

XLVIII.

By this miſled, too low things men have prov'd,

And too high; beaſts and angels have beene lov'd;

This Ape, though elſe through-vaine, in this was wiſe,

He reach'd at things too high, but open way

There was, and he knew not ſhe would ſay nay;

His toyes prevaile not, likelier meanes he tries,

He gazeth on her face with teare-ſhot eyes,

And up lifts ſubtly with his ruſſet pawe

Her kidskinne apron without feare or awe

Of nature; nature hath no gaole, though ſhee hath law.

XLIX.

Firſt ſhe was ſilly and knew not what he ment,

That vertue, by his touches, chaft and ſpent,

Succeeds an itchie warmth, that melts her quite,

She knew not firſt, now cares not what he doth,

And willing halfe and more, more then halfe Tooth

She neither puls nor puſhes, but outright

Now cries, and now repents; when Tethelemite

Her brother, entred, and a great ſtone threw

After the Ape, who, thus prevented, flew,

This houſe thus batter'd downe, the Soule poſſeſt a new.

[Page]

L.

And whether by this change ſhe loſe or win,

She comes out next, where the Ape would have gone in,

Adam and Eve had mingled bloods, and now

Like Chimiques equall fires, her temperate wombe

Had ſtew'd and form'd it: and part did become

A ſpungie liver, that did richly allow,

Like a free conduit, on a high hils brow,

Life keeping moiſture unto every part,

Part hardned it ſelfe to a thicker heart,

Whoſe buſie furnaces lifes ſpirits do impart.

LI.

Another part became the well of ſenſe,

The tender well arm'd feeling braine, from whence,

Thoſe ſinowie ſtrings which do our bodies tie,

Are raveld out, and faſt there by one end,

Did this Soule limbes, theſe limbes a ſoule attend,

And now they joyn'd: keeping ſome quality

Of every paſt ſhape, ſhe knew treachery,

Rapine, deceit, and luſt, and ills enow

To be a woman. Themech ſhe is now,

Siſter and wife to Caine, Caine that firſt did plow.

[Page]

LII.

Who ere thou beeſt that read'ſt this ſullen Writ,

Which juſt ſo much courts thee, as thou doſt it,

Let me arreſt thy thoughts, wonder with mee,

Why plowing, building, ruling and the reſt,

Or moſt of thoſe arts, whence our lives are bleſt,

By curſed Cains race invented be,

And bleſt Seth vext us with Aſtronomie,

Ther's nothing ſimply good, nor ill alone,

Of every quality compariſon,

The onely meaſure is, and judge, opinion.

HOLY SONNETS.

[Page]

La Corona.
1.

DEigne at my hands this crown of prayer and praiſe,

Weav'd in my low devout melancholie,

Thou which of good, haſt, yea art treaſury,

All changing unchang'd Antient of dayes,

But doe not, with a vile crowne of fraile bayes,

Reward my muſes white ſincerity,

But what thy thorny crowne gain'd, that give mee,

A crowne of Glory, which doth flower alwayes;

The ends crowne our workes, but thou crown'ſt our ends,

For, at our end begins our endleſſe reſt,

The firſt laſt end, now zealouſly poſſeſt,

With a ſtrong ſober thirſt, my ſoule attends.

'Tis time that heart and voice be lifted high,

Salvation to all that will is nigh,

ANNVNCIATION.
2

Salvation to all that will is nigh,

That All, which alwayes is All every where,

Which cannot ſinne, and yet all ſinnes muſt beare,

Which cannot die, yet cannot chuſe but die,

Loe, faithfull Virgin, yeelds himſelfe to lye

In priſon, in thy wombe; and though he there

Can take no ſinne, nor thou give, yet he'will weare

Taken from thence, fleſh, which deaths force may trie.

[Page] Ere by the ſpheares time was created, thou

Waſt in his minde, who is thy Sonne, and Brother,

Whom thou conceiv'ſt, conceiv'd; yea thou art now

Thy Makers maker, and thy Fathers mother,

Thou'haſt light in darke; and ſhutſt in little roome,

Immenſity cloyſterd in thy deare wombe.

NATIVITIE.
3

Immenſitie cloyſterd in thy deare wombe,

Now leaves his welbelov'd impriſonment,

There he hath made himſelfe to his intent

Weake enough, now into our world to come;

But Oh, for thee, for him, hath th'Inne no roome?

Yet lay him in this ſtall, and from the Orient,

Starres, and wiſemen will travell to prevent

Th'effects of Herods jealous generall doome;

Seeſt thou, my Soule, with thy faiths eyes, how he

Which fils all place, yet none holds him, doth lye?

Was not his pity towards thee wondrous high,

That would have need to be pittied by thee?

Kiſſe him, and with him into Egypt goe,

With his kinde mother, who partakes thy woe.

TEMPLE.
4

[Page]

With his kinde mother who partakes thy woe,

Ioſeph turne backe; ſee where your child doth ſit,

Blowing, yea blowing out thoſe ſparks of wit,

Which himſelfe on the Doctors did beſtow;

The Word but lately could not ſpeake, and loe

It ſodenly ſpeakes wonders, whence comes it,

That all which was, and all which ſhould be writ,

A ſhallow ſeeming child, ſhould deeply know?

His Godhead was not ſoule to his manhood,

Nor had time mellowed him to this ripeneſſe,

But as for one which hath a long taske, 'Tis good,

With the Sunne to beginne his buſineſſe,

He in his ages morning thus began

By miracles exceeding power of man.

CRVCIFYING.
5

By miracles exceeding power of man,

Hee faith in ſome, envie in ſome begat,

For, what weake ſpirits admire, ambitious, hate;

In both affections many to him ran,

But Oh! the worſt are moſt, they will and can,

Alas, and do, unto the immaculate,

Whoſe creature Fate is, now preſcribe a Fate,

Meaſuring ſelfe-lifes infinity to ſpan,

Nay to an inch, loe, where condemned hee

Beares his owne croſſe, with paine, yet by and by

[Page] When it beares him, he muſt beare more and die;

Now thou art lifted up, draw mee to thee,

And at thy death giving ſuch liberall dole,

Moyſt, with one drop of thy blood, my dry ſoule.

RESVRRECTION.
6

Moyſt with one drop of thy blood, my dry ſoule,

Shall (though ſhe now be in extreme degree

Too ſtony hard, and yet too fleſhly,) bee

Freed by that drop, from being ſtarv'd, hard, or foule,

And life, by this death abled, ſhall controule

Death, whom thy death ſlue; nor ſhall to mee

Feare of firſt or laſt death, bring miſerie,

If in thy little booke my name thou enroule,

Fleſh in that long ſleep is not putrified,

But made that there, of which, and for which 'twas;

Nor can by other meanes be glorified.

May then ſinnes ſleep, and death ſoone from me paſſe,

That wak't from both, I againe riſen may

Salute the laſt, and everlaſting day.

ASCENTION.
7

Salute the laſt and everlaſting day,

Joy at the upriſing of this Sunne, and Sonne,

Yee whoſe juſt teares, or tribulation

Have purely waſht, or burnt your droſſie clay;

Behold the Higheſt, parting hence away,

Lightens the darke clouds, which hee treads upon,

[Page] Nor doth hee by aſcending, ſhow alone,

But firſt hee, and hee firſt enters the way,

O ſtrong Ramme, which haſt batter'd heaven for mee,

Mild lambe which with thy blood, haſt mark'd the path;

Bright torch, which ſhin'ſt, that I the way may ſee,

Oh, with thy owne blood quench thy owne juſt wrath,

And if thy holy Spirit, my Muſe did raiſe,

Deigne at my hands this crowne of prayer and praiſe.

Holy Sonnets.

I.

AS due by many titles I reſigne

My ſelfe to thee, O God, firſt I was made

By thee, and for thee, and when I was decay'd

Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine,

I am thy ſonne, made with thy ſelfe to ſhine,

Thy ſervant, whoſe paines thou haſt ſtill repaid,

Thy ſheepe, thine Image, and till I betray'd

My ſelfe, a temple of thy Spirit divine;

Why doth the devill then uſurpe on mee?

Why doth he ſteale nay raviſh that's thy right?

Except thou riſe and for thine owne worke fight,

Oh I ſhall ſoone deſpaire, when I doe ſee

That thou lov'ſt mankind well, yet wilt'not chuſe me.

And Satan hates mee, yet is loth to loſe mee.

II.

[Page]

Oh my blacke Soule! now thou art ſummoned

By ſickneſſe, deaths herald, and champion;

Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done

Treaſon, and durſt not turne to whence hee is fled,

Or like a thiefe, which till deaths doome be read,

Wiſheth himſelfe delivered from priſon;

But damn'd and hal'd to execution,

Wiſheth that ſtill he might be impriſoned;

Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canſt not lacke;

But who ſhall give thee that grace to beginne?

Oh make thy ſelfe with holy mourning blacke,

And red with bluſhing, as thou art with ſinne;

Or waſh thee in Chriſts blood, which hath this might

That being red, it dyes red ſoules to white.

III.

This is my playes laſt ſcene, here heavens appoint

My pilgrimages laſt mile; and my race

Idly, yet quickly runne, hath this laſt pace,

My ſpans laſt inch, my minutes lateſt point,

And gluttonous death, will inſtantly unjoynt

My body, and my ſoule, and I ſhall ſleepe a ſpace,

But my'ever-waking part ſhall ſee that face,

[Page] Whoſe feare already ſhakes my every joynt:

Then, as my ſoule, to'heaven her firſt ſeate, takes flight,

And earth borne body, in the earth ſhall dwell,

So, fall my ſinnes, that all may have their right,

To where they'are bred, and would preſſe me, to hell.

Impute me righteous, thus purg'd of evill,

For thus I leave the world, the fleſh the devill.

IV.

At the round earths imagin'd corners, blow

Your trumpets, Angells, and ariſe, ariſe

From death, you numberleſſe infinities

Of ſoules, and to your ſcattred bodies goe,

All whom the flood did, and fire ſhall o'erthrow,

All whom warre, death, age, agues, tyrannies,

Deſpaire, law, chance, hath ſlaine, and you whoſe eyes,

Shall behold God, and never taſt deaths woe,

But let them ſleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a ſpace,

For, if above all theſe, my ſinnes abound,

'Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace,

When wee are there; here on this lowly ground,

Teach mee how to repent; for that's as good

As if thou'hadſt ſeal'd my pardon, with thy blood.

V.

[Page]

If poyſonous mineralls, and if that tree,

Whoſe fruit threw death on elſe immortall us,

If lecherous goats, if ſerpents envious

Cannot be damn'd; Alas; why ſhould I bee?

Why ſhould intent or reaſon, borne in mee,

Make ſinnes, elſe equall, in mee, more heinous?

And mercy being eaſie, and glorious

To God, in his ſterne wrath, why threatens hee?

But who am I, that dare diſpute with thee?

O God, Oh! of thine onely worthy blood,

And my teares, make a heavenly Lethean flood,

And drowne in it my ſinnes blacke memorie,

That thou remember them, ſome claime as debt,

I thinke it mercy, if thou wilt forget,

VI.

Death be not proud, though ſome have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not ſoe,

For, thoſe, whom thou think'ſt, thou doſt overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canſt thou kill mee;

From reſt and ſleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleaſure, then from thee, much more muſt flow,

And ſooneſt our beſt men with thee doe goe,

[Page] Reſt of their bones, and ſoules deliverie

Thou art ſlave to Fate, chance, kings, and deſperate men,

And doth with poyſon, warre, and ſickneſſe dwell.

And poppie, or charmes can make us ſleepe as well,

And better then thy ſtroake; why ſwell'ſt thou then?

One ſhort ſleepe paſt, wee wake eternally,

And death ſhall be no more, death thou ſhalt die.

VII.

Spit in my face you Jewes, and pierce my ſide,

Buffet, and ſcoffe, ſcourge, and crucifie mee,

For I have ſinn'd, and ſinn'd, and onely hee,

Who could do no iniquitie, hath dyed:

But by my death can not be ſatisfied

My ſinnes, which paſſe the Jewes impiety:

They kill'd once an inglorious man, but I

Crucifie him daily, being now glorified;

Oh let mee then, his ſtrange love ſtill admire:

Kings pardon but he bore our puniſhment.

And Iacob came cloth'd in vile harſh attire

But to ſupplant, and with gainfull intent

God cloth'd himſelfe in vile mans fleſh, that ſo

Hee might be weake enough to ſuffer woe.

VIII.

[Page]

Why are wee by all creatures waited on?

Why doe the prodigall elements ſupply

Life and food to mee, being more pure then I,

Simple, and further from corruption?

Why brook'ſt thou, ignorant horſe, ſubjection?

Why doſt thou bull, and bore ſo ſeelily

Diſſemble weakneſſe, and by'one mans ſtroke die,

Whoſe whole kinde, you might ſwallow & feed upon?

Weaker I am, woe is mee, and worſe then you,

You have not ſinn'd, nor need be timorous,

But wonder at a greater wonder, for to us

Created nature doth theſe things ſubdue,

But their Creator, whom ſin, nor nature tyed,

For us, his Creatures, and his foes, hath dyed.

IX.

What if this preſent were the worlds laſt night?

Marke in my heart, O Soule, where thou doſt dwell,

The picture of Chriſt crucified, and tell

Whether his countenance can thee affright,

Teares in his eyes quench the amaſing light,

Blood fills his frownes, which from his pierc'd head fell

And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,

[Page] Which pray'd forgiveneſſe for his foes fierce ſpight?

No, no; but as in my idolatrie

I ſaid to all my profane miſtreſſes,

Beauty, of pitty, foulneſſe onely is

A ſigne of rigour: ſo I ſay to thee,

To wicked ſpirits are horrid ſhapes aſſign'd,

This beauteous forme aſſumes a pitious minde.

X.

Batter my heart, three perſon'd God; for, you

As yet but knocke, breathe, ſhine, and ſeeke to mend;

That I may riſe, and ſtand, o'erthrow mee, 'and bend

Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new,

I, like an uſurpt towne, to'another due,

Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,

Reaſon your viceroy in mee, mee ſhould defend,

But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue,

Yet dearely'I love you, and would be lov'd faine,

But am betroth'd unto your enemie,

Divorce mee, 'untie, or breake that knot againe,

Take mee to you, impriſon mee, for I

Except you'enthral mee, never ſhall be free,

Nor ever chaſt, except you raviſh mee.

XI.

[Page]

Wilt thou love God, as he thee! then digeſt,

My Soule, this wholſome meditation,

How God the Spirit, by Angels waited on

In heaven, doth make his Temple in thy breſt,

The Father having begot a Sonne moſt bleſt,

And ſtill begetting, (for he ne'r begonne)

Hath deign'd to chuſe thee by adoption,

Coheire to'his glory, 'and Sabbaths endleſſe reſt;

And as a robb'd man, which by ſearch doth finde

His ſtolne ſtuffe ſold, muſt loſe or buy'it againe:

The Sonne of glory came downe, and was ſlaine,

Us whom he'had made, and Satan ſtolne, to unbinde.

'Twas much, that man was made like God before,

But, that God ſhould be made like man, much more.

XII.

Father, part of his double intereſt

Unto thy kingdome, thy Sonne gives to mee,

His joynture in the knottie Trinitie,

Hee keepes, and gives to me his deaths conqueſt,

This Lambe, whoſe death, with life the world hath bleſt,

Was from the worlds beginning ſlaine, and he

Hath made two Wills, which with the Legacie

[Page] Of his and thy kingdome, doe thy Sonnes inveſt,

Yet ſuch are theſe laws, that men argue yet

Whether a man thoſe ſtatutes can fulfill;

None doth, but thy all-healing grace and Spirit,

Revive againe what law and letter kill,

Thy lawes abridgement, and thy laſt command

Is all but love; Oh let this laſt Will ſtand!

EPIGRAMS.

Hero and Leander.

BOth rob'd of aire, we both lye in one ground,

Both whom one fire had burnt, one water drownd.

Pyramus and Thisbe.

Two, by themſelves, each other, love and feare

Slaine, cruell friends, by parting have joyn'd here.

Niobe.

By childrens births, and death, I am become

So dry, that I am now mine owne ſad tombe.

A burnt ſhip.

[Page]

Out of a fired ſhip, which, by no way

But drowning, could be reſcued from the flame,

Some men leap'd forth, and ever as they came

Neere the foes ſhips, did by their ſhot decay;

So all were loſt, which in the ſhip were found,

They in the ſea being burnt, they in the burnt ſhip drown'd.

Fall of a wall.

Under an undermin'd, and ſhot-bruis'd wall

A too-bold Captaine periſh'd by the fall,

Whoſe brave misfortune, happieſt men envi'd,

That had a towne for tombe, his bones to hide.

A lame begger.

I am unable, yonder begger cries,

To ſtand, or moue; if he ſay true, hee lies.

A ſelfe accuſer.

Your miſtris, that you follow whores, ſtill taxeth you:

'Tis ſtrange that ſhe ſhould thus confeſſe it, though'it be true.

A licentious perſon.

[Page]

Thy ſinnes and haires may no man equall call,

For, as thy ſinnes increaſe, thy haires doe fall.

Antiquary.

If in his Studie he hath ſo much care

To'hang all old ſtrange things, let his wife beware.

Diſinherited.

Thy father all from thee, by his laſt Will

Gave to the poore; Thou haſt good title ſtill,

Phryne.

Thy flattering picture, Phryne, is like thee,

Onely in this, that you both painted be.

An obſcure writer.

Philo, with twelve yeares ſtudy, hath beene griev'd,

To'be underſtood, when will hee be beleev'd.

Klockius ſo deeply hath ſworne, ne'r more to come

In bawdie houſe, that hee dares not goe home.

Raderus.

[Page]

Why this man gelded Martiall I muſe,

Except himſelfe alone his tricks would uſe,

As Katherine, for the Courts ſake, put downe Stewes.

Mercurlus Gallo-Belgicus.

Like Eſops fellow-ſlaves, O Mercury,

Which could do all things, thy faith is; and I

Like Eſops ſelfe, which nothing; I confeſſe

I ſhould have had more faith, if thou hadſt leſſe;

Thy credit loſt thy credit: 'Tis ſinne to doe,

In this caſe, as thou wouldſt be done unto,

To beleeve all: Change thy name: thou art like

Mercury in ſtealing, but lyeſt like a Greeke.

Compaſſion in the world againe is bred:

Ralphius is ſick, the broker keeps his bed.

§

[Page]

ELEGIE. I.

FOnd woman which would'ſt have thy huſband die,

And yet complain'ſt of his great jealouſie;

If ſwolne with poyſon, hee lay in'his laſt bed,

His body with a ſere-barke covered,

Drawing his breath, as thick and ſhort, as can

The nimbleſt crocheting Muſitian,

Ready with loathſome vomiting to ſpue

His Soule out of one hell, into a new,

Made deafe with his poore kindreds howling cries,

Begging with few feign'd teares, great legacies,

Thou would'ſt not weepe, but jolly, 'and frolicke bee,

As a ſlave, which to morrow ſhould be free,

Yet weep'ſt thou, when thou ſeeſt him hungerly

Swallow his owne death, hearts-bane jealouſie.

O give him many thanks, he'is courteous,

That in ſuſpecting kindly warneth us.

Wee muſt not, as wee us'd, flout openly,

In ſcoffing ridles, his deformitie;

Nor at his boord together being ſatt,

With words, nor touch, ſcarce lookes adulterate.

Nor when he ſwolne, and pamper'd with great fare

Sits downe, and ſnorts, cag'd in his basket chaire,

Muſt wee uſurpe his owne bed any more,

Nor kiſſe and play in his houſe, as before.

Now I ſee many dangers; for it is

His realme, his caſtle, and his dioceſſe.

But if, as envious men, which would revile

[Page] Their Prince, or coyne his gold, themſelves exile

Into another countrie, 'and doe it there,

Wee play'in another houſe, what ſhould we feare?

There we will scorne his houſhold policies,

His ſeely plots, and penſionary ſpies,

As the inhabitants of Thames right ſide

Do Londons Major, or Germans, the Popes pride.

Elegie II.

Marry, and love thy Flavia, for, ſhee

Hath all things, whereby others beautious bee,

For, though her eyes be ſmall, her mouth is great,

Though they be Ivory, yet her teeth be jear,

Though they be dimme, yet ſhe is light enough,

And though her harſh haire fall, her skinne is rough;

What though her cheeks be yellow, her haire's red,

Give her thine, and ſhe hath a maydenhead.

Theſe things are beauties elements, where theſe

Meet in one, that one muſt, as perfect, pleaſe.

If red and white and each good quality

Be in thy wench, ne'r aske where it doth lye.

In buying things perfum'd, we aske; if there

Be muske and amber in it, but not where.

Though all her parts be not in th'uſuall place,

She'hath yet an Anagram of a good face.

If we might put the letters but one way,

[Page] In the leane dearth of words, what could wee ſay?

When by the Gamut ſome Muſitions make

A perfect ſong, others will undertake,

By the ſame Gamut chang'd, to equall it.

Things ſimply good, can never be unfit;

She's faire as any, if all be like her,

And if none bee, then ſhe is ſingular.

All love is wonder; if wee juſtly doe

Account her wonderfull, why not lovely too?

Love built on beauty, ſoone as beauty, dies,

Chuſe this face, chang'd by no deformities;

Women are all like Angels; the faire be

Like thoſe which fell to worſe; but ſuch as ſhee,

Like to good Angels, nothing can impaire:

'Tis leſſe griefe to be foule, then to'have beene faire.

For one nights revels, ſilke and gold we chuſe,

But, in long journeyes, cloth, and leather uſe.

Beauty is barren oft; beſt huſbands ſay

There is beſt land, where there is fouleſt way.

Oh what a ſoveraigne Plaiſter will ſhee bee

If thy paſt ſinnes have taught thee jealouſie!

Here needs no ſpies, nor eunuches; her commit

Safe to thy foes; yea, to a Marmoſit.

When Belgiaes citties, the round countries drowne,

That durty fouleneſſe guards, and armes the towne:

So doth her face guard her; and ſo, for thee,

Which, forc'd by buſineſſe, abſent oft muſt bee,

Shee, whoſe face, like clouds, turnes the day to night,

Who, mightier thē the ſea, makes Moores ſeem white,

Who, though ſeaven yeares, ſhe in the Stews had laid,

[Page] A Nunnery durſt receive, and thinke a maid,

And though in childbeds labour ſhe did lie,

Midwifes would ſweare, 'twere but a tympanie,

Whom, if ſhee accuſe her ſelfe, I credit leſſe

Then witches, which impoſſibles confeſſe.

One like none, and lik'd of none, fitteſt were,

For, things in faſhion every man will weare.

Elegie III.

Although thy hand and faith, and good workes too,

Have ſeal'd thy love which nothing ſhould undoe,

Yea though thou fall backe, that apoſtaſie

Confirme thy love; yet much, much I feare thee.

Women, are like the Arts, forc'd unto none,

Open to'all ſearchers, unpriz'd, if unknowne.

If I have caught a bird, and let him flie,

Another fouler uſing theſe meanes, as I,

May catch the ſame bird; and, as theſe things bee,

Women are made for men, not him, nor mee.

Foxes and goats; all beaſts change when they pleaſe,

Shall women, more hot, wily, wild then theſe,

Be bound to one man, and did Nature then

Idly make them apter to'endure then men?

They'are our clogges, not their owne; if a man bee

Chain'd to a galley, yet the galley'is free;

Who hath a plow-land, caſts all his ſeed corne there,

[Page] And yet allowes his ground more corne ſhould beare;

Though Danuby into the ſea muſt flow,

The ſea receives the Rhene, Volga, and Po.

By nature, which gave it, this liberty

Thou lov'ſt, but Oh! canſt thou love it and mee?

Likeneſſe glues love: and if that thou ſo doe,

To make us like and love, muſt I change too?

More then thy hate, I hate'it, rather let mee

Allow her change, then change as oft as shee,

And ſoe not teach, but force my'opinion

To love not any one, nor every one.

To live in one land, is captivitie,

To runne all countries, a wild roguery;

Waters ſtincke ſoone, if in one place they bide,

And in the vaſt ſea are more putrifi'd:

But when they kiſſe one banke, and leaving this

Never looke backe, but the next banke doe kiſſe,

Then are they pureſt; Change'is the nurſery

Of muſicke, joy, life, and eternity.

Elegie IV.

[Page]

Once, and but once found in thy company,

All thy ſuppos'd eſcapes are laid on mee;

And as a thiefe at barre, is queſtion'd there

By all the men, that have beene rob'd that yeare,

So am I, (by this traiterous meanes ſurpriz'd)

By thy Hydroptique father catechiz'd.

Though hee hath oft ſworne, that hee would remove

Thy beauties beautie, and food of our love,

Hope of his goods, if I with thee were ſeene,

Yet cloſe and ſecret, as our ſoules, we'have beene.

Though thy immortall mother which doth lye

Still buried in her bed, yet will not dye,

Takes this advantage to ſleepe out day-light,

And watch thy entries, and returnes all night,

And, when ſhe takes thy hand, and would ſeeme kind,

Doth ſearch what rings, and armelets ſhe can finde,

And kiſſing notes the colour of thy face,

And fearing leaſt thou'art ſwolne, doth thee embrace;

To trie if thou long, doth name ſtrange meates.

And notes thy paleneſſe, bluſhing, ſighs, and ſweats;

And politiquely will to thee confeſſe

The ſinnes of her owne youths ranke luſtineſſe;

Yet love theſe Sorceries did remove, and move

Thee to gull thine owne mother for my love.

Thy little brethren, which like Faiery Sprights

Oft skipt into our chamber, thoſe ſweet nights,

And kiſt, and ingled on thy fathers knee,

[Page] Were brib'd next day, to tell what they did ſee.

The grim-eight-foot-high-iron-bound ſerving-man,

That oft names God in oathes, and onely than,

He that to barre the firſt gate, doth as wide

As the great Rhodian Coloſſus ſtride,

Which, if in hell no other paines there were,

Makes mee feare hell, becauſe he muſt be there:

Though by thy father he were hir'd to this,

Could never witneſſe any touch or kiſſe;

But Oh, too common ill, I brought with mee

That, which betray'd mee to my enemie:

A loud perfume, which at my entrance cryed

Even at thy fathers noſe, ſo were wee ſpied.

When, like a tyran King, that in his bed

Smelt gunpowder, the pale wretch ſhivered;

Had it beene ſome bad ſmell, he would have thought

That his owne feet, or breath, that ſmell had wrought

But as wee in our Ile empriſoned,

Where cattell onely, 'and diverſe dogs are bred,

The pretious Vnicornes, ſtrange monſters, call,

So thought he good, ſtrange, that had none at all.

I taught my ſilkes, their whiſtling to forbeare,

Even my oppreſt ſhoes, dumbe and ſpeechleſſe were,

Onely, thou bitter ſweet, whom I had laid

Next mee, mee traiterouſly haſt betraid,

And unſuſpected haſt inviſibly

At once fled unto him, and ſtaid with mee.

Baſe excrement of earth, which doſt confound

Senſe, from diſtinguiſhing the ſicke from ſound;

By thee the ſeely Amorous ſucks his death

[Page] By drawing in a leprous harlots breath,

By thee, the greateſt ſtaine to mans eſtate

Falls on us, to be call'd effeminate;

Though you be much lov'd in the Princes hall,

There, things that ſeeme, exceed ſubſtantiall.

Gods, when yee fum'd on altars, were pleas'd well,

Becauſe you'were burnt, not that they lik'd your ſmell,

You'are loathſome all, being taken ſimply alone,

Shall wee love ill things joyn'd, and hate each one?

If you were good, your good doth ſoone decay;

And you are rare, that takes the good away.

All my perfumes, I give moſt willingly

To'embalme thy fathers corſe; What? will hee die?

Elegie V.

Here take my Picture, though I bid farewell;

Thine, in my heart, where my ſoule dwels, ſhall dwell.

'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more

When wee are ſhadowes both, then 'twas before.

When weather-beaten I come backe; my hand,

Perhaps with rude oares torne, or Sun beams tann'd,

My face and breſt of hairecloth, and my head

With cares raſh ſodaine ſtormes, being o'rſpread,

My body'a ſack of bones, broken within,

And powders blew ſtaines ſcatter'd on my skinne;

If rivall fooles taxe thee to'have lov'd a man,

[Page] So foule, and courſe, as, Oh, I may ſeeme than,

This ſhall ſay what I was: and thou ſhalt ſay,

Doe his hurts reach mee? doth my worth decay?

Or doe they reach his judging minde, that hee

Should now love leſſe, what hee did love to ſee?

That which in him was faire and delicate,

Was but the milke, which in loves childiſh ſtate

Did nurſe it: who now is growne ſtrong enough

To feed on that, which to diſus'd taſts ſeemes tough.

Elegie VI.

Sorrow, who to this houſe ſcarce knew the way:

Is, Oh, heire of it, our All is his prey.

This ſtrange chance claimes ſtrange wonder, and to us

'Nothing can be ſo ſtrange, as to weepe thus;

'Tis well his lifes loud ſpeaking workes deſerve,

And give praiſe too, our cold tongues could not ſerve:

'Tis well, hee kept teares from our eyes before,

That to fit this deep ill, we might have ſtore.

Oh, if a ſweet briar, climbe up by'a tree,

If to a paradiſe that tranſplanted bee,

Or fell'd, and burnt for holy ſacrifice,

Yet, that muſt wither, which by it did riſe,

As wee for him dead: though no familie

Ere rigg'd a ſoule for heavens diſcoverie

With whom more Venturers more boldly dare

[Page] Venture their ſtates, with him in joy to ſhare

Wee loſe what all friends lov'd, him, he gaines now

But life by death, which worſt foes would allow,

If hee could have foes, in whoſe practiſe grew

All vertues, whoſe names ſubtile Schoolmen knew;

What eaſe, can hope that wee ſhall ſee'him, beget,

When wee muſt die firſt, and cannot dye yet?

His children are his pictures, Oh they bee

Pictures of him dead, ſenſeleſſe, cold as he,

Here needs no marble Tombe, ſince hee is gone,

He, and about him, his, are turn'd to ſtone.

Elegie VII.

Oh, let mee not ſerve ſo, as thoſe men ſerve

Whom honours ſmoakes at once fatten and ſterve;

Poorely enrich't with great mens words or lookes;

Nor ſo write my name in thy loving bookes

As thoſe Idolatrous flatterers, which ſtill

Their Princes ſtiles, which many Realmes fulfill

Whence they no tribute have, and where no ſway.

Such ſervices I offer as ſhall pay

Themſelves, I hate dead names: Oh then let mee

Favorite in Ordinary, or no favorite bee.

When my Soule was in her owne body ſheath'd,

Nor yet by oathes betroth'd, nor kiſſes breath'd

Into my Purgatory, faithleſſe thee,

[Page] Thy heart ſeem'd waxe, and ſteele thy conſtancie.

So, careleſſe flowers ſtrow'd on the waters face,

The curled whirlepooles ſuck, ſmack, and embrace,

Yet drowne them; ſo, the tapers beamie eye

Amorouſly twinkling, beckens the giddie flie,

Yet burnes his wings; and ſuch the devill is,

Scarce viſiting them, who are intirely his.

When I behold a ſtreame, which, from the ſpring,

Doth with doubtfull melodious murmuring,

Or in a ſpeechleſſe ſlumber, calmely ride

Her wedded channels boſome, and then chide

And bend her browes, and ſwell if any bough

Do but ſtoop downe, or kiſſe her upmoſt brow:

Yet, if her often gnawing kiſſes winne

The traiterous banks to gape, and let her in,

She ruſheth violently, and doth divorce

Her from her native, and her long-kept courſe,

And rores, and braves it, and in gallant ſcorne,

In flattering eddies promiſing retorne,

She flouts the channell, who thenceforth is drie;

Then ſay I; that is ſhee, and this am I.

Yet let not thy deepe bitterneſſe beget

Careleſſe deſpaire in mee, for that will whet

My minde to ſcorne; and Oh, love dull'd with paine

Was ne'r ſo wiſe, nor well arm'd as diſdaine.

Then with new eyes I ſhall ſurvay thee, 'and ſpie

Death in thy cheekes, and darkneſſe in thine eye;

Though hope bred faith and love; thus taught, I ſhall

As nations do from Rome, from thy love fall.

My hate ſhall outgrow thine, and utterly

[Page] I will renounce thy dalliance: and when I

Am the Recuſant, in that reſolute ſtate,

What hurts it mee to be'excommunicate?

Elegie VIII.

Natures lay Ideot, I taught thee to love,

And in that ſophiſtrie, Oh, thou doſt prove

Too ſubtile: Foole, thou didſt not underſtand

The myſtique language of the eye nor hand:

Nor couldſt thou judge the difference of the aire

Of ſighes, and ſay, this lies, this ſounds deſpaire.

Nor by the'eyes water call a maladie

Deſperately hot, or changing feaverouſly.

I had not taught thee then, the Alphabet

Of flowers, how they deviſefully being ſet

And bound up, might with ſpeechleſſe ſecrecie

Deliver arrands mutely, and mutually.

Remember ſince all thy words us'd to bee

To every ſuitor; I, if my friends agree.

Since, houſhold charmes, thy huſbands name to teach,

Were all the love trickes, that thy wit could reach;

And ſince, an houres diſcourſe could ſcarce have made

One anſwer in thee, and that ill arraid

In broken proverbs, and torne ſentences.

Thou art not by ſo many duties his,

That from the worlds Common having ſever'd thee,

[Page] Inlaid thee, neither to be ſeene, nor ſee,

As mine: who have with amorous delicacies

Refin'd thee'into a bliſ-full paradiſe.

Thy graces and good words my creatures bee,

I planted knowledge and lifes tree in thee,

Which Oh, ſhall ſtrangers taſte? Muſt I alas

Frame and enamell Plate, and drinke inglaſſe?

Chafe waxe for others ſeales? breake a colts force

And leave him then, beeing made a ready horſe?

THE STORME.
To Mr Chriſtopher Brooke.

THou which art I, ('tis nothing to be ſoe)

Thou which art ſtill thy ſelfe, by theſe ſhalt know

Part of our paſſage; And, a hand, or eye

By Hilliard drawne, is worth an hiſtory,

By a worſe painter made; and (without pride)

When by thy judgment they are dignifi'd,

My lines are ſuch. 'Tis the preheminence

Of friendſhip onely to'impute excellence.

England to whom we'owe, what we be, and have,

Sad that her ſonnes did ſeeke a forraine grave

(For, Fates, or Fortunes drifts none can Southſay,

[Page] Honour and miſery have one face and way.)

From out her pregnant intrailes ſigh'd a winde

Which at th'ayres middle marble roome did finde

Such ſtrong reſiſtance, that it ſelfe it threw

Downeward againe; and ſo when it did view

How in the port, our fleet deare time did leeſe,

Withering like priſoners, which lye but for fees,

Mildly it kiſt our ſailes, and, freſh, and ſweet,

As, to a ſtomack ſterv'd, whoſe inſides meete,

Meate comes, it came; and ſwole our ſailes, when wee

So joyd, as Sara' her ſwelling joy'd to ſee.

But 'twas, but ſo kinde, as our countrimen,

Which bring friends one dayes way, and leave them then.

Then like two mighty Kings, which dwelling farre blew,

Aſunder, meet againſt a third to warre,

The South and Weſt winds joyn'd, and, as they blew,

Waves like a rowling trench before them threw.

Sooner then you read this line, did the gale,

Like ſhot, not fear'd, till felt, our ſailes aſſaile;

And what at firſt was call'd a guſt, the ſame

Hath now a ſtormes, a non a tempeſts name.

Ionas, I pitty thee, and curſe thoſe men,

Who when the ſtorm rag'd moſt, did wake thee then;

Sleepe is paines eaſieſt ſalue, and doth fullfill

All offices of death, except to kill.

But when I wakt, I ſaw, that I ſaw not.

I, and the Sunne, which ſhould teach mee'had forgot

Eaſt, Weſt, day, night, and I could onely ſay,

If the world had laſted, now it had beene day.

Thouſands our noyſes were, yet wee 'mongſt all

[Page] Could none by his right name, but thunder call:

Lightning was all our light, and it rain'd more

Then if the Sunne had drunke the ſea before;

Some coffin'd in their cabbins lye, 'equally

Griev'd that they are not dead, and yet muſt dye.

And as ſin-burd'ned ſoules from grave will creepe,

At the laſt day, ſome forth their cabbins peepe:

And tremblingly'aske what newes, and doe heare ſo,

Like jealous huſbands, what they would not know.

Some ſitting on the hatches, would ſeeme there,

With hideous gazing to feare away feare.

Then note they the ſhips ſickneſſes, the Maſt

Shak'd with this ague, and the Hold and Waſt

With a ſalt dropſie clog'd, and all our tacklings

Snapping, like too-high-ſtretched treble ſtrings.

And from our totterd ſailes, ragges drop downe ſo,

As from one hang'd in chaines, a yeare agoe.

Even our Ordinance plac'd for our defence,

Strive to breake looſe, and ſcape away from thence.

Pumping hath tir'd our men, and what's the gaine?

Seas into ſeas throwne, we ſuck in againe;

Hearing hath deaf'd our ſaylers; and if they

Knew how to heare, there's none knowes what to ſay.

Compar'd to theſe ſtormes, death is but a qualme,

Hell ſomewhat lightſome, and the' Bermuda calme.

Darkneſſe, lights eldeſt brother, his birth-right

Claim'd o'r this world, and to heaven hath chas'd light.

All things are one, and that one none can be,

Since all formes, uniforme deformity

Doth cover, ſo that wee, except God ſay

[Page] Another Fiat, ſhall have no more day.

So violent, yet long theſe furies bee,

That though thine abſence ſterve me, 'I wiſh not thee.

THE CALME.

OUr ſtorme is paſt, and that ſtorms tyrannous rage,

A ſtupid calme, but nothing it, doth ſwage.

The fable is inverted, and farre more

A blocke afflicts, now, then a ſtorke before.

Stormes chafe, and ſoone weare out themſelves, or us;

In calmes, Heaven laughs to ſee us languiſh thus.

As ſteady'as I can wiſh, that my thoughts were,

Smooth as thy miſtreſſe glaſſe, or what ſhines there,

The ſea is now. And, as the Iles which wee

Seeke, when wee can move, our ſhips rooted bee.

As water did in ſtormes, now pitch runs out

As lead, when a fir'd Church becomes one ſpout.

And all our beauty, and our trimme, decayes,

Like courts removing, or like ended playes.

The fighting place now ſeamens ragges ſupply;

And all the tackling is a frippery.

No uſe of lanthornes; and in one place lay

Feathers and duſt, to day and yeſterday.

Earths hollowneſſes, which the worlds lungs are,

Have no more winde then the upper valt of aire.

[Page] We can nor loſt friends, nor ſought foes recover,

But meteorlike, ſave that wee move not, hover.

Onely the Calenture together drawes

Deare friends, which meet dead in great fiſhes jawes:

And on the hatches as on Altars lyes

Each one, his owne Prieſt, and owne Sacrifice.

Who live, that miracle do multiply

Where walkers in hot Ovens, doe not dye.

If in deſpite of theſe, wee ſwimme, that hath

No more refreſhing, then our brimſtone Bath,

But from the ſea, into the ſhip we turne,

Like parboyl'd wretches, on the coales to burne.

Like Bajazet encag'd, the ſheepheards ſcoffe,

Or like-ſlacke ſinew'd Sampſon, his haire off,

Languiſh our ſhips. Now, as a Miriade

Of Ants, durſt th' Emperours lov'd ſnake invade,

The crawlin▪ Gallies, Sea-goales, finny chips,

Might brave our venices, now bed-ridde ſhips.

Whether a rotten ſtate, and hope of gaine,

Or, to diſuſe mee from the queaſie paine

Of being belov'd, and loving, or the thirſt

Of honour, or faire death, out puſht mee firſt,

I loſe my end: for here as well as I

A deſperate may live, and a coward die.

Stagge, dogge, and all which from, or towards flies,

Is paid with life, or pray, or doing dyes.

Fate grudges us all, and doth ſubtly lay

A ſcourge, 'gainſt which wee all forget to pray,

He that at ſea prayes for more winde, as well

Under the poles may begge cold, heat in hell.

[Page] What are wee then? How little more alas

Is man now, then before he was? he was

Nothing; for us, wee are for nothing fit;

Chance, or our ſelves ſtill diſproportion it.

Wee have no power, no will, no ſenſe; I lye,

I ſhould not then thus feele this miſerie.

To Sr Henry Wotton.

SIr, more then kiſſes, letters mingle Soules;

For, thus friends abſent ſpeake. This eaſe controules

The tediouſneſſe of my life: But for theſe

I could ideate nothing, which could pleaſe,

But I ſhould wither in one day, and paſſe

To'a botle'of Hay, that am a locke of Graſſe.

Life is a voyage, and in our lifes wayes

Countries, Courts, Towns are Rockes, or Remoraes;

They breake or ſtop all ſhips, yet our ſtate's ſuch,

That though then pitch they ſtaine worſe, wee muſt touch.

If in the furnace of the raging line,

Or under th'adverſe icy pole thou pine,

Thou know'ſt two temperate Regions girded in,

Dwell there: But Oh, what refuge canſt thou winne

Parch'd in the Court, and in the country frozen?

Shall cities built of both extremes be choſen?

Can dung, and garlike be'a perfume? or can

[Page] A Scorpion, or Torpedo cure a man?

Cities are worſt of all three; of all three

(O knottie riddle) each is worſt equally.

Cities are Sepulchers; they who dwell there

Are carcaſes, as if no ſuch they were.

And Courts are Theaters, where ſome men play

Princes, ſome ſlaves, all to one end, and of one clay▪

The Country is a deſert, where no good,

Gain'd, as habits, not borne, is underſtood.

There men become beaſts, and prone to more evils;

In cities blockes, and in a lewd court, devills.

As in the firſt Chaos confuſedly

Each elements qualities were in the'other three;

So pride, luſt, covetize, being ſeverall

To theſe three places, yet all are in all,

And mingled thus, their iſſue inceſtuous.

Falſhood is denizon'd. Virtue is barbarous.

Let no man ſay there, Virtues flintie wall

Shall locke vice in mee, I'll do none, but know all.

Men are ſpunges, which to poure out, receive,

Who know falſe play, rather then loſe, deceive.

For in beſt underſtandings, ſinne beganne,

Angels ſinn'd firſt, then Devills, and then man.

Onely perchance beaſts ſinne not; wretched wee

Are beaſts in all, but white integritie.

I thinke if men, which in theſe places live

Durſt looke in themſelves, and themſelves retrive,

They would like ſtrangers greet themſelves, ſeeing then

Utopian youth, growne old Italian.

Be thou thine owne home, and in thy ſelfe dwell;

[Page] Inne any where, continuance maketh hell.

And ſeeing the ſnaile, which every where doth rome,

Carrying his owne houſe ſtill, ſtill is at home.

Follow (for he is eaſie pac'd) this ſnaile,

Bee thine owne Palace, or the world's thy goale;

And in the worlds ſea, do not like corke ſleepe

Upon the waters face; nor in the deepe

Sinke like a lead without a line: but as

Fiſhes glide, leaving no print where they paſſe,

Nor making ſound; ſo, cloſely thy courſe goe,

Let men diſpute, whether thou breath, or no:

Onely'in this one thing, be no Galeniſt. To make

Courts hot ambitions wholeſome, do not take

A dramme of Countries dulneſſe; do not adde

Correctives, but as chymiques, purge the bad.

But, Sir, I adviſe not you, I rather doe

Say o'er thoſe leſſons, which I learn'd of you.

Whom, free from German ſchiſmes, and lightneſſe

Of France, and faire Italies faithleſneſſe,

Having from theſe ſuck'd all they had of worth,

And brought home that faith, which you carried forth,

I throughly love. But if my ſelfe, I'have wonne

To know my rules, I have, and you have

DONNE:

The Croſſe.

[Page]

SInce Chriſt embrac'd the Croſſe it ſelfe, dare I

His image, th'image of his Croſſe deny?

Would I have profit by the ſacrifice,

And dare the choſen Altar to deſpiſe?

It bore all other ſinnes, but is it fit

That it ſhould beare the ſinne of ſcorning it?

Who from the picture would avert his eye,

How would he flye his paines, who there did dye?

From mee, no Pulpit, nor miſgrounded law,

Nor ſcandall taken, ſhall this Croſſe withdraw,

It ſhall not, for it cannot; for, the loſſe

Of this Croſſe, were to mee another Croſſe.

Better were worſe, for, no affliction

No Croſſe is ſo extreme, as to have none;

Who can blot out the Croſſe, which th'inſtrument

Of God, dew'd on mee in the Sacrament?

Who can deny mee power, and liberty

To ſtretch mine armes, and mine owne Croſſe to be?

Swimme, and at every ſtroake, thou art thy Croſſe,

The Maſt and yard make one, where ſeas do toſſe.

Looke downe, thou ſpieſt out Croſſes in ſmall things;

Looke up, thou ſeeſt birds rais'd on croſſed wings;

All the Globes frame, and ſpheares, is nothing elſe

But the Meridians croſſing Parallels.

Materiall Croſſes then, good phyſicke bee,

[Page] But yet ſpirituall have chiefe dignity.

Theſe for extracted chimique medicine ſerve,

And cure much better, and as well preſerve;

Then are you your own phyſicke, or need none,

When Still'd, or purg'd by tribulation.

For when that Croſſe ungrudg'd, unto you ſtickes,

Then are you to your ſelfe, a Crucifixe.

As perchance, Carvers do not faces make:

But that away, which hid them there, do take.

Let Croſſes, ſoe, take what hid Chriſt in thee,

And be his image, or not his, but hee.

But, as oft, Alchimiſts doe coyners prove,

So may a ſelfe-diſpiſing, get ſelfe-love.

And then as worſt ſurfets, of beſt meates bee,

Soe is pride, iſſued from humility,

For, 'tis no child, but monſter; therefore Croſſe

Your joy in croſſes, elſe, 'tis double loſſe,

And croſſe thy ſenſes, elſe, both they, and thou

Muſt periſh ſoone, and to deſtruction bowe.

For if the'eye ſeeke good objects, and will take

No croſſe from bad, wee cannot ſcape a ſnake.

So with harſh, hard, ſowre, ſtinking, croſſe the reſt,

Make them indifferent; call nothing beſt.

But moſt the eye needs croſſing, that can rome,

And move; To th'other th'objects muſt come home.

And croſſe thy heart: for that in man alone

Pants downewards, and hath palpitation.

Croſſe thoſe dejections, when it downeward tends,

And when it to forbidden heights pretends.

And as the braine through bony walls doth vent

[Page] By ſutures, which a Croſſes forme preſent,

So when thy braine workes, ere thou utter it,

Croſſe and correct concupiſcence of witt.

Be covetous of Croſſes, let none fall.

Croſſe no man elſe, but croſſe thy ſelfe in all.

Then doth the Croſſe of Chriſt worke faithfully

Within our hearts, when wee love harmleſly

The Croſſes pictures much, and with more care

That Croſſes children, which our Croſſes are.

Elegie on the Lady Marckham.

MAn is the World, and death th'Ocean,

To which God gives the lower parts of man.

This Sea invirons all, and though as yet

God hath ſet markes, and bounds, twixt us and it,

Yet doth it rore, and gnaw, and ſtill pretend,

And breaks our banke, when ere it takes a friend.

Then our land waters (teares of paſſion) vent;

Our waters, then, above our firmament.

(Teares which our Soule doth for her ſins let fall)

Take all a brackiſh taſt, and Funerall.

And even thoſe teares, which ſhould waſh ſin, are ſin.

We, after Gods Noe, drowne the world againe.

Nothing but man of all invenom'd things

[Page] Doth worke upon itſelfe, with inborne ſtings.

Teares are falſe Spectacles, we cannot ſee

Through paſſions miſt, what wee are, or what ſhee.

In her this ſea of death hath made no breach,

But as the tide doth waſh the ſlimie beach,

And leaves embroderd workes upon the ſand,

So is her fleſh refin'd by deaths cold hand.

As men of China, 'after an ages ſtay

Do take up Porcelane, where they buried Clay;

So at this grave, her limbecke, which refines

The Diamonds, Rubies, Saphires, Pearles, & Mines,

Of which, this fleſh was, her ſoule ſhall inſpire

Fleſh of ſuch ſtuffe, as God, when his laſt fire

Annuls this world, to recompence it, ſhall,

Make and name then, th'Elixar of this All.

They ſay, the ſea, when it gaines, loſeth too;

If carnall Death (the yonger brother) doe

Uſurpe the body, 'our ſoule, which ſubject is

To th'elder death, by ſinne, is freed by this;

They periſh both, when they attempt the juſt;

For, graves our trophies are, and both, deaths duſt.

So, unobnoxious now, ſhe'hath buried both;

For, none to death ſinnes, that to ſinne is loth.

Nor doe they die, which are not loth to die,

So hath ſhe this, and that virginity.

Grace was in her extremely diligent,

That kept her from ſinne, yet made her repent.

Of what ſmall ſpots pure white complaines! Alas,

How little poyſon cracks a chriſtall glaſſe?

She ſinn'd, but juſt enough to let us ſee

[Page] That, extreme truth lack'd little of a lye,

Making omiſſions, acts; laying the touch

Of ſinne, on things that ſometimes may be ſuch.

As Moſes Cherubines, whoſe natures doe

Surpaſſe all ſpeed, by him are winged too:

So would her ſoule, already'in heaven, ſeeme then,

To clyme by teares, the common ſtaires of men.

How fit ſhe was for God, I am content

To ſpeake, that death his vaine haſt may repent.

How fit for us, how even and how ſweet,

How good in all her titles, and how meet,

To have reform'd this forward hereſie,

That woman can no parts of friendſhip bee;

How Morall, how Divine ſhall not be told,

Leſt they that heare her vertues, thinke her old.

And leſt we take Deaths part, and make him glad

Of ſuch a prey, and to his tryumph adde.

Elegie on Mris Boulſtred.

[Page]

DEath I recant, and ſay, unſaid by mee

What ere hath ſlip'd, that might diminiſh thee.

Spirituall treaſon, atheiſme 'tis, to ſay,

That any can thy Summons diſobey.

Th'earths face is but thy Table; there are ſet

Plants, cattell, men, diſhes for Death to eate.

In a rude hunger now hee millions drawes

Into his bloody, or plaguy, or ſterv'd jawes.

Now hee will ſeeme to ſpare, and doth more waſt,

Eating the beſt firſt, well preſerv'd to laſt.

Now wantonly he ſpoiles, and eates us not,

But breakes off friends, and lets us peecemeale rot.

Nor will this earth ſerve him; he ſinkes the deepe

Where harmeleſſe fiſh monaſtique ſilence keepe.

Who (were Death dead) by Roes of living ſand,

Might ſpunge that element, and make it land.

He rounds the aire, and breakes the hymnique notes

In birds, Heavens choriſters, organique throats,

Which (if they did not dye) might ſeeme to bee

A tenth ranke in the heavenly hierarchie.

O ſtrong and long-liv'd death, how cam'ſt thou in?

And how without Creation didſt begin?

Thou haſt, and ſhalt ſee dead, before thou dyeſt,

All the foure Monarchies, and Antichriſt.

How could I thinke thee nothing, that ſee now

In all this All, nothing elſe is, but thou.

[Page] Our births and life, vices, and vertues, bee

Waſtfull conſumptions, and degrees of thee.

For, wee to live, our bellowes weare, and breath,

Nor are wee mortall, dying, dead, but death.

And though thou beeſt, O mighty bird of prey,

So much reclaim'd by God, that thou muſt lay

All that thou kill'ſt at his feet, yet doth hee

Reſerve but few, and leaves the moſt to thee.

And of thoſe few, now thou haſt overthrowne

One whom thy blow, makes, not ours, nor thine own.

She was more ſtories high: hopeleſſe to come

To her Soule, thou'haſt offer'd at her lower roome.

Her Soule and body was a King and Court:

But thou haſt both of Captaine miſt and fort.

As houſes fall not, though the King remove,

Bodies of Saints reſt for their ſoules above.

Death gets'twixt ſoules and bodies ſuch a place

As ſinne inſinuates 'twixt juſt men and grace,

Both worke a ſeparation, no divorce.

Her Soule is gone to uſherup her corſe,

Which ſhall be'almoſt another ſoule, for there

Bodies are purer, then beſt Soules are here.

Becauſe in her, her virtues did outgoe

Her yeares, would'ſt thou, O emulous death, do ſo?

And kill her young to thy loſſe? muſt the coſt

Of beauty,'and wit, apt to doe harme, be loſt?

What though thou found'ſt her proofe'gainſt ſins of youth?

Oh, every age a diverſe ſinne purſueth.

Thou ſhould'ſt have ſtay'd, and taken better hold,

Shortly ambitious, covetous, when old,

[Page] She might have prov'd: and ſuch devotion

Might once have ſtray'd to ſuperſtition.

If all her vertues muſt have growne, yet might

Abundant virtue'have bred a proud delight.

Had ſhe perſever'd juſt, there would have bin

Some that would ſinne, miſ-thinking ſhe did ſinne.

Such as would call her friendſhip, love, and faine

To ſociableneſſe, a name profane.

Or ſinne, by tempting, or, not daring that,

By wiſhing, though they never told her what.

Thus might'ſt thou'have ſlain more ſoules, had'ſt thou not croſt

Thy ſelfe, and to triumph, thine army loſt.

Yet though theſe wayes be loſt, thou haſt left one,

Which is, immoderate griefe that ſhe is gone.

But we may ſcape that ſinne, yet weepe as much,

Our teares are due, becauſe we are not ſuch.

Some teares, that knot of friends, her death muſt coſt,

Becauſe the chaine is broke, but no linke loſt.

To Sr Henry Goodyere.

[Page]

WHo makes the Paſt, a patterne for next yeare,

Turnes no new leafe, but ſtill the ſame things reads,

Seene things, he ſees againe, heard things doth heare,

And makes his life, but like a paire of beads.

A Palace, when 'tis that, which it ſhould be,

Leaves growing, and ſtands ſuch, or elſe decayes,

But hee which dwels there, is not ſo; for hee

Strives to urge upward, and his fortune raiſe;

So had your body'her morning, hath her noone,

And ſhall not better; her next change is night:

But her faire larger gueſt, to'whom Sun and Moone

Are ſparkes, and ſhort liv'd, claimes another right.

The noble Soule by age growes luſtier,

Her appetite, and her digeſtion mend,

Wee muſt not ſterve, nor hope to pamper her

With womens milke, and pappe unto the end.

Provide you manlyer dyet, you have ſeene

All libraries, which are Schools, Camps, & Courts;

But aske your Garners if you have not beene

In harveſts, too indulgent to your ſports.

[Page]

Would you redeeme it? then your ſelfe tranſplant

A while from hence. Perchance outlandiſh ground

Beares no more wit, then ours, but yet more ſcant

Are thoſe diverſions there, which here abound.

To be a ſtranger hath that benefit,

Wee can beginnings, but not habits choke.

Goe, whither? hence; you get, if you forget;

New faults, till they preſcribe in us, are ſmoake.

Our ſoule, whoſe country'is heaven, & God her father,

Into this world, corruptions ſinke, is ſent,

Yet, ſo much in her travaile ſhe doth gather,

That ſhe returnes home, wiſer then ſhe went;

It payes you well, if it teach you to ſpare,

And make you'aſham'd, to make your hawks praiſe, yours,

Which when herſelfe ſhe leſſens in the aire,

You then firſt ſay, that high enough ſhe toures.

However, keepe the lively taſt you hold

Of God, love him as now, but feare him more,

And in your afternoones thinke what you told

And promiſ'd him, at morning prayer before.

Let falſhood like a diſcord anger you,

Elſe be not froward; But why doe I touch

Things, of which none is in your practiſe new,

And Tables, or fruit-trenchers teach as much;

[Page]

But thus I make you keepe your promiſe Sir,

Riding I had you, though you ſtill ſtaid there,

And in theſe thoughts, although you never ſtirre,

You came with mee to Micham, and are here.

To Mr Rowland Woodward.

LIke one who'in her third widdowhood doth profeſſe,

Her ſelfe a Nunne, tyed to retiredneſſe,

So'affects my muſe now, a chaſt fallowneſſe.

Since ſhee to few, yet to too many'hath ſhowne

How love-ſong weeds, and Satyrique thornes are growne

Where ſeeds of better Arts, were early ſown.

Though to uſe, and love Poëtrie, to mee,

Betroth'd to no'one Art, be no'adulterie;

Omiſſions of good, ill, as ill deeds bee.

For though to us it ſeeme, 'and be light and thinne,

Yet in thoſe faithfull ſcales, where God throwes in

Mens workes, vanity weighs as much as ſinne.

If our Soules have ſtain'd their firſt white, yet wee

May cloth them with faith, and deare honeſtie,

Which God imputes, as native puritie,

[Page]

There is no Vertue, but Religion,

Wiſe, valiant, ſober, juſt, are names, which none

Want, which want not Vice-covering diſcretion.

Seeke wee then our ſelves in our ſelves; for as

Men force the Sunne with much more force to paſſe,

By gathering his beames with a chriſtall glaſſe;

So wee, If wee into our ſelves will turne,

Blowing our ſparkes of vertue, may outburne

The ſtraw, which doth about our hearts ſojourne.

You know, Phyſitians, when they would infuſe

Into any'oyle, the Soules of Simples, uſe

Places, where they may lie ſtill warme, to chuſe.

So workes retiredneſſe in us; to rome

Giddily and bee every where, but at home,

Such freedome doth a baniſhment become.

Wee are but termers of our ſelves, yet may,

If we can ſtocke our ſelves, and thrive, uplay

Much, much deare treaſure for the great rent day.

Manure thy ſelfe then, to thy ſelfe be'approv'd,

And with vaine outward things be no more mov'd,

But to know, that I love thee'and would be lov'd.

To Sr Henry Wootton.

[Page]

HEre's no more newes, then vertue, 'I may as well

Tell you Calis, or St Michaels tale for newes, as tell

That vice doth here habitually dwell.

Yet, as to'get ſtomachs, we walke up and downe,

And toyle to ſweeten reſt, ſo, may God frowne,

If, but to loth both, I haunt Court, or Towne.

For here no one is from the'extremitie

Of vice, by any other reaſon free,

But that the next to'him, ſtill, is worſe then hee.

In this worlds warfare, they whom rugged Fate,

(Gods Commiſſary,) doth ſo throughly hate,

As in'the Courts Squadron to marſhall their ſtate

If they ſtand arm'd with ſeely honeſty,

With wiſhing prayers, and neat integritie,

Like Indians 'gainſt Spaniſh hoſts they bee.

Suſpitious boldneſſe to this place belongs,

And to'have as many eares as all have tongues;

Tender to know, tough to acknowledge wrongs.

[Page]

Beleeve mee Sir, in my youths giddieſt dayes,

When to be like the Court, was a playes praiſe,

Playes were not ſo like Courts, as Courts'are like playes.

Then let us at theſe mimicke antiques jeaſt,

Whoſe deepeſt projects, and egregious geſts

Are but dull Moralls of a game at Cheſts.

But now 'tis incongruity to ſmile,

Therefore I end; and bid farewell a while,

At Court, though from Court, were the better ſtile▪

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

MADAME,

REaſon is our Soules left hand, Faith her right,

By theſe wee reach divinity, that's you;

Their loves, who have the bleſſings of your light,

Grew from their reaſon, mine from faire faith grew.

But as, although a ſquint lefthandedneſſe

Be'ungracious, yet we cannot want that hand,

So would I, not to encreaſe, but to expreſſe

My faith, as I beleeve, ſo underſtand.

[Page]

Therefore I ſtudy you firſt in your Saints,

Thoſe friends, whom your election glorifies,

Then in your deeds, acceſſes, and reſtraints,

And what you reade, and what your ſelfe devize.

But ſoone, the reaſons why you'are lov'd by all,

Grow infinite, and ſo paſſe reaſons reach,

Then backe againe to'implicite faith I fall,

And reſt on what the Catholique faith doth teach;

That you are good: and not one Heretique

Denies it: if he did, yet you are ſo.

For, rockes, which high top'd and deep rooted ſticke,

Waves waſh, not undermine, nor overthrow.

In every thing there naturally growes

A Balſamum to keepe it freſh, and new,

If 'twere not injur'd by extrinſique blowes;

Your birth and beauty are this Balme in you.

But, you of learning and religion,

And vertue,'and ſuch ingredients, have made

A methridate, whoſe operation

Keepes off, or cures what can be done or ſaid.

Yet, this is not your phyſicke, but your food,

A dyet fit for you; for you are here

The firſt good Angell, ſince the worlds frame ſtood,

That ever did in womans ſhape appeare.

[Page]

Since you are then Gods maſterpeece, and ſo

His Factor for our loves; do as you doe,

Make your returne home gracious; and beſtow

Thy life on that; ſo make one life of two.

For ſo God helpe mee, 'I would not miſſe you there

For all the good which you can do me here.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

MADAME,

YOu have refin'd mee, and to worthyeſt things

Vertue, Art, Beauty, Fortune, now I ſee

Rareneſſe, or uſe, not nature value brings;

And ſuch, as they are circumſtanc'd, they bee.

Two ills can nere perplexe us, ſinne to'excuſe;

But of two good things, we may leave and chuſe.

Therefore at Court, which is not vertues clime,

(Where a tranſcendent height, (as, lowneſſe mee)

Makes her not be, or not ſhow: all my rime

Your vertues challenge, which there rareſt bee;

For, as darke texts need notes: there ſome muſt bee

To uſher vertue, and ſay, This is ſhee.

[Page]

So in the country'is beauty; to this place

You are the ſeaſon (Madame) you the day,

'Tis but a grave of ſpices, till your face

Exhale them, and a thick cloſe bud diſplay.

Widow'd and reclus'd elſe, her ſweets ſhe'enſhrines

As China, when the Sunne at Braſill dines.

Out from your chariot, morning breaks at night,

And falſifies both computations ſo;

Since a new world doth riſe here from your light,

We your new creatures, by new recknings goe.

This ſhowes that you from nature lothly ſtray,

That ſuffer not an artificiall day.

In this you'have made the Court the Antipodes,

And will'd your Delegate, the vulgar Sunne,

To doe profane autumnall offices,

Whilſt here to you, wee ſacrificers runne;

And whether Prieſts, or Organs, you wee'obey,

We ſound your influence, and your Dictates ſay▪

Yet to that Deity which dwels in you,

Your vertuous Soule, I now not ſacrifice;

Theſe are Petitions, and not Hymnes; they ſue

But that I may ſurvay the edifice.

In all Religions as much care hath bin

Of Temples frames, and beauty, 'as Rites within.

[Page]

As all which goe to Rome, doe not thereby

Eſteeme religions, and hold faſt the beſt,

But ſerve diſcourſe, and curioſity,

With that which doth religion but inveſt,

And ſhunne th'entangling laborinths of Schooles,

And make it wit, to thinke the wiſer fooles▪

So in this pilgrimage I would behold

You as you'are vertues temple, not as ſhee,

What walls of tender chriſtall her enfold,

What eyes, hands, boſome, her pure Altars bee;

And after this ſurvay, oppoſe to all

Bablers of Chappels, you th'Eſcuriall.

Yet not as conſecrate, but merely'as faire;

On theſe I caſt a lay and country eye.

Of paſt and future ſtories, which are rare,

I finde you all record, and prophecie.

Purge but the booke of Fate, that it admit

No ſad nor guilty legends, you are it.

If good and lovely were not one, of both

You were the tranſcript, and originall,

The Elements, the Parent, and the Growth

And every peece of you, is both their All,

So'intire are all your deeds, and you, that you

Muſt do the ſame things ſtill: you cannot two.

But theſe (as nice thinne Schoole divinity

Serves hereſie to furder or repreſſe)

[Page] Taſt of Poëtique rage, or flattery,

And need not, where all hearts one truth profeſſe;

Oft from new proofes, and new phraſe, new doubts grow,

As ſtrange attire aliens the men wee know.

Leaving then buſie praiſe, and all appeale,

To higher Courts, ſenſes decree is true,

The Mine, the Magazine, the Commonweale,

The ſtory of beauty', in Twicknam is, and you.

Who hath ſeene one, would both; As, who had bin

In Paradiſe, would ſeeke the Cherubin.

To Sr Edward Herbert. at Iulyers.

MAn is a lumpe, where all beaſts kneaded bee,

Wiſdome makes him an Arke where all agree;

The foole, in whom theſe beaſts do live at jarre,

Is ſport to others, and a Theater,

Nor ſcapes hee ſo, but is himſelfe their prey;

All which was man in him, is eate away,

And now his beaſts on one another feed,

Yet couple'in anger, and new monſters breed;

How happy'is hee, which hath due place aſſign'd

To'his beaſts, and diſaforeſted his minde?

Empail'd himſelfe to keepe them out, not in;

Can ſow, and dares truſt corne, where they have bin;

[Page] Can uſe his horſe, goate, wolfe, and every beaſt,

And is not Aſſe himſelfe to all the reſt.

Elſe, man not onely is the heard of ſwine,

But he's thoſe devills too, which did incline

Them to a headlong rage, and made them worſe:

For man can adde weight to heavens heavieſt curſe.

As Soules (they ſay) by our firſt touch, take in

The poyſonous tincture of Originall ſinne,

So, to the puniſhments which God doth fling,

Our apprehenſion contributes the ſting.

To us, as to his chickins, he doth caſt

Hemlocke, and wee as men, his hemlocke taſte.

We do infuſe to what he meant for meat,

Corroſiveneſſe, or intenſe cold or heat.

For, God no ſuch ſpecifique poyſon hath

As kills we know not how; his fierceſt wrath

Hath no antipathy, but may be good

At leſt for phyſicke, if not for our food.

Thus man, that might be'his pleaſure, is his rod,

And is his devill, that might be his God.

Since then our buſineſſe is, to rectifie

Nature, to what ſhe was, wee'are led awry

By them, who man to us in little ſhow,

Greater then due, no forme we can beſtow

On him; for Man into himſelfe can draw

All, All his faith can ſwallow, 'or reaſon chaw.

All that is fill'd, and all that which doth fill,

All the round world, to man is but a pill,

In all it workes not, but it is in all

Poyſonous, or purgative, or cordiall,

[Page] For, knowledge kindles Calentures in ſome,

And is to others jcy Opium.

As brave as true, is that profeſſion than

Which you doe uſe to make; that you know man.

This makes it credible, you have dwelt upon

All worthy bookes; and now are ſuch an one.

Actions are authors, and of thoſe in you

Your friends finde every day a mart of new.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

T'Have written then, when you writ, ſeem'd to mee

Worſt of ſpirituall vices, Simony,

And not t'have written then, ſeemes little leſſe

Then worſt of civill vices, thankleſſeneſſe.

In this, my doubt I ſeem'd loath to confeſſe,

In that, I ſeem'd to ſhunne beholdingneſſe.

But 'tis not ſoe, nothing, as I am, may,

Pay all they have, and yet have all to pay.

Such borrow in their payments, and owe more

By having leave to write ſo, then before.

Yet ſince rich mines in barren grounds are ſhowne,

May not I yeeld (not gold) but coale or ſtone?

Temples were not demoliſh'd, though prophane:

Here Peter Ioves, there Paul have Dian's Fane.

So whether my hymnes you admit or chuſe,

In me you'have hallowed a Pagan Muſe,

[Page] And denizend a ſtranger, who miſtaught

By blamers of the times they mard, hath ſought

Vertues in corners, which now bravely doe

Shine in the worlds beſt part, or all, in you.

I have beene told, that vertue'in Courtiers hearts

Suffers an Oſtraciſme, and departs.

Profit, eaſe, fitneſſe, plenty, bid it goe,

But whither, only knowing you, I know;

Your, or you vertue, two vaſt uſes ſerves,

It ranſomes one ſex, and one Court preſerves;

There's nothing but your worth, which being true,

Is knowne to any other, not to you.

And you can never know it; To admit

No knowledge of your worth, it ſome of it.

But ſince to you, your praiſes diſcords bee,

Stop others ills, to meditate with mee.

Oh! to confeſſe wee know not what we ſould,

Is halfe excuſe, wee know not what we would.

Lightneſſe depreſſeth us, emptineſſe fills,

We ſweat and faint, yet ſtill goe downe the hills;

As new Philoſophy arreſts the Sunne,

And bids the paſſive earth about it runne,

So wee have dull'd our minde, it hath no ends;

Onely the bodie's buſie, and pretends;

As dead low earth ecclipſes and controules

The quick high Moone: ſo doth the body, Soules.

In none but us, are ſuch mixt engines found,

As hands of double office: For, the ground

We till with them; and them to heav'n wee raiſe;

Who prayer-leſſe labours, or, without this, prayes,

[Page] Doth but one halfe, that's none; He which ſaid, Plough

And looke not back, to looke up doth allow.

Good ſced degenerates, and oft obeyes

The ſoyles diſeaſe, and into cockle ſtrayes.

Let the minds thoughts be but tranſplanted ſo,

Into the body, 'and baſtardly they grow.

What hate could hurt our bodies like our love?

Wee but no forraigne tyrans could remove,

Theſe not ingrav'd, but inborne dignities

Caskets of ſoules; Temples, and Palaces:

For, bodies ſhall from death redeemed bee,

Soules but preſerv'd, not naturally free;

As men to'our priſons, new ſoules to us are ſent,

Which learne it there, and come in innocent.

Firſt ſeeds of every creature are in us,

What ere the world hath bad, or pretious,

Mans body can produce, hence hath it beene

That ſtones, wormes, frogges, and ſnakes in man are ſeene:

But who ere ſaw, though nature can worke ſoe,

That, pearle, or gold, or corne in man did grow.

We'have added to the world Virginia, 'and ſent

Two new ſtarres lately to the firmament;

Why grudge wee us (not heaven) the dignity

T'increaſe with ours, thoſe faire ſoules company.

But I muſt end this letter, though it doe

Stand on two truths, neither is true to you.

Vertue hath ſome perverſeneſſe; For ſhe will

Neither beleeve her good, nor others ill,

Even in your vertues beſt paradiſe,

Vertue hath ſome, but wiſe degrees of vice.

[Page] Too many vertues, or too much of one

Begets in you unjuſt ſuſpition.

And ignorance of vice, makes vertue leſſe,

Quenching compaſſion of our wrechedneſſe.

But theſe are riddles; Some aſperſion

Of vice becomes well ſome complexion.

Stateſmen purge vice with vice, and may corrode

The bad with bad, a ſpider with a toad:

For ſo, ill thralls not them, but they tame ill

And make her do much good againſt her will,

But in your Commonwealth or world in you

Vice hath no office, or good worke to doe.

Take then no vitious purge, but be content

With cordiall vertue, your knowne nouriſhment.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.
On New-yeares day.

THis twilight of two yeares, not paſt nor next,

Some embleme is of mee, or I of this,

Who Meteor-like, of ſtuffe and forme perplext,

Whoſe what, and where, in diſputation is,

If I ſhould call mee any thing, ſhould miſſe.

[Page]

I ſumme the yeares, and mee, and finde mee not

Debtor to th'old, nor Creditor to th'new,

That cannot ſay, My thankes I have forgot,

Nor truſt I this with hopes, and yet ſcarce true,

This bravery is ſince theſe time ſhew'd mee you.

In recompence I would ſhow future times

What you were, and teach them to'urge towards ſuch,

Verſe embalmes vertue; 'and Tombs, or Thrones of rimes,

Preſerve fraile tranſitory fame, as much

As ſpice doth bodies from corrupt aires touch.

Mine are ſhort liv'd; the tincture of your name

Creates in them, but diſſipates as faſt,

New ſpirit: for, ſtrong agents with the ſame

Force that doth warme and cheriſh, us doe waſt;

Kept hot with ſtrong extracts, no bodies laſt:

So, my verſe built of your juſt praiſe, might want

Reaſon and likelihood, the firmeſt Baſe,

And made of miracle, now faith is ſcant,

Will vaniſh ſoone, and ſo poſſeſſe no place,

And you, and it, too much grace might diſgrace.

When all (as truth commands aſſent) confeſſe

All truth of you, yet they will doubt how I

One corne of one low anthills duſt, and leſſe,

Should name know or expreſſe a thing ſo high,

And not an inch, meaſure infinity.

[Page]

I cannot tell them, nor my ſelfe, nor you,

But leave, leſt truth b'endanger'd by my praiſe,

And turne to God, who knowes I thinke this true,

And uſeth oft, when ſuch a heart miſ-ſayes,

To make it good, for, ſuch a prayer prayes.

Hee will beſt teach you, how you ſhould lay out

His ſtock of beauty, learning, favour, blood,

He will perplex ſecurity with doubt,

And cleare thoſe doubts, hide from you, 'and ſhew you good,

And ſo increaſe your appetite and food;

Hee will teach you, that good and bad have not

One latitude in cloyſters, and in Court,

Indifferent there the greateſt ſpace hath got,

Some pitty'is not good there, ſome vaine diſport,

On this ſide, ſinne; with that place may comport.

Yet he as hee bounds ſeas, will fixe your houres,

With pleaſure, and delight may not ingreſſe,

And though what none elſe loſt, be trulieſt yours,

Hee will make you, what you did not, poſſeſſe,

By uſing others, not vice, but weakeneſſe.

He will make you ſpeake truths, and credibly,

And make you doubt, that others doe not ſo:

Hee will provide you keyes, and locks, to ſpie,

And ſcape ſpies, to good ends, and hee will ſhow

What you may not acknowledge, what not know.

[Page]

For your owne conſcience, he gives innocence,

But for your fame, a diſcreet warineſſe,

And though to ſcape, then to revenge offence

Be better, he ſhowes both, and to repreſſe

Ioy, when your ſtate ſwells, ſadneſſe when 'tis leſſe.

From need of teares he will defend your ſoule,

Or make a rebaptizing of one teare;

Hee cannot, (that's, he will not) diſ-inroule

Your name; and when with active joy we heare

This private Ghoſpell, then 'tis our new yeare,

To the Counteſſe of Huntingdon.

MADAME,

MAn to Gods image, Eve, to mans was made,

Nor finde wee that God breath'd a ſoule in her,

Canons will not Church functions you invade,

Nor lawes to civill office you preferre.

Who vagrant tranſitory Comets ſees,

Wonders, becauſe they'are rare; But a new ſtarre

Whoſe motion with the firmament agrees,

Is miracle; for, there no new things are;

In woman ſo perchance milde innocence

A ſeldome comet is, but active good

[Page] A miracle, which reaſon ſcapes, and ſenſe;

For, Art and Nature this in them withſtood.

As ſuch a ſtarre, which Magi led to view

The manger-cradled infant, God below.

By vertues beames by fame deriv'd from you,

May apt ſoules, and the worſt may vertue know.

If the worlds age, and death be argued well

By the Sunnes fall, which now towards earth doth bend,

Then we might feare that vertue, ſince ſhe fell

So low as woman, ſhould be neare her end.

But ſhe's not ſtoop'd, but rais'd; exil'd by men,

She fled to heaven, that's heavenly things that's you,

She was in all men, thinly ſcatter'd then,

But now amaſs'd, contracted in a few.

She guilded us: But you are gold, and Shee,

Us ſhe inform'd, but tranſubſtantiates you,

Soft diſpoſitions which ductile bee,

Elixarlike, ſhe makes not cleane, but new.

Though you a wifes and mothers name retaine,

'Tis not as woman, for all are not ſoe,

But vertue having made you vertue, 'is faine

T'adhere in theſe names, her and you to ſhow,

Elſe, being alike pure, wee ſhould neither ſee,

As, water being into ayre rarify'd,

[Page] Neither appeare, till in one cloud they bee,

So, for our ſakes you do low names abide;

Taught by great conſtellations, which being fram'd,

Of the moſt ſtarres, take low names, Crab, and Bull,

When ſingle planets by the Gods are nam'd,

You covet not great names, of great things full.

So you, as woman, one doth comprehend,

And in the vaile of kindred others ſee;

To ſome ye are reveal'd, as in a friend,

And as a vertuous Prince farre off, to mee.

To whom, becauſe from you all vertues flow,

And 'tis not none, to dare contemplate you,

I, which to you as your true ſubject owe

Some tribute for that, ſo theſe lines are due,

If you can thinke theſe flatteries, they are,

For then your judgement is below my praiſe,

If they were ſo, oft, flatteries worke as farre,

As Counſels, and as farre th'endeavour raiſe.

So my ill reaching you might there grow good,

But I remaine a poyſon'd fountaine ſtill;

But not your beauty, vertue, knowledge, blood

Are more above all flattery, then my will.

And if I flatter any, 'tis not you

But my owne judgement, who did long agoe

[Page] Pronounce, that all theſe praiſes ſhould be true,

And vertue ſhould your beauty, 'and birth outgrow.

Now that my propheſies are all fulfill'd,

Rather then God ſhould not be honour'd too,

And all theſe gifts confeſs'd, which hee inſtill'd,

Your ſelfe were bound to ſay that which I doe.

So I, but your Recorder am in this,

Or mouth, or Speaker of the univerſe,

A miniſteriall notary, for 'tis

Not I, but you and fame, that make this verſe;

I was your Prophet in your yonger dayes,

And now your Chaplaine, God in you to praiſe.

To M. I. W.

ALl haile ſweet Poët, more full of more ſtrong fire,

Then hath or ſhall enkindle any ſpirit,

I lov'd what nature gave thee, but this merit

Of wit and Art I love not but admire;

Who have before or ſhall write after thee,

Their workes, though toughly laboured, will bee

Like infancie or age to mans firme ſtay,

Or earely and late twilights to mid-day.

[Page]

Men ſay, and truly, that they better be

Which be envyed then pittied: therefore I,

Becauſe I wiſh thee beſt, doe thee envie:

O wouldſt thou, by like reaſon, pitty mee,

But care not for mee, I, that ever was

In Natures, and in fortunes gifts, (alas,

Before thy grace got in the Muſes Schoole)

A monſter and a begger, am a foole.

Oh how I grieve, that late borne modeſty

Hath got ſuch root in eaſie waxen hearts,

That men may not themſelves, their owne good parts

Extoll, without ſuſpect of ſurquedrie,

For, but thy ſelfe, no ſubject can be found

Worthy thy quill, nor any quill reſound

Thy worke but thine: how good it were to ſee

A Poëm in thy praiſe, and writ by thee.

Now if this ſong be too'harſh for rime, yet, as

The Painters bad god made a good devill,

'Twill be good proſe, although the verſe be evill.

If thou forget the rime as thou doſt paſſe,

Then write, then I may follow, and ſo bee

Thy debter, thy'eccho, thy foyle, thy zanee.

I ſhall be thought, if mine like thine I ſhape,

All the worlds Lyon, though I be thy Ape.

To M. T. W.

[Page]

HAſt thee harſh verſe as faſt as thy lame meaſure

Will give thee leave, to him; My pain, & pleaſure

I have given thee, and yet thou art too weake,

Feete and a reaſoning ſoule and tongue to ſpeake.

Tell him, all queſtions, which men have defended

Both of the place and paines of hell, are ended;

And 'tis decreed our hell is but privation

Of him, at leaſt in this earths habitation:

And 'tis where I am, where in every ſtreet

Infections follow, overtake, and meete:

Live I or die, by you my love is ſent,

And you'are my pawnes, or elſe my Teſtament.

To M. T. W.

PRegnant again with th'old twins Hope, and Feare,

Oft have I askt for thee, both how and where

Thou wert, and what my hopes of letters were;

As in our ſtreets ſly beggers narrowly

Watch motions of the givers hand or eye,

And evermore conceive ſome hope thereby.

[Page]

And now thy Almes is given, thy letter'is read,

The body riſen againe, the which was dead,

And thy poore ſtarveling bountifully fed.

After this banquet my Soule doth ſay grace,

And praiſe thee for'it, and zealouſly imbrace

Thy love, though I thinke thy love in this caſe

To be as gluttons, which ſay 'midſt their meat,

They love that beſt of which they moſt do eat.

At once, from hence, my lines and I depart,

I to my ſoft ſtill walks, they to my Heart;

I to the Nurſe, they to the child of Art;

Yet as a firme houſe, though the Carpenter

Periſh, doth ſtand: as an Embaſſadour

Lyes ſafe, how e'r his king be in danger:

So, though I languiſh, preſt with Malancholy,

My verſe, the ſtrict Map of my miſery,

Shall live to ſee that, for whoſe want I dye.

Therefore I envie them, and doe repent,

That from unhappy mee, things happy'are ſent;

Yet as a Picture, or bare Sacrament,

Accept theſe lines, and if in them there be

Merit of love beſtow that love on mee.

To M. C. B.

[Page]

THy friend, whom thy deſerts to thee enchaine,

Urg'd by this unexcuſable occaſion,

Thee and the Saint of his affection

Leaving behinde, doth of both wants complaine;

And let the love I beare to both ſuſtaine

No blott nor maime by this diviſion,

Strong is this love which ties our hearts in one,

And ſtrong that love purſu'd with amorous paine▪

But though beſides thy ſelfe I leave behind

Heavens liberall and earths thrice-faire Sunne,

Going to where ſterne winter aye doth wonne,

Yet, loves hot fires, which martyr my ſad minde,

Doe ſend forth ſcalding ſighes, which have the Art

To melt all Ice, but that which walls her heart.

To M. S. B.

[Page]

O Thou which to ſearch out the ſecret parts

Of the India, or rather Paradiſe

Of knowledge, haſt with courage and adviſe

Lately launch'd into the vaſt Sea of Arts,

Diſdaine not in thy conſtant travailing

To doe as other Voyagers, and make

Some turnes into leſſe Creekes, and wiſely take

Freſh water at the Heliconian ſpring;

I ſing not, Siren like, to tempt; for I

Am harſh, nor as thoſe Sciſmatiques with you,

Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew;

But ſeing in you bright ſparkes of Poetry,

I, though I brought no fuell, had deſire

With theſe Articulate blaſts to blow the fire.

To M. B. B.

[Page]

IS not thy ſacred hunger of ſcience

Yet ſatisfy'd? Is not thy braines rich hive

Fulfil'd with hony which thou doſt derive

From the Arts ſpirits and their Quinteſſence?

Then weane thy ſelfe at laſt, and thee withdraw

From Cambridge thy old nurſe, and, as the reſt,

Here toughly chew, and ſturdily digeſt

Th' immenſe vaſt volumes of our common law;

And begin ſoone, leſt my griefe grieve thee too,

Which is, that that which I ſhould have begun

In my youthes morning, now late muſt be done;

And I, as Giddy Travellers, muſt doe,

Which ſtray or ſleepe all day, and having loſt

Light and ſtrength, darke and tir'd muſt then ride poſt.

If thou unto thy Muſe be marryed,

Embrace her ever, ever multiply,

Be far from me that ſtrange Adulterie

To tempt thee and procure her widdowhood,

My nurſe, (for I had one,) becauſe I'am cold,

Divorc'd her ſelfe, the cauſe being in me,

That I can take no new in Bigamye,

Not my will only but power doth withhold.

Hence comes it, that theſe Rymes which never had

Mother, want matter, aud they only have

[Page] A little forme, the which their Father gave;

They are prophane, imperfect, oh, too bad

To be counted Children of Poetry

Except confirm'd and Biſhoped by thee.

To M. R. W.

IF, as mine is, thy life a ſlumber be,

Seeme, when thou read'ſt theſe lines, to dreame of me,

Never did Morpheus nor his brother weare

Shapes ſoe like thoſe Shapes, whom they would appeare,

As this my letter is like me, for it

Hath my name, words, hand, feet, heart, minde and wit;

It is my deed of gift of mee to thee,

It is my Will, my ſelfe the Legacie.

So thy retyrings I love, yea envie,

Bred in thee by a wiſe melancholy,

That I rejoyce, that unto where thou art,

Though I ſtay here, I can thus ſend my heart,

As kindly'as any enamored Patient

His Picture to his abſent Love hath ſent.

All newes I thinke ſooner reach thee then mee;

Havens are Heavens, and Ships wing'd Angels be,

The which both Goſpell, and ſterne threatnings bring;

Guyanaes harveſt is nip'd in the ſpring,

I feare; And with us (me thinkes)▪ Fate deales ſo

[Page] As with the Jewes guide God did; he did ſhow

Him the rich land, but bar'd his entry in,

Our ſlownes is our puniſhment and ſinne;

Perchance, theſe Spaniſh buſineſſe being done,

Which as the Earth betweene the Moone and Sun

Eclipſe the light which Guyana would give,

Our diſcontinued hopes we ſhall retrive:

But if (as All th' All muſt) hopes ſmoake away,

Is not Almightie Vertue'an India?

If men be worlds, there is in every one

Some thing to anſwere in ſome proportion

All the worlds riches: And in good men, this

Vertue, our formes forme and our ſoules ſoule is.

To M. I. L.

OF that ſhort Roll of friends writ in my heart

Which with thy name begins, ſince their depart,

Whether in the Engliſh Provinces they be,

Or drinke of Po, Sequan, or Danubie,

There's none that ſometimes greets us not, and yet

Your Trent is Lethe', that paſt, us you forget,

You doe not duties of Societies,

If from the'embrace of a lov'd wife you riſe,

View your fat Beaſts, ſtretch'd Barnes, and labour'd fields,

Eate, play, ryde, take all joyes which all day yeelds,

[Page] And then againe to your embracements goe:

Some houres on us your frends, and ſome beſtow

Upon your Muſe, elſe both wee ſhall repent,

I that my love, ſhe that her guifts on you are ſpent

To M. I. P.

BLeſt are your North parts, for all this long time

My Sun is with you, cold and darke'is our Clime▪

Heavens Sun, which ſtaid ſo long from us this yeare,

Staid in your North (I thinke) for ſhe was there,

And hether by kinde nature drawne from thence,

Here rages chafes and threatens peſtilence;

Yet I, as long as ſhee from hence doth ſtaie,

Thinke this no South, no Sommer, nor no day.

With thee my kinde and unkinde heart is run,

There ſacrifice it to that beauteous Sun:

So may thy paſtures with their flowery feaſts,

As ſuddenly as Lard, fat thy leane beaſts;

So may thy woods oft poll'd, yet ever weare

A greene, and when thee liſt a golden haire;

So may all thy ſheepe bring forth Twins; and ſo

In chace and race may thy horſe all out goe;

So may thy love and courage ne'r be cold;

Thy Sonne ne'r Ward; Thy lov'd wife ne'r ſeem old▪

But maiſt thou wiſh great things, and them attaine,

As thou telſt her and none but her my paine.

To E. of D. with ſix holy Sonnets.

[Page]

SEE Sir, how as the Suns hot Maſculine flame

Begets ſtrange creatures on Niles durty ſlime,

In me, your fatherly yet luſty Ryme

(For, theſe ſongs are their fruits) have wrought the ſame;

But though the ingendring force from whence they came

Bee ſtrong enough, and nature doe admit

Seaven to be borne at once, I ſend as yet

But ſix, they ſay, the ſeaventh hath ſtill ſome maime;

I chooſe your judgement, which the ſame degree

Doth with her ſiſter, your invention, hold,

As fire theſe droſſie Rymes to purifie,

Or as Elixar, to change them to gold;

You are that Alchimiſt which alwaies had

Wit, whoſe one ſpark could make good things of bad.

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

[Page]

AFter thoſe reverend papers, whoſe ſoule is

Our good and great Kings lov'd hand and fear'd name▪

By which to you he derives much of his,

And (how he may) makes you almoſt the ſame,

A Taper of his Torch, a copie writ

From his Originall, and a faire beame

Of the ſame warme, and dazeling Sun, though it

Muſt in another Sphere his vertue ſtreame:

After thoſe learned papers which your hand

Hath ſtor'd with notes of uſe and pleaſures too,

From which rich treaſury you may command

Fit matter whether you will write or doe:

After thoſe loving papers, where friends ſend

With glad griefe, to your Sea-ward ſteps, farewel,

Which thicken on you now, as prayers aſcend

To heaven in troupes at'a good mans paſſing bell:

Admit this honeſt paper, and allow

It ſuch an audience as your ſelfe would aske;

What you muſt ſay at Venice this meanes now,

And hath for nature, what you have for taske.

[Page]

To ſweare much love, not to be chang'd before

Honour alone will to your fortune fit;

Nor ſhall I then honour your fortune, more

Then I have done your honour wanting it.

But'tis an eaſier load (though both oppreſſe)

To want, then governe greatneſſe, for wee are

In that, our owne and onely buſineſſe,

In this, wee muſt for others vices care;

'Tis therefore well your ſpirits now are plac'd

In their laſt Furnace, in activity;

Which fits them (Schooles and Courts and warres o'rpaſt

To touch and teſt in any beſt degree.

For mee, (if there be ſuch a thing as I)

Fortune (if there be ſuch a thing as ſhee)

Spies that I beare ſo well her tyranny,

That ſhe thinks nothing elſe ſo fit for mee;

But though ſhe part us, to heare my oft prayers

For your increaſe, God is as neere mee here;

And to ſend you what I ſhall begge, his ſtaires

In length and eaſe are alike every where.

To M. M. H.

[Page]

MAd paper ſtay, and grudge not here to burne

With all thoſe ſonnes whom my braine did create,

At leſt lye hid with mee, till thou returne.

To rags againe, which is thy native ſtate.

What though thou have enough unworthineſſe

To come unto great place as others doe,

That's much, emboldens, pulls, thruſts I confeſſe,

But 'tis not all, thou ſhould'ſt be wicked too.

And, that thou canſt not learne, or not of mee;

Yet thou wilt goe, Goe, ſince thou goeſt to her

Who lacks but faults to be a Prince, for ſhee,

Truth, whom they dare not pardon, dares preferre.

But when thou com'ſt to that perplexing eye

Which equally claimes love and reverence.

Thou wilt not long diſpute it, thou wilt die;

And, having little now, have then no ſenſe.

Yet when her warme redeeming hand, which is

A miracle; and made ſuch to worke more,

Doth touch thee (ſaples leafe) thou grow'ſt by this

Her creature; glorify'd more then before.

[Page]

Then as a mother which delights to heare

Her early child miſpeake halfe uttered words,

Or, becauſe majeſty doth never feare

Ill or bold ſpeech, ſhe Audience affords.

And then, cold ſpeechleſſe wretch, thou dieſt againe,

And wiſely; what diſcourſe is left for thee?

For, ſpeech of ill, and her thou muſt abſtaine,

And is there any good which is not ſhee?

Yet maiſt thou praiſe her ſervants, though not her,

And wit, and vertue, 'and honour her attend,

And ſince they'are but her cloathes, thou ſhalt not erre

If thou her ſhape and beauty'and grace commend.

Who knowes thy deſtiny? when thou haſt done,

Perchance her Cabinet may harbour thee,

Whither all noble ambitious wits doe runne,

A neſt almoſt as full of Good as ſhee.

When thou art there, if any, whom wee know,

Were ſav'd before, and did that heaven partake,

When ſhe revolves his papers, marke what ſhow

Of favour, ſhe alone, to them doth make.

Marke, if to get them, ſhe o'r skip the reſt,

Marke, if ſhee read them twice, or kiſſe the name;

Marke, if ſhe doe the ſame that they proteſt,

Marke, if ſhe marke whether her woman came.

[Page]

Marke, if ſlight things be'objected, and o'r blowne,

Marke, if her oathes againſt him be not ſtill

Reſerv'd, and that ſhee grieves ſhe's not her owne,

And chides the doctrine that denies Freewill.

Ibid thee not doe this to be my ſpie;

Nor to make my ſelfe her familiar;

But ſo much I doe love her choyce, that I

Would faine love him that ſhall be lov'd of her.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

HOnour is ſo ſublime perfection,

And ſo refinde; that when God was alone

And creatureleſſe at firſt, himſelfe had none;

But as of the elements, theſe which wee tread,

Produce all things with which wee'are joy'd or fed,

And, thoſe are barren both above our head:

So from low perſons doth all honour flow;

Kings, whom they would have honoured, to us ſhow,

And but direct our honour, not beſtow.

For when from herbs the pure part muſt be wonne

From groſſe, by Stilling, this is better done

By deſpiſ'd dung, then by the fire or Sunne.

[Page]

Care not then, Madame, 'how low your prayſes lye;

In labourers balads oft more piety

God findes, then in Te Deums melodie.

And, ordinance rais'd on Towers ſo many mile

Send not their voice, nor laſt ſo long a while

As fires from th'earths low vaults in Sicil Iſle.

Should I ſay I liv'd darker then were true,

Your radiation can all clouds ſubdue,

But one, 'tis beſt light to contemplate you.

You, for whoſe body God made better clay,

Or tooke Soules ſtuffe ſuch as ſhall late decay,

Or ſuch as needs ſmall change at the laſt day.

This, as an Amber drop enwraps a Bee,

Covering diſcovers your quicke Soule; that we

May in your through-ſhine front our hearts thoughts ſee.

You teach (though wee learne not) a thing unknowne

To our late times, the uſe of ſpecular ſtone,

Through which all things within without were ſhown.

Of ſuch were Temples; ſo and ſuch you are;

Beeing and ſeeming is your equall care,

And vertues whole ſumme is but know and dare.

[Page]

But as our Soules of growth and Soules of ſenſe

Have birthright of our reaſons Soule, yet hence

They fly not from that, nor ſeeke preſidence.

Natures firſt leſſon, ſo, diſcretion,

Muſt not grudge zeale a place, nor yet keepe none,

Not baniſh it ſelfe, nor religion.

Diſcretion is a wiſemans Soule, and ſo

Religion is a Chriſtians, and you know

How theſe are one, her yea, is not her no.

Nor may we hope to ſodder ſtill and knit

Theſe two, and dare to breake them; nor muſt wit

Be colleague to religion, but be it.

In thoſe poore types of God (round circles) ſo

Religions tipes, the peecleſſe centers flow,

And are in all the lines which alwayes goe.

If either ever wrought in you alone

Or principally, then religion

Wrought your ends, and your wayes diſcretion.

Goe thither ſtil, goe the ſame way you went,

Who ſo would change, do covet or repent;

Neither can reach you, great and innocent.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.
Begun in France but never perfected.

[Page]

THough I be dead, and buried, yet I have

(Living in you,) Court enough in my grave,

As oft as there I thinke my ſelfe to bee,

So many reſurrections waken mee.

That thankfullneſſe your favours have forgot

In mee, embalmes mee; that I doe not rot;

This ſeaſon as'tis Eaſter, as'tis ſpring,

Muſt both to growth and to confeſſion bring

My thoughts diſpos'd unto your influence, ſo,

Theſe verſes bud, ſo theſe confeſſions grow;

Firſt I confeſſe I have to others lent

Your ſtock, and over prodigally ſpent

Your treaſure, for ſince I had never knowne

Vertue or beautie, but as they are growne

In you, I ſhould not thinke or ſay they ſhine,

(So as I have) in any other Mine;

Next I confeſſe this my confeſſion,

For, 'tis ſome fault thus much to touch upon,

Your praiſe to you, where half rights ſeeme too much,

And make your minds ſincere complexion bluſh.

Next I confeſſe my'impenitence, for I

Can ſcarce repent my firſt fault, ſince thereby

Remote low Spirits, which ſhall ne'r read you,

May in leſſe leſſons finde enough to doe,

By ſtudying copies, not Originals,

Deſunt caetera.

A Letter to the Lady Carey, and Mrs Eſſex Riche, From Amyens.

[Page]

MADAME,

HEre where by All All Saints invoked are,

'Twere too much ſchiſme to be ſingular,

And 'gainſt a practiſe generall to warre.

Yet turning to Saincts, ſhould my'humility

To other Sainct then you directed bee,

That were to make my ſchiſme, hereſie.

Nor would I be a Convertite ſo cold,

As not to tell it; If this be too bold,

Pardons are in this market cheaply ſold.

Where, becauſe Faith is in too low degree,

I thought it ſome Apoſtleſhip in mee

To ſpeake things which by faith alone I ſee.

That is, of you, who is a firmament

Of virtues, where no one is growne, or ſpent,

They'are your materials, not your ornament.

Others whom wee call vertuous, are not ſo

In their whole ſubſtance, but, their vertues grow

But in their humours, and at ſeaſons ſhow.

[Page]

For when through taſtleſſe flat humilitie

In dow bak'd men ſome harmeleſſenes we ſee,

'Tis but his flegme that's Vertuous, and not Hee:

Soe is the Blood ſometimes; who ever ran

To danger unimportun'd, he was than

No better then a ſanguine Vertuous man.

So cloyſterall men, who, in pretence of feare

All contributions to this life forbeare,

Have Vertue in Melancholy, and only there.

Spirituall Cholerique Crytiques, which in all

Religions find faults, and forgive no fall,

Have, through their zeale, Vertue but in their Gall.

We are thus but parcel guilt; to Gold we'are growne

When Vertue is our Soules complexion;

Who knowes his Vertues name or place, hath none.

Vertue'is but aguiſh, when 'tis ſeverall,

By occaſion wak'd, and circumſtantiall.

True vertue is Soule, Alwaies in all deeds All.

This Vertue thinking to give dignitie

To your ſoule, found there no infirmitie,

For, your ſoule was as good Vertue, as ſhee;

[Page]

Shee therefore wrought upon that part of you

Which is ſcarce leſſe then ſoule, as ſhe could do,

And ſo hath made your beauty, Vertue too.

Hence comes it, that your Beauty wounds not hearts,

As Others, with prophane and ſenſuall Darts,

But as an influence, vertuous thoughts imparts.

But if ſuch friends by the honor of your ſight

Grow capable of this ſo great a light,

As to partake your vertues, and their might,

What muſt I thinke that influence muſt doe,

Where it findes ſympathie and matter too,

Vertue, and beauty of the ſame ſtuffe, as you?

Which is, your noble worthie ſiſter, ſhee

Of whom, if what in this my Extaſie

And revelation of you both I ſee,

I ſhould write here, as in ſhort Galleries

The Maſter at the end large glaſſes ties,

So to preſent the roome twice to our eyes,

So I ſhould give this letter length, and ſay

That which I ſaid of you; there is no way

From either, but by the other not to ſtray.

[Page]

May therefore this be enough to teſtifie

My true devotion, free from flattery;

He that beleeves himſelfe, doth never lie.

To the Counteſſe of Salisbury. Auguſt. 1614.

FAire, great, and good, ſince ſeeing you, wee ſee

What Heaven can doe, and what any Earth can be:

Since now your beauty ſhines, now when the Sunne

Growne ſtale, is to ſo low a value runne,

That his diſſhevel'd beames and ſcattered fires

Serve but for Ladies Periwigs and Tyres

In lovers Sonnets: you come to repaire

Gods booke of creatures, teaching what is faire.

Since now, when all is withered, ſhrunke, and dri'd,

All Vertues ebb'd out to a dead low tyde,

All the worlds frame being crumbled into ſand,

Where every man thinks by himſelfe to ſtand,

Integritie, friendſhip, and confidence,

(Ciments of greatnes) being vapor'd hence,

And narrow man being fill'd with little ſhares,

Court, Citie, Church, are all ſhops of ſmall-wares,

All having blowne to ſparkes their noble fire,

And drawne their ſound gold-ingot into wyre;

All trying by a love of littleneſſe

To make abridgments, and to draw to leſſe,

Even that nothing, which at firſt we were;

[Page]

[...]

[Page]

[...]

[Page] Since in theſe times, your greatneſſe doth appeare,

And that we learne by it, that man to get

Towards him, thats infinite, muſt firſt be great.

Since in an age ſo ill, as none is fit

So much as to accuſe, much leſſe mend it,

(For who can judge, or witneſſe of thoſe times

Where all alike are guiltie of the crimes?)

Where he that would be good, is thought by all

A monſter, or at beſt fantaſticall:

Since now you durſt be good, and that I doe

Diſcerne, by daring to contemplate you,

That there may be degrees of faire, great, good,

Through your light, largeneſſe, vertue underſtood▪

If in this ſacrifice of mine, be ſhowne

Any ſmall ſparke of theſe, call it your owne.

And if things like theſe, have been ſaid by mee

Of others; call not that Idolatrie.

For had God made man firſt, and man had ſeene

The third daies fruits, and flowers, and various greene

He might have ſaid the beſt that he could ſay

Of thoſe faire creatures, which were made that day:

And when next day he had admir'd the birth

Of Sun, Moone, Stars, fairer then late-praiſ'd earth,

Hee might have ſaid the beſt that he could ſay,

And not be chid for praiſing yeſterday:

So though ſome things are not together true,

As, that another is worthieſt, and, that you:

Yet, to ſay ſo, doth not condemne a man,

If when he ſpoke them, they were both true than.

How faire a proofe of this, in our ſoule growes?

[Page] Wee firſt have ſoules of growth, and ſenſe, and thoſe,

When our laſt ſoule, our ſoule immortall came,

Were ſwallowed into it, and have no name.

Nor doth he injure thoſe ſoules, which doth caſt

The power and praiſe of both them, on the laſt;

No more doe I wrong any; I adore

The ſame things now, which I ador'd before,

The ſubject chang'd, and meaſure; the ſame thing

In a low conſtable, and in the King

I reverence; His power to worke on mee;

So did I humbly reverence each degree

Of faire, great, good, but more, now I am come

From having found their walkes, to finde their home.

And as I owe my firſt ſoules thankes, that they

For my laſt ſoule did fit and mould my clay,

So am I debtor unto them, whoſe worth,

Enabled me to profit, and take forth

This new great leſſon, thus to ſtudy you;

Which none, not reading others, firſt, could doe.

Nor lacke I light to read this booke, though I

In a darke Cave, yea in a Grave doe lie;

For as your fellow Angells, ſo you doe

Illuſtrate them who come to ſtudy you.

The firſt whom we in Hiſtories doe finde

To have profeſt all Arts, was one borne blind:

He lackt thoſe eyes beaſts have as well as wee,

Not thoſe, by which Angels are ſeene and ſee;

So, though I'am borne without thoſe eyes to live,

Which fortune, who hath none her ſelfe, doth give,

Which are, fit meanes to ſee bright courts and you,

[Page] Yet may I ſee you thus, as now I doe;

I ſhall by that, all goodneſſe have diſcern'd,

And though I burne my librarie, be learn'd.

An Epithalamion, Or mariage Song on the Lady Elizabeth, and Count Palatine being married on St. Valentines day.

I.

HAile Biſhop Valentine, whoſe day this is,

All the Aire is thy Diocis,

And all the chirping Choriſters

And other birds are thy Pariſhioners,

Thou marryeſt every yeare

The Lirique Larke, and the grave whiſpering Dove,

The Sparrow that neglects his life for love,

The houſehold Bird, with the red ſtomacher,

Thou mak'ſt the black bird ſpeed as ſoone,

As doth the Goldfinch, or the Halcyon;

The huſband cocke lookes out, and ſtraight is ſped,

And meets his wife, which brings her feather-bed.

This day more cheerfully then ever ſhine.

This day, which might enflāe thy ſelf, Old Valentine,

[Page]

II.

Till now, Thou warmd'ſt with multiplying loves

Two larkes, two ſparrowes, or two Doves,

All that is nothing unto this,

For thou this day coupleſt two Phoenixes,

Thou mak'ſt a Taper ſee

What the ſunne never ſaw, and what the Arke

(Which was of foules, and beaſts, the cage, and park,)

Did not containe, one bed containes, through Thee,

Two Phoenixes, whoſe joyned breaſts

Are unto one another mutuall neſts,

Where motion kindles ſuch fires, as ſhall give

Yong Phoenixes, and yet the old ſhall live.

Whoſe love and courage never ſhall decline,

But make the whole year through, thy day, O Valētine.

III.

Up then faire Phoenix Bride, fruſtrate the Sunne,

Thy ſelfe from thine affection

Takeſt warmth enough, and from thine eye

All leſſer birds will take their Jollitie.

Up, up, faire Bride, and call,

Thy ſtarres, from out their ſeverall boxes, take

Thy Rubies, Pearles, and Diamonds forth, and make

Thy ſelfe a conſtellation, of them All,

And by their blazing, ſignifie,

That a Great Princeſs falls, but doth not die;

Bee thou a new ſtarre, that to us portends

Ends of much wonder; And be Thou thoſe ends,

Since thou doſt this day in new glory ſhine,

May all men date Records, from this thy Valentine.

[Page]

IIII.

Come forth, come forth, and as one glorious flame

Meeting Another, growes the ſame,

So meet thy Fredericke, and ſo

To an unſeparable union goe,

Since ſeparation

Falls not on ſuch things as are infinite,

Nor things which are but one, can diſunite.

You'are twice inſeparable, great, and one;

Goe then to where the Biſhop ſtaies,

To make you one, his way, which divers waies

Muſt be effected; and when all is paſt,

And that you'are one, by hearts and hands made faſt,

You two have one way left, your ſelves to'entwine,

Beſides this Biſhops knot, O Biſhop Valentine.

V.

But oh, what ailes the Sunne, that here he ſtaies,

Longer to day, then other daies?

Staies he new light from theſe to get?

And finding here ſuch ſtore, is loth to ſet?

And why doe you two walke,

So ſlowly pac'd in this proceſſion?

Is all your care but to be look'd upon,

And be to others ſpectacle, and talke?

The feaſt, with gluttonous delaies,

Is eaten, and too long their meat they praiſe,

[Page] The maſquers come too late, and' I thinke, will ſtay,

Like Fairies, till the Cock crow them away.

Alas, did not Antiquity aſſigne

A night, as well as day, to thee, O Valentine?

VI.

They did, and night is come; and yet wee ſee

Formalities retarding thee.

What meane theſe Ladies, which (as though

They were to take a clock in peeces,) goe

So nicely about the Bride;

A Bride, before a good night could be ſaid,

Should vaniſh from her cloathes, into her bed,

As Soules from bodies ſteale, and are not ſpy'd.

But now ſhe is laid; What though ſhee bee?

Yet there are more delayes, For, where is he?

He comes, and paſſes through Spheare after Spheare.

Firſt her ſheetes, then her Armes, then any where,

Let not this day, then, but this night be thine,

Thy day was but the eve to this, O Valentine.

VII.

Here lyes a ſhee Sunne, and a hee Moone here,

She gives the beſt light to his Spheare,

Or each is both, and all, and ſo

They unto one another nothing owe,

And yet they doe, but are

So juſt and rich in that coyne which they pay,

[Page] That neither would, nor needs forbeare nor ſtay,

Neither deſires to be ſpar'd, nor to ſpare,

They quickly pay their debt, and then

Take no acquittance, but pay again;

They pay, they give, they lend, and ſo let fall,

No ſuch occaſion to be liberall.

More truth, more courage in theſe two do ſhine,

Then all thy turtles have, and ſparrows, Valentine.

VIII.

And by this act of theſe two Phenixes

Nature againe reſtored is,

For ſince theſe two are two no more,

Ther's but one Phenix ſtill, as was before.

Reſt now at laſt, and wee

As Satyres watch the Sunnes upriſe, will ſtay

Waiting, when your eyes opened, let out day.

Onely deſir'd, becauſe your face wee ſee;

Others neare you ſhall whiſpering ſpeake,

And wagers lay, at which ſide day will breake,

And win by'obſerving, then, whoſe hand it is

That opens firſt a curtaine, hers or his;

This will be tryed to morrow after nine,

Till which houre, wee thy day enlarge, O Valentine.

ECCLOGUE.
1613. December 26.

[Page]

Allophanes finding Idios in the country in Chriſtmas time, reprehends his abſence from court, at the mariage Of the Earle of Sommerſet, Idios gives an account of his purpoſe therein, and of his abſence thence.

Allophanes.

VNſeaſonable man, ſtatue of ice,

What could to countries ſolitude entice

Thee, in this yeares cold and decrepit time?

Natures inſtinct drawes to the warmer clime

Even ſmall birds, who by that courage dare,

In numerous fleets, ſaile through their Sea, the aire.

What delicacie can in fields appeare,

Whil'ſt Flora' herſelfe doth a freeze jerkin weare?

Whil'ſt windes do all the trees and hedges ſtrip

Of leafes, to furniſh roddes enough to whip

Thy madneſſe from thee; and all ſprings by froſt

Have taken cold, and their ſweet murmures loſt;

If thou thy faults or fortunes would'ſt lament

With juſt ſolemnity, do it in Lent;

At Court the ſpring already advanced is,

The Sunne ſtayes longer up; and yet not his

The glory is, farre other, other fires.

Firſt, zeale to Prince and State; then loves deſires

[Page] Burne in one breſt, and like heavens two great lights,

The firſt doth governe dayes, the other nights.

And then that early light, which did appeare

Before the Sunne and Moone created were;

The Princes favour is defus'd o'r all,

From which all Fortunes, Names, and Natures fall;

Then from thoſe wombes of ſtarres, the Brides bright eyes,

At every glance, a conſtellation flyes,

And ſowes the Court with ſtarres, and doth prevent

In light and power, the all-ey'd firmament;

Firſt her eyes kindles other Ladies eyes,

Then from their beames their jewels luſters riſe,

And from their jewels torches do take fire,

And all is warmth, and light, and good deſire;

Moſt other Courts, alas, are like to hell,

Where in darke places, fire without light doth dwell:

Or but like Stoves, for luſt and envy get

Continuall, but artificiall heat;

Here zeale and love growne one, all clouds diſgeſt,

And make our Court an everlaſting Eaſt.

And can'ſt thou be from thence?

Idios.

No, I am there

As heaven, to men diſpos'd, is every where,

So are thoſe Courts, whoſe Princes animate,

Not onely all their houſe, but all their State,

Let no man thinke, becauſe he is full, he hath all,

Kings (as their patterne, God) are liberall

Not onely in fulneſſe, but capacitie,

Enlarging narrow men, to feele and ſee,

[Page] And comprehend the bleſſings they beſtow.

So, reclus'd hermits often times do know

More of heavens glory, then a worldling can.

As man is of the world, the heart of man,

Is an epitome of Gods great booke

Of creatures, and man need no farther looke;

So is the Country of Courts, where ſweet peace doth,

As their one common ſoule, give life to both,

I am not then from Court.

Allophanes.

Dreamer, thou art,

Think'ſt thou fantaſtique that thou haſt a part

In the Indian fleet, becauſe thou haſt

A little ſpice, or Amber in thy taſte?

Becauſe thou art not frozen, art thou warme?

Seeſt thou all good becauſe thou ſeeſt no harme?

The earth doth in her inner bowels hold

Stuffe well diſpos'd▪ and which would faine be gold,

But never ſhall, except it chance to lye,

So upward, that heaven gild it with his eye;

As, for divine things, faith comes from above,

So, for beſt civill uſe, all tinctures move

From higher powers; From God religion ſprings,

Wiſdome, and honour from the uſe of Kings.

Then unbeguile thy ſelfe, and know with mee,

That Angels, though on earth employd they bee,

Are ſtill in heav'n, ſo is hee ſtill at home

That doth, abroad, to honeſt actions come.

Chide thy ſelfe then, O foole, which yeſterday

[Page] Might'ſt have read more then all thy books bewray;

Haſt thou a hiſtory, which doth preſent

A Court, where all affections do aſſent

Unto the Kings, and that, that Kings are juſt?

And where it is no levity to truſt.

Where there is no ambition, but to'obey,

Where men need whiſper nothing, and yet may;

Where the Kings favours are ſo plac'd, that all

Finde that the King therein is liberall

To them, in him, becauſe his favours bend

To vertue, to the which they all pretend.

Thou haſt no ſuch; yet here was this, and more,

An earneſt lover, wiſe then, and before,

Our little Cupidhath ſued Livery,

And is no more in his minority,

Hee is admitted now into that breſt

Where the Kings Counſells and his ſecrets reſt▪

What haſt thou loſt, O ignorant man?

Idios.

I knew,

All this, and onely therefore I withdrew

To know and feele all this, and not to have

Words to expreſſe it, makes a man a grave

Of his owne thoughts; I would not therefore ſtay

At a great feaſt, having no grace to ſay,

And yet I ſcap'd not here; for being come

Full of the common joy; I utter'd ſome,

Reade then this nuptiall ſong, which was not made

Either the Court or mens hearts to invade,

[Page] But ſince I'am dead, and buried I could frame

No Epitaph, which might advance my fame,

So much as this poore ſong, which teſtifies

I did unto that day ſome ſacrifice.

I.
The time of the Mariage.

THou art repriv'd old yeare, thou ſhalt not die,

Though thou upon thy death bed lye,

And ſhould'ſt within five dayes expire

Yet thou art reſcu'd by a mightier fire,

Then thy old Soule, the Sunne,

When he doth in his largeſt circle runne.

The paſſage of the Weſt or Eaſt would thaw,

And open wide their eaſie liquid jawe

To all our ſhips, could a Promethean art

Either unto the Northerne Pole impart

The fire of theſe inflaming eyes, or of this loving heart.

II.
Equality of perſons.

[Page]

But undiſcerning Muſe, which heart, which eyes,

In this new couple, doſt thou prize,

When his eye as inflaming is

As hers, and her heart loves as well as his?

Be tryed by beauty, and than

The bridegroome is a maid, and not a man,

If by that manly courage they be tryed,

Which ſcornes unjuſt opinion; then the bride

Becomes a man. Should chance or envies Art

Divide theſe two, whom nature ſcarce did part?

Since both have th'enflaming eye, and both the loving heart.

III.
Rayſing of the Bridegroome.

Though it be ſome divorce to thinke of you

Single, ſo much one are you two,

Let me here contemplate thee,

Firſt, cheerfull Bridegroome, and firſt let mee ſee,

How thou prevent'ſt the Sunne,

And his red foming horſes doſt outrunne,

How, having laid downe in thy Soveraignes breſt

[Page] All buſineſſes, from thence to reinveſt

Them, when theſe triumphs ceaſe, thou forward art

To ſhew to her, who doth the like impart,

The fire of thy inflaming eyes, and of thy loving heart.

IIII.
Raiſing of the Bride.

But now, to Thee, faire Bride, it is ſome wrong,

To thinke thou wert in Bed ſo long,

Since Soone thou lyeſt downe firſt, tis fit

Thou in firſt riſing ſhould'ſt allow for it,

Pouder thy Radiant haire,

Which if without ſuch aſhes thou would'ſt weare,

Thou, which, to all which come to looke upon,

Are meant for, Phoebus, would'ſt be Phaëton,

For our eaſe, give thine eyes, th'unuſuall part

Of joy, a Teare; ſo quencht, thou maiſt impart,

To us that come, thy inflaming eyes, to him, thy loving heart.

V.
Her Apparrelling.

[Page]

Thus thou deſcend'ſt to our infirmitie,

Who can the Sun in water ſee.

Soe doſt thou, when in ſilke and gold,

Thou cloudſt thy ſelfe; ſince wee which doe behold,

Are duſt, and wormes, 'tis juſt

Our objects be the fruits of wormes and duſt;

Let every Jewell be a glorious ſtarre,

Yet ſtarres are not ſo pure, as their ſpheares are.

And though thou ſtoope, to'appeare to us, in part,

Still in that Picture thou intirely art,

Which thy inflaming eyes have made within his loving heart.

VI.
Going to the Chappell.

Now from your Eaſts you iſſue forth, and wee,

As men which through a Cipres ſee

The riſing ſun, doe thinke it two,

Soe, as you goe to Church, doe thinke of you,

But that vaile being gone,

By the Church rites you are from thenceforth one.

The Church Triumphant made this match before,

And now the Militant doth ſtrive no more,

[Page] Then, reverend Prieſt, who Gods Recorder art,

Doe, from his Dictates, to theſe two impart

All bleſſings, which are ſeene, Or thought, by Angels eye or heart.

VII:
The Benediction.

Bleſt payre of Swans, Oh may you interbring

Daily new joyes, and never ſing,

Live, till all grounds of wiſhes faile,

Till honor, yea till wiſedome grow ſo ſtale,

That, new great heights to trie,

It muſt ſerve your ambition, to die;

Raiſe heires, and may here, to the worlds end, live

Heires from this King, to take thankes, you, to give,

Nature and grace doe all, and nothing Art,

May never age, or error overthwart

With any Weſt, theſe radiant eyes, with any North, this heart,

VIII.
Feaſts and Revells.

[Page]

But you are over-bleſt. Plenty this day

Injures; it cauſeth time to ſtay;

The tables groane, as though this feaſt

Would, as the flood, deſtroy all fowle and beaſt.

And were the doctrine new

That the earth mov'd, this day would make it true;

For every part to dance and revell goes.

They tread the ayre, and fal not where they roſe.

Though ſix houres ſince, the Sunne to bed did part,

The masks and banquets will not yet impart

A ſunſet to theſe weary eyes, A Center to this heart.

IX.
The Brides going to bed.

What mean'ſt thou Bride, this companie to keep?

To ſit up, till thou faine wouldſt ſleep?

Thou maiſt not, when thou art laid, doe ſo.

Thy ſelfe muſt to him a new banquet grow,

And you muſt entertaine

And doe all this daies dances o'r againe.

Know that if Sun and Moone together doe

Riſe in one point, they doe not ſet ſo to.

[Page] Therefore thou maiſt, faire Bride, to bed depart,

Thou art not gone, being gone, where e'r thou art,

Thou leav'ſt in him thy watchfull eyes, in him thy loving heart.

X.
The Bridegroomes comming.

As he that ſees a ſtarre fall, runs apace,

And findes a gellie in the place,

So doth the Bridegroome haſt as much,

Being told this ſtarre is falne, and findes her ſuch,

And as friends may looke ſtrange,

By a new faſhion, or apparrells change,

Their ſoules, though long acquainted they had beene,

Theſe clothes, their bodies, never yet had ſeene.

Therefore at firſt ſhee modeſtly might ſtart,

But muſt forthwith ſurrender every part,

As freely, as each to each before, gave either eye or heart.

XI.
The good night.

[Page]

Now, as in Tullias tombe, one lampe burnt cleare▪

Unchang'd for fifteene hundred yeare,

May theſe love-lamps we here enſhrine,

In warmth, light, laſting, equall the divine;

Fire ever doth aſpire,

And makes all like it ſelfe, turnes all to fire,

But ends in aſhes, which theſe cannot doe,

For none of theſe is fuell, but fire too.

This is joyes bonfire, then, where loves ſtrong Arts

Make of ſo noble individuall parts

One fire of foure inflaming eyes, and of two loving hearts.

Idios.

As I have brought this ſong, that I may doe

A perfect ſacrifice, I'll burne it too.

Allophanes.

No Sr. This paper I have juſtly got,

For, in burnt incenſe, the perfume is not

His only that preſents it, but of all,

What ever celebrates this Feſtivall

Is common, ſince the joy thereof is ſo.

Nor may your ſelfe be Prieſt: But let me goe,

[Page] Backe to the Court, and I will lay'it upon

Such Altars, as prize your devotion.

Epithalamion made at Lincolnes Inne.

THe Sun-beames in the Eaſt are ſpred,

Leave, leave, faire Bride, your ſolitary bed,

No more ſhall you returne to it alone,

It nourſeth ſadneſſe, and your bodies print,

Like to a grave, the yielding downe doth dint;

You and your other you meet there anon;

Put forth, put forth that warme balme-breathing thigh,

Which whē next time you in theſe ſheets wil ſmother

There it muſt meet another,

Which never was, but muſt be, oft, more nigh;

Come glad from thence, goe gladder then you came,

To day put on perfection, and a womans name.

Daughters of London, you which bee

Our Golden Mines, and furniſh'd Treaſurie,

You which are Angels, yet ſtill bring with you

Thouſands of Angels on your mariage daies,

Help with your preſence, and deviſe to praiſe

Theſe rites, which alſo unto you grow due;

Conceitedly dreſſe her, and be aſſign'd,

By you, fit place for every flower and jewell,

Make her for love fit fewell

As gay as Flora, and as rich as Inde;

[Page] So may ſhee faire and rich, in nothing lame,

To day put on perfection, and a womans name.

And you frolique Patricians

Some of theſe Senators wealths deep oceans,

Ye painted courtiers, barrels of others wits,

Yee country men, who but your beaſts love none,

Yee of thoſe fellowſhips whereof hee's one,

Of ſtudy and play made ſtrange Hermaphrodits,

Here ſhine; This Bridegroom to the Temple bring

Loe, in yon path which ſtore of ſtraw'd flowers graceth,

The ſober virgin paceth;

Except my ſight faile, 'tis no other thing;

Weep not nor bluſh, here is no griefe nor ſhame,

To day put on perfection, and a womans name.

Thy two-leav'd gates faire Temple unfold,

And theſe two in thy ſacred boſome hold,

Till, myſtically joyn'd, but one they bee;

Then may thy leane and hunger-ſtarved wombe

Long time expect their bodies and their tombe,

Long after their owne parents fatten thee;

All elder claimes, and all cold barrenneſſe,

All yeelding to new loves bee far for ever,

Which might theſe two diſſever,

Alwaies, all th'other may each one poſſeſſe;

For, the beſt Bride, beſt worthy of praiſe and fame,

To day puts on perfection, and a womans name.

Winter dayes bring much delight,

Not for themſelves, but for they ſoon bring night;

[Page] Other ſweets wait thee then theſe diverſe meats,

Other diſports then dancing jollities,

Other love tricks then glancing with the eyes;

But that the Sun ſtill in our halfe Spheare ſweates;

Hee flies in winter, but he now ſtands ſtill,

Yet ſhadowes turne; Noone point he hath attain'd,

His ſteeds will bee reſtrain'd,

But gallop lively downe the Weſterne hill;

Thou ſhalt, when he hath come the worlds half frame,

To night but on perfection, and a womans name.

The amorous evening ſtarre is roſe,

Why then ſhould not our amorous ſtarre incloſe

Her ſelfe in her wiſh'd bed? Releaſe your ſtrings

Muſicians, and dancers take ſome truce

With theſe your pleaſing labours, for great uſe

As much wearineſſe as perfection brings;

You, and not only you, but all toyl'd beaſts

Reſt duly; at night all their toyles are diſpenſed;

But in their beds commenced

Are other labours, and more dainty feaſts;

She goes amaid, who, leaſt ſhe turne the ſame,

To night puts on perfection, and a womans name.

Thy virgins girdle now untie,

And in thy nuptiall bed [loves alter] lye

A pleaſing ſacrifice; now diſpoſſeſſe

Thee of theſe chaines and robes which were put on

T'adorne the day, not thee; for thou, alone,

Like vertue' and truth, art beſt in nakedneſſe;

[Page] This bed is onely to virginitie

A grave, but, to a better ſtate, a cradle;

Till now thou waſt but able

To be what now thou art; then that by thee

No more be ſaid, I may bee, but, I am,

To night put on perfection, and a womans name.

Even like a faithfull man content,

That this life for a better ſhould be ſpent;

So, ſhee a mothers rich ſtile doth preferre,

And at the Bridegroomes wiſh'd approach doth lye,

Like an appointed lambe, when tenderly

The prieſt comes on his knees t'embowell her;

Now ſleep or watch with more joy; and O light

Of heaven, to morrow riſe thou hot, and early;

This Sun will love ſo dearely

Her reſt, that long, long we ſhall want her ſight;

Wonders are wrought, for ſhee which had no maime,

To night puts on perfection, and a womans name.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

[Page]

MADAME,

I Have learn'd by thoſe lawes wherein I am a little converſant, that hee which beſtowes any coſt upon the dead, obliges him which is dead, but not the heire; I do not therefore ſend this paper to your Ladyſhip, that you ſhould thanke mee for it, or thinke that I thanke you in it; your favours and benefits to mee are ſo much above my merits, that they are even above my gratitude, if that were to be judged by words which muſt expreſſe it: But, Madame, ſince your noble brothers fortune being yours, the evidences alſo concerning it are yours, ſo his vertue being yours, the evidences concerning it, belong alſo to you, of which by your acceptance this may be one peece, in which quality I humbly preſent it, and as a teſtimony how intirely your familie poſſeſſeth

Your Ladiſhips moſt humble and thankfull ſervant JOHN DONNE.

Obſequies to the Lord Harringtons brother.
To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

[Page]

FAire ſoule, which waſt, not onely, as all ſoules bee,

Then when thou waſt infuſed, harmony,

But did'ſt continue ſo; and now doſt beare

A part in Gods great organ, this whole Spheare:

If looking up to God; or downe to us,

Thou finde that any way is pervious,

Twixt heav'n and earth, and that mans actions doe

Come to your knowledge, and affections too,

See, and with joy, mee to that good degree

Of goodneſſe growne, that I can ſtudie thee,

And, by theſe meditations refin'd,

Can unapparell and enlarge my minde,

And ſo can make by this ſoft extaſie,

This place a map of heav'n, my ſelfe of thee.

Thou ſeeſt mee here at midnight, now all reſt;

Times dead-low water; when all mindes deveſt

To morrows buſineſſe, when the labourers have

Such reſt in bed, that their laſt Church-yard grave,

Subject to change, will ſcarce be'a type of this,

Now when the clyent, whoſe laſt hearing is

To morrow, ſleeps, when the condemned man,

(Who when hee opes his eyes, muſt ſhut them than

Againe by death,) although ſad watch hee keepe,

Doth practice dying by a little ſleepe,

[Page] Thou at this midnight ſeeſt mee, and as ſoone

As that Sunne riſes to mee, midnight's noone,

All the world growes tranſparent, and I ſee

Through all, both Church and State, in ſeeing thee;

And I diſcerne by favour of this light,

My ſelfe, the hardeſt object of the ſight.

God is the glaſſe; as thou when thou doſt ſee

Him who ſees all, ſeeſt all concerning thee,

So, yet unglorified, I comprehend

All, in theſe mirrors of thy wayes, and end;

Though God be our true glaſſ, through which we ſee

All, ſince the beeing of all things is hee,

Yet are the trunkes which doe to us derive

Things, in proportion fit by perſpective,

Deeds of good men, for by their living here,

Vertues, indeed remote, ſeeme to be nere;

But where can I affirme, or where arreſt

My thoughts on his deeds? which ſhall I call beſt?

For fluid vertue cannot be look'd on,

Nor can endure a contemplation;

As bodies change, and as I do not weare

Thoſe Spirits, humors, blood I did laſt yeare,

And, as if on a ſtreame I fixe mine eye,

That drop, which I looked on, is preſently

Puſht with more waters from my ſight, and gone,

So in this ſea of vertues, can no one

Bee'inſiſted on, vertues, as rivers, paſſe,

Yet ſtill remaines that vertuous man there was;

And as if man feeds on mans fleſh, and ſo

Part of his body to another owe,

[Page] Yet at the laſt two perfect bodies riſe,

Becauſe God knowes where every Atome lyes;

So, if one knowledge were made of all thoſe,

Who knew his minutes well, hee might diſpoſe

His vertues into names, and ranks; but I

Should injure Nature, Vertue, and Deſtinie,

Should I divide and diſcontinue ſo,

Vertue, which did in one intireneſſe grow.

For as, hee that would ſay, ſpirits are fram'd

Of all the pureſt parts that can be nam'd,

Honours not ſpirits halfe ſo much, as hee

Which ſayes, they have no parts, but ſimple bee;

So is't of vertue; for a point and one

Are much entirer then a million.

And had Fate meant to have his vertues told,

It would have let him live to have beene old,

So then, that vertue in ſeaſon, and then this,

We might have ſeene, and ſaid, that now he is

Witty, now wiſe, now temperate, now juſt:

In good ſhort lives, vertues are faine to thruſt,

And to be ſure betimes to get a place,

When they would exerciſe, lacke time, and ſpace.

So was it in this perſon, forc'd to bee

For lack of time, his owne epitome.

So to exhibit in few yeares as much,

As all the long breath'd Chronicles can touch;

As when an Angell down from heav'n doth flye,

Our quick thought cannot keepe him company,

Wee cannot thinke, now hee is at the Sunne,

Now through the Moon, now he through th'aire doth run,

[Page] Yet when he's come, we know he did repaire

To all twixt Heav'n and Earth, Sunne, Moon, and Aire.

And as this Angell in an inſtant, knowes,

And yet wee know, this ſodaine knowledge growes

By quick amaſſing ſeverall formes of things,

Which he ſucceſſively to order brings;

When they, whoſe ſlow-pac'd lame thoughts cannot goe

So faſt as hee, thinke that he doth not ſo;

Juſt as a perfect reader doth not dwell,

On every ſyllable, nor ſtay to ſpell,

Yet without doubt, hee doth diſtinctly ſee

And lay together every A, and B;

So, in ſhort liv'd good men, is'not underſtood

Each ſeverall vertue, but the compound good.

For, they all vertues paths in that pace tread,

As Angells goe, and know, and as men read.

O why ſhould then theſe men, theſe lumps of Balme

Sent hither, the worlds tempeſt to becalme,

Before by deeds they are diffus'd and ſpred,

And ſo make us alive, themſelves be dead?

O Soule, O circle, why ſo quickly bee

Thy ends, thy birth and death clos'd up in thee?

Since one foot of thy compaſſe ſtill was plac'd

In heav'n, the other might ſecurely'have pac'd

In the moſt large extent, through every path,

Which the whole world, or man, the abridgment hath.

Thou knowſt, that though the tropique circles have

(Yea and thoſe ſmall ones which the Poles engrave,)

All the ſame roundneſſe, evenneſſe, and all

The endleſneſſe of the equinoctiall;

[Page] Yet, when we come to meaſure diſtances,

How here, how there, the Sunne affected is,

When he doth faintly worke, and when prevaile,

Onely great circles, then, can be our ſcale:

So, though thy circle to thy ſelfe expreſſe

All, tending to thy endleſſe happineſſe,

And wee, by our good uſe of it may trye,

Both how to live well young, and how to die,

Yet, ſince we muſt be old, and age endures

His Torrid Zone at Court, and calentures

Of hot ambitions, irrelegions ice,

Zeales agues; and hydroptique avarice,

Infirmities which need the ſcale of truth,

As well, as luſt and ignorance of youth;

Why did'ſt thou not for theſe give medicines too,

And by thy doing tell us what to doe?

Though as ſmall pocket-clocks, whoſe every wheele

Doth each miſmotion and diſtemper feele,

Whoſe hands get ſhaking palſies, and whoſe ſtring

(His ſinewes) ſlackens, and whoſe Soule, the ſpring,

Expires, or languiſhes, whoſe pulſe, the flye,

Either beates not, or beates unevenly,

Whoſe voice, the Bell, doth rattle, or grow dumbe,

Or idle, 'as men, which to their laſt houres come,

If theſe clockes be not wound, or be wound ſtill,

Or be not ſet, or ſet at every will;

So, youth is eaſieſt to deſtruction,

If then wee follow all, or follow none;

Yet, as in great clocks, which in ſteeples chime,

Plac'd to informe whole towns, to'imploy their time,

[Page] An error doth more harme, being generall,

When, ſmall clocks faults, only'on the wearer fall.

So worke the faults of age, on which the eye

Of children, ſervants, or the State relie.

Why wouldſt not thou then, which hadſt ſuch a ſoule,

A clock ſo true, as might the Sunne controule,

And daily hadſt from him, who gave it thee,

Inſtructions, ſuch as it could never be

Diſordered, ſtay here, as a generall

And great Sun-dyall, to have ſet us All?

O why wouldſt thou be any inſtrument

To this unnaturall courſe, or why conſent

To this, not miracle, but Prodigie,

That when the ebbs, longer then flowings be,

Vertue, whoſe flood did with thy youth begin,

Should ſo much faſter ebb out, then flow'in?

Though her flood was blowne in, by thy firſt breath,

All is at once ſunke in the whirle-poole death.

Which word I would not name, but that I ſee

Death, elſe a deſert, growne a Court by thee.

Now I grow ſure, that if a man would have

Good companie, his entry is a grave.

Mee thinkes all Cities, now, but Anthills bee,

Where, when the ſeverall labourers I ſee,

For children, houſe, Proviſion, taking paine,

They'are all but Ants, carrying eggs, ſtraw, and grain;

And Church-yards are our cities, unto which

The moſt repaire, that are in goodneſſe rich.

There is the beſt concourſe, and confluence,

There are the holy ſuburbs, and from thence

[Page] Begins Gods City, New Jeruſalem,

Which doth extend her utmoſt gates to them;

At that gate then Triumphant ſoule, doſt thou

Begin thy Triumph; But ſince lawes allow

That at the Triumph day, the people may,

All that they will, 'gainſt the Triumpher ſay,

Let me here uſe that freedome, and expreſſe

My griefe, though not to make thy Triumph leſſe.

By law, to Triumphs none admitted bee,

Till they as Magiſtrates get victorie,

Though then to thy force, all youthes foes did yield,

Yet till fit time had brought thee to that field,

To which thy ranke in this ſtate deſtin'd thee,

That there thy counſailes might get victorie,

And ſo in that capacitie remove,

All jealouſies, 'twixt Prince and ſubjects love,

Thou could'ſt no title, to this triumph have,

Thou didſt intrude on death, uſurp'ſt a grave.

That (though victoriouſly) thou hadſt fought as yet

But with thine owne affections, with the heate

Of youths deſires, and colds of ignorance,

But till thou ſhould'ſt ſucceſſefully advance

Thine armes'gainſt forraine enemies, which are

Both Envy, and acclamation popular,

(For, both theſe engines equally defeate,

Though by a divers Mine, thoſe which are great,)

Till then thy War was but a civill War,

For which to Triumph, none admitted are;

No more are they, who though with good ſucceſſe,

[...]n a defenſive war▪ their power expreſſe,

[Page] Before men triumph, the dominion

Muſt be enlarg'd, and not preſerv'd alone;

Why ſhould'ſt thou then, whoſe battailes were to win

Thy ſelfe, from thoſe ſtraits nature put thee in,

And to deliver up to God that ſtate,

Of which he gave thee the vicariate.

(Which is thy ſoule and body) as intire

As he, who takes endeavours, doth require,

But didſt not ſtay, t'enlarge his kingdome too,

By making others; what thou didſt, to doe;

Why ſhouldſt thou Triumph now, when Heav'n no more

Hath got, by getting thee, then t'had before?

For, Heav'n and thou, even when thou livedſt here,

Of one another in poſſeſſion were;

But this from Triumph moſt diſables thee,

That, that place which is conquered, muſt bee

Left ſafe from preſent warre, and likely doubt

Of imminent commotions to breake out.

And hath he left us ſo? or can it bee

His territory was no more then Hee?

No, we were all his charge, the Diocis

Of ev'ry exemplar man, the whole world is,

And he was joyned in commiſſion

With Tutelar Angels, ſent to every one.

But though this freedome to upbraid, and chide

Him who Triumph'd, were lawfull, it was ty'd

With this, that it might never reference have

Unto the Senate, who this triumph gave;

Men might at Pompey jeaſt, but they might not

At that authoritie, by which he got

[Page] Leave to Triumph, before, by age, he might;

So, though triumphant ſoule, I dare to write,

Mov'd with a reverentiall anger, thus,

That thou ſo earely wouldſt abandon us;

Yet I am farre from daring to diſpute

With that great ſoveraigntie, whoſe abſolute

Prerogative hath thus diſpenſ'd with thee,

'Gainſt natures lawes, which juſt impugners bee

Of early triumphs; And I (though with paine)

Leſſen our loſſe, to magnifie thy gaine

Of triumph, when I ſay, It was more fit,

That all men ſhould lacke thee, then thou lack it.

Though then in our time, be not ſuffered

That teſtimonie of love, unto the dead,

To die with them, and in their graves be hid,

As Saxon wives, and French ſoldarii did;

And though in no degree I can expreſſe,

Griefe in great Alexanders great exceſſe,

Who at his friends death, made whole townes deveſt

Their walls and bullwarks which became them beſt:

Doe not, faire ſoule, this ſacrifice refuſe,

That in thy grave I doe interre my Muſe,

Who, by my griefe, great as thy worth, being caſt

Behind hand, yet hath ſpoke, and ſpoke her laſt.

Elegie.

[Page]

AS the ſweet ſweat of Roſes in a Still,

As that which frō chaf'd muskats pores doth trill,

As the Almighty Balme of th'early Eaſt,

Such are the ſweat drops of my Miſtris breaſt.

And on her necke her skin ſuch luſtre ſets,

They ſeeme no ſweat drops, but pearle coronets.

Ranke ſweaty froth thy Miſtreſſe's brow defiles,

Like ſpermatique iſſue of ripe menſtruous boiles.

Or like the skumme, which, by needs lawleſſe law

Enforc'd, Sanſerra's ſtarved men did draw

From parboild ſhooes, and bootes, and all the reſt

Which were with any ſoveraigne fatnes bleſt,

And like vile ſtones lying in ſaffrond tinne,

Or warts, or wheales, it hangs upon her skinne.

Round as the world's her head, on every ſide,

Like to the fatall Ball which fell on Ide,

Or that whereof God had ſuch jealouſie,

As, for the raviſhing thereof we die.

Thy head is like a rough-hewne ſtatue of jeat,

Where marks for eyes, noſe, mouth, are yet ſcarce ſet;

Like the firſt Chaos, or flat ſeeming face

Of Cynthia, when th'earths ſhadowes her embrace.

Like Proſerpines white beauty-keeping cheſt,

Or Joues beſt fortunes urne, is her faire breſt.

Thine's like worme eaten trunkes, cloth'd in ſeals skin,

Or grave, that's duſt without, and ſtinke within.

And like that ſlender ſtalke, at whoſe end ſtands

[Page] The wood-bine quivering, are her armes and hands,

Like rough bark'd elmboughes, or the ruſſet skin

Of men late ſcurg'd for madnes, or for ſinne,

Like Sun-parch'd quarters on the citie gate,

Such is thy tann'd skins lamentable ſtate.

And like a bunch of ragged carrets ſtand

The ſhort ſwolne fingers of her gouty hand;

Then like the Chymicks maſculine equall fire,

Which in the Lymbecks warme wombe doth inſpire

Into th'earths worthleſſe part a ſoule of gold,

Such cheriſhing heat her beſt lov'd part doth hold.

Thine's like the dread mouth of a fired gunne,

Or like hot liquid metalls newly runne

Into clay moulds, or like to that Aetna

Where round about the graſſe is burnt away.

Are not your kiſſes then as filthy, and more,

As a worme ſucking an invenom'd ſore?

Doth not thy fearefull hand in feeling quake,

As one which gath'ring flowers, ſtill feares a ſnake?

Is not your laſt act harſh, and violent,

As where a Plough a ſtony ground doth rent?

So kiſſe good Turtles, ſo devoutly nice

Are Prieſts in handling reverent ſacrifice,

And nice in ſearching wounds the Surgeon is

As wee, when wee embrace, or touch, or kiſſe.

Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus,

She, and compariſons are odious.

Elegie.
The Autumnall.

[Page]

NO Spring, nor Summer Beauty hath ſuch grace,

As I have ſeen in one Autumnall face,

Yong Beauties force our love, and that's a Rape,

This doth but counſaile, yet you cannot ſcape.

If t'were a ſhame to love, here t'were no ſhame,

Affections here take Reverences name.

Were her firſt yeares the Golden Age; That's true,

But now they'are gold oft tried, and ever new.

That was her torrid and inflaming time,

This is her tolerable Tropique clyme.

Faire eyes, who askes more heate, then comes from hence,

He in a fever wiſhes peſtilence.

Call not theſe wrinkles, graves; If graves they were,

They were Loves graves; for elſe he is no where.

Yet lies not love dead here, but here doth ſit

Vow'd to this trench, like an Anachorit.

And here, till hers, which muſt be his death, come,

He doth not digge a Grave, but build a Tombe.

Iere dwells he, though he ſojourne ev'ry where;

In Progreſſe, yet his ſtanding houſe is here.

Iere, where ſtill Evening is; not noone, nor night;

Where no voluptuouſneſſe,, yet all delight.

In all her words, unto all hearers fit,

You may at Revels, you at counſaile, ſit.

This is loves timber, youth his under-wood;

[Page] There he, as wine in Iune, enrages blood,

Which then comes ſeaſonablieſt, when our taſt

And appetite to other things, is paſt;

Xerxes ſtrange Lydian love, the Platane tree,

Was lov'd for age, none being ſo large as ſhee,

Or elſe becauſe, being yong, nature did bleſſe

Her youth with ages glory, Barrenneſſe.

If we love things long ſought, Age is a thing

Which we are fifty yeares in compaſſing.

If tranſitory things, which ſoone decay,

Age muſt be lovelyeſt at the lateſt day.

But name not Winter-faces, whoſe skin's ſlacke;

Lanke, as an unthrifts purſe; but a ſoules ſacke;

Whoſe Eyes ſeeke light within, for all here's ſhade;

Whoſe mouthes are holes, rather worne out, then made

Whoſe every tooth to a ſeverall place is gone,

To vexe their ſoules at Reſurrection;

Name not theſe living Deaths-heads unto mee,

For theſe, not Ancient, but Antique be;

I hate extreames; yet I had rather ſtay

With Tombs, then Cradles, to weare out a day.

Since ſuch loves motion natural is, may ſtill

My love deſcend, and journey downe the hill,

Not panting after growing beauties, ſo,

I ſhall ebbe out with them, who home-ward goe.

Elegie.

[Page]

IMage of her whom I love, more then ſhe,

Whoſe faire impreſſion in my faithfull heart,

Makes mee her Medall, and makes her love mee,

As Kings do coynes, to which their ſtamps impart

The value: goe, and take my heart from hence,

Which now is growne too great and good for me:

Honours oppreſſe weake ſpirits, and our ſenſe,

Strong objects dull, the more, the leſſe wee ſee.

When you are gone, and Reaſon gone with you,

Then Fantaſie is Queene and Soule, and all;

She can preſent joyes meaner then you do;

Convenient, and more proportionall.

So, if I dreame I have you, I have you,

For, all our joyes are but fantaſticall.

And ſo I ſcape the paine, for paine is true;

And ſleepe which locks up ſenſe, doth lock out all.

After a ſuch fruition I ſhall wake,

And, but the waking, nothing ſhall repent;

And ſhall to love more thankfull Sonnets make,

Then if more honour, teares, and paines were ſpent.

But deareſt heart, and dearer image ſtay;

Alas, true joyes at beſt are dreame enough;

Though you ſtay here you paſſe too faſt away:

For even at firſt lifes Taper is a ſnuffe.

Fill'd with her love, may I be rather grown

Mad with much heart, then ideott with none.

Elegie on Prince Henry.

[Page]

LOoke to mee faith, and looke to my faith, God;

For both my centers feele this period.

Of waight one center, one of greatneſſe is;

And Reaſon is that center, Faith is this;

For into'our reaſon flow, and there do end

All, that this naturall world doth comprehend:

Quotidian things, and equidiſtant hence,

Shut in, for man, in one circumference.

But for th'enormous greatneſſes, which are

So diſproportion'd, and ſo angulare,

As is Gods eſſence, place and providence,

Where, how, when, what ſoules do, departed hence,

Theſe things (eccentrique elſe) on faith do ſtrike;

Yet neither all, nor upon all, alike.

For reaſon, put to'her beſt extenſion,

Almoſt meetes faith, and makes both centers one.

And nothing ever came ſo nere to this,

As contemplation of that Prince, wee miſſe.

For all that faith might credit mankinde could,

Reaſon ſtill ſeconded, that this prince would.

If then leaſt moving of the center, make

More, then if whole hell belch'd, the world to ſhake.

What muſt this do, centers diſtracted ſo,

That wee ſee not what to beleeve or know?

Was it not well beleev'd till now, that hee,

Whoſe reputation was an extaſie,

[Page] On neighbour States, which knew not why to wake,

Till hee diſcover'd what wayes he would take;

For whom, what Princes angled, when they tryed,

Met a Torpedo, and were ſtupified;

And others ſtudies, how he would be bent,

Was his great fathers greateſt inſtrument,

And activ'ſt ſpirit, to convey and tie

This ſoule of peace, through Chriſtianity;

Was it not well beleev'd, that hee would make

This generall peace, th'Eternall overtake,

And that his times might have ſtretch'd out ſo farre,

As to touch thoſe, of which they emblems are?

For to confirme this juſt beleefe, that now

The laſt dayes came, wee ſaw heav'n did allow,

That, but from his aſpect and exerciſe,

In peacefull times, Rumors of war did riſe.

But now this faith is hereſie: we muſt

Still ſtay, and vexe our great grand mother, Duſt.

Oh, is God prodigall? hath he ſpent his ſtore

Of plagues, on us, and onely now, when more

Would eaſe us much, doth he grudge miſery;

And will not let's enjoy our curſe; to dy.

As, for the earth throwne loweſt downe of all,

T'were an ambition to deſire to fall,

So God, in our deſire to dye, doth know

Our plot for eaſe, in being wretched ſo.

Therefore we live; though ſuch a life wee have,

As but ſo many mandrakes on his grave.

What had his growth, and generation done,

When, what we are, his putrefaction

[Page] Suſtaines in us; Earth, which griefes animate;

Nor hath our world now, other Soule then that.

And could griefe get ſo high as heav'n, that Quire,

Forgetting this their new joy, would deſire

(With griefe to ſee him) hee had ſtaid below,

To rectifie our errours, They foreknow.

Is th'other center, Reaſon, faſter then?

Where ſhould we looke for that, now we'are not men?

For if our Reaſon be'our connexion

Of cauſes, now to us there can be none.

For, as if all the ſubſtances were ſpent,

'Twere madneſſe, to enquire of accident,

So is't to looke for reaſon, hee being gone,

The onely ſubject reaſon wrought upon.

If Fate have ſuch a chaine, whoſe divers links

Induſtrious man diſcerneth, as hee thinks,

When miracle doth come, and ſo ſteale in

A new linke, man knowes not, where to begin▪

At a much deader fault muſt reaſon bee,

Death having broke off ſuch a linke as hee.

But now, for us, with buſie proofe to come,

That we'have no reaſon, would prove wee had ſome.

So would juſt lamentations: Therefore wee

May ſafelyer ſay, that we are dead, then hee.

So, if our griefs wee do not well declare,

We'have double excuſe; he'is not dead; and we are.

Yet I would not dy yet; for though I bee

Too narrow, to thinke him, as hee is hee,

(Our Soules beſt baiting, and midd-period,

In her long journey, of conſidering God)

[Page] Yet, (no diſhonour) I can reach him thus,

As he embrac'd the fires of love, with us.

Oh may I, (ſince I live) but ſee, or heare,

That ſhe-Intelligence which mov'd this ſpheare,

I pardon Fate, my life: who ere thou bee,

Which haſt the noble conſcience, thou art ſhee,

I conjure thee by all the charmes he ſpoke,

By th'oathes, which onely you two never broke,

By all the ſoules yee ſigh'd, that if you ſee

Theſe lines, you wiſh, I knew your hiſtory.

So much, as you, two mutuall heav'ns were here,

I were an Angell, ſinging what you were.

Pſalme 137.

I.

BY Euphrates flowry ſide

We did bide,

From deare Juda farre abſented,

Tearing the aire with our cryes,

And our eyes,

With their ſtreames his ſtreame augmented.

[Page]

II.

When, poore Syons dolefull ſtate,

Deſolate;

Sacked, burned, and inthrall'd,

And the Temple ſpoil'd, which wee

Ne'r ſhould ſee,

To our mirthleſſe mindes wee call'd▪

III.

Our mute harpes, untun'd, unſtrung,

Up wee hung

On greene willowes neere beſide us,

Where, we ſitting all forlorne;

Thus, in ſcorne,

Our proud ſpoylers 'gan deride us.

IV.

Come, ſad Captives, leave your moanes,

And your groanes

Under Syons ruines bury;

Tune your harps, and ſing us layes

In the praiſe

Of your God, and let's be merry,

[Page]

V.

Can, ah, can we leave our moanes?

And our groanes

Under Syons ruines bury?

Can we in this Land ſing Layes

In the praiſe

Of our God, and here be merry?

VI.

No; deare Syon, if I yet

Do forget

Thine affliction miſerable,

Let my nimble joynts become

Stiffe and numme,

To touch warbling harpe unable.

VII.

Let my tongue loſe ſinging skill,

Let it ſtill

To my parched roofe be glewed,

If in either harpe or voice

I rejoyce,

Till thy joyes ſhall be renewed

[Page]

VIII.

Lord, curſe Edom's traiterous kinde,

Beare in minde

In our ruines how they revell'd,

Sack, kill, burne, they cry'd out ſtill,

Sack, burne, kill,

Downe with all, let all be levell'd.

IX.

And, thou Babel, when the tide

Of thy pride

Now a flowing, growes to turning;

Victor now, ſhall then be thrall,

And ſhall fall

To as low an ebbe of mourning.

X.

Happy he who ſhall thee waſte,

As thou haſt

Us, without all mercy, waſted,

And ſhall make thee taſte and ſee

What poore wee

By thy meanes have ſeene and taſted.

[Page]

XI.

Happy, who, thy tender barnes

From the armes

Of their wailing mothers tearing,

'Gainſt the walls ſhall daſh their bones,

Ruthleſſe ſtones

With their braines and blood beſmearing.

Reſurrection, imperfect.

SLeep ſleep old Sun, thou canſt not have repaſt

As yet, the wound thou took'ſt on friday laſt;

Sleepe then, and reſt; The world may beare thy ſtay,

A better Sun roſe before thee to day,

Who, not content to'enlighten all that dwell

On the earths face, as thou, enlightned hell,

And made the darke fires languiſh in that vale,

As, at thy preſence here, our fires grow pale.

Whoſe body having walk'd on earth, and now

Haſting to Heaven, would, that he might allow

Himſelfe unto all ſtations, and fill all,

For theſe three daies become a minerall;

Hee was all gold when he lay downe, but roſe

All tincture, and doth not alone diſpoſe

Leaden and iron wills to good, but is

Of power to make even ſinfull fleſh like his.

Had one of thoſe, whoſe credulous pietie

Thought, that a Soule one might diſcerne and ſee▪

[Page] Goe from a body, 'at this ſepulcher been,

And, iſſuing from the ſheet, this body ſeen,

He would have juſtly thought this body a ſoule,

If, not of any man, yet of the whole.

Deſunt caetera.

An hymne to the Saints, and to Marqueſſe Hamylton.

VVHither that ſoule which now comes up to you

Fill any former ranke or make a new,

Whither it take a name nam'd there before,

Or be a name it ſelfe, and order more

Then was in heaven till now; (for may not hee

Bee ſo? if every ſeverall Angell bee

A kind alone;) What ever order grow

Greater by him in heaven, wee doe not ſo;

One of your orders growes by his acceſſe;

But, by his loſſe grow all our orders leſſe;

The name of Father, Maſter, Friend, the name

Of Subject and of Prince, in one are lame;

Faire mirth is dampt, and converſation black,

The houſehold widdow'd, and the garter ſlack;

The Chappell wants an eare, Councell a tongue;

Story, a theame; and Muſicke lacks a ſong;

Bleſt order that hath him, the loſſe of him

Gangred all Orders here; all loſt a limbe.

Never made body ſuch haſt to confeſſe

What a ſoule was; All former comelineſſe▪

[Page] Fled, in a minute, when the ſoule was gone,

And, having loſt that beauty, would have none,

So fell our Monaſteries, in one inſtant growne

Not to leſſe houſes, but, to heapes of ſtone;

So ſent this body that faire forme it wore,

Unto the ſpheare of formes, and doth (before

His ſoule ſhall fill up his ſepulchrall ſtone,)

Anticipate a Reſurrection;

For, as in his fame, now, his ſoule is here,

So, in the forme thereof his bodie's there;

And if, faire ſoule, not with firſt Innocents

Thy ſtation be, but with the Paenitents,

(And, who ſhall dare to aske then when I am

Dy'd ſcarlet in the blood of that pure Lambe,

Whether that colour, which is ſcarlet then,

Were black or white before in eyes of men?)

When thou rememb'reſt what ſins thou didſt finde

Amongſt thoſe many friends now left behinde,

And ſeeſt ſuch ſinners as they are, with thee

Got thither by repentance, Let it bee

Thy wiſh to wiſh all there, to wiſh them cleane;

Wiſh him a David, her a Magdalen.

§

[Page]

SIR,

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

Your poore friend and ſervant in Chriſt Jeſus I. D.

An Epitaph upon Shakeſpeare.

[Page]

REnowned Chaucer lie a thought more nigh

ſo rare Beaumond; and learned Beaumond lie

A little nearer Spencer, to make roome

For Shakeſpeare in your threefold fourefold tombe.

To lie all foure in one bed make a ſhift,

For, untill doomeſday hardly will a fift

Betwixt this day and that be ſlaine,

For whom your curtaines need be drawne againe;

But, if precedency of death doth barre

A fourth place in your ſacred ſepulchre,

Under this curled marble of thine owne

Sleepe rare Tragedian Shakeſpeare, ſleepe alone,

That, unto Vs and others it may bee

Honor, hereafter to be laid by thee.

Sapho to Philaenis.

[Page]

VVHere is that holy fire, which Verſe is ſaid

To have, is that inchanting force decai'd?

Verſe that drawes Natures workes, from Natures law,

Thee, her beſt worke, to her worke cannot draw.

Have my teares quench'd my old Poetique fire;

Why quench'd they not as well, that of deſire?

Thoughts, my mindes creatures, often are with thee,

But I, their maker; want their libertie.

Onely thine image, in my heart, doth ſit,

But that is waxe, and fires environ it.

My fires have driven, thine have drawne it hence;

And I am rob'd of Picture, Heart, and Senſe.

Dwells with me ſtill mine irkſome Memory,

Which, both to keepe, and loſe, grieves equally.

That tells me'how faire thou art: Thou art ſo faire,

As, gods, when gods to thee I doe compare,

Are grac'd thereby; And to make blinde men ſee,

What things gods are, I ſay they'are like to thee.

For, if we juſtly call each ſilly man

A litle world, What ſhall we call thee than?

Thou art not ſoft, and cleare, and ſtrait, and faire,

As Down, as Stars, Cedars, and Lillies are,

But thy right hand, and cheek, and eye, only

Are like thy other hand, and cheek, and eye.

Such was my Phao awhile, but ſhall be never,

As thou, wa [...]t, art, and, oh, maiſt be ever.

Here lovers ſweare in their Idolatrie,

[Page] That I am ſuch; but Griefe diſcolors me.

And yet I grieve the leſſe, leaſt Griefe remove

My beauty, and make me'unworthy of thy love.

Plaies ſome ſoft boy with thee, oh there wants yet

A mutuall feeling which ſhould ſweeten it.

His chinne, a thorny hairy unevenneſſe

Doth threaten, and ſome daily change poſſeſſe.

Thy body is a naturall Paradiſe,

In whoſe ſelfe, unmanur'd, all pleaſure lies,

Nor needs perfection; why ſhouldſt thou than

Admit the tillage of a harſh rough man?

Men leave behinde them that which their ſin ſhowes▪

And are, as theeves trac'd, which rob when it ſnows.

But of our dallyance no more ſignes there are,

Then fiſhes leave in ſtreames, or Birds in aire.

And betweene us all ſweetneſſe may be had;

All, all that Nature yields, or Art can adde.

My two lips, eyes, thighs, differ from thy two,

But ſo, as thine from one another doe;

And, oh, no more; the likeneſſe being ſuch,

Why ſhould they not alike in all parts touch?

Hand to ſtrange hand, lippe to lippe none denies;

Why ſhould they breſt to breſt, or thighs to thighs?

Likeneſſe begets ſuch ſtrange ſelfe flatterie,

That touching my ſelfe, all ſeemes done to thee.

My ſelfe I embrace, and mine owne hands I kiſſe,

And amorouſly thanke my ſelfe for this.

Me, in my glaſſe, I call thee; But alas,

When I would kiſſe, teares dimme mine eyes, and glaſſe.

O cure this loving madneſſe, and reſtore

[Page] Me to mee; ſhee, my halfe, my all, my more▪

So may thy cheekes red outweare ſcarlet dye,

And their white, whiteneſſe of the Galaxy,

So may thy mighty amazing beauty move

Envy' in all women, and in all men▪ love,

And ſo be change, and ſickneſſe, farre from thee,

As thou by comming neere, keep'ſt them from me.

The Annuntiation and Paſsion.

TAmely fraile body'abſtaine to day; to day

My ſoule eates twice, Chriſt hither and away.

She ſees him man, ſo like God made in this,

That of them both a circle embleme is,

Whoſe firſt and laſt concurre; this doubtfull day

Of feaſt or faſt, Chriſt came, and went away;

Shee ſees him nothing twice at once, who'is all;

Shee ſees a Cedar plant it ſelfe, and fall,

Her Maker put to making, and the head

Of life, at once, not yet alive, yet dead;

She ſees at once the virgin mother ſtay

Recluſ'd at home, Publique at Golgotha.

Sad and rejoyc'd ſhee's ſeen at once, and ſeen

At almoſt fiftie, and at ſcarce fifteene.

At once a Sonne is promiſ'd her, and gone,

Gabriell gives Chriſt to her, He her to John;

Not fully a mother, Shee's in Orbitie,

At once receiver and the legacie;

All this, and all betweene, this day hath ſhowne,

Th'Abridgement of Chriſts ſtory, which makes one

[Page] (As in plaine Maps, the furtheſt Weſt is Eaſt)

Of the'Angels Ave, 'and Conſummatum eſt.

How well the Church, Gods Court of faculties

Deales, in ſome times, and ſeldome joyning theſe;

As by the ſelfe-fix'd Pole wee never doe

Direct our courſe, but the next ſtarre thereto,

Which ſhowes where the'other is, and which we ſay

(Becauſe it ſtrayes not farre) doth never ſtray;

So God by his Church, neereſt to him, wee know,

And ſtand firme, if wee by her motion goe;

His Spirit, as his fiery Pillar doth

Leade, and his Church, as cloud; to one end both:

This Church, by letting thoſe daies joyne, hath ſhown

Death and conception in mankinde is one.

Or 'twas in him the ſame humility,

That he would be a man, and leave to be:

Or as creation he hath made, as God,

With the laſt judgement, but one period,

His imitating Spouſe would joyne in one

Manhoods extremes: He ſhall come, he is gone:

Or as though one blood drop, which thence did fall,

Accepted, would have ſerv'd, he yet ſhed all;

So though the leaſt of his paines, deeds, or words,

Would buſie a life, ſhe all this day affords;

This treaſure then, in groſſe, my Soule uplay,

And in my life retaile it every day.

Goodfriday, 1613. Riding Weſtward.

[Page]

LEt mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,

The intelligence that moves, devotion is,

And as the other Spheares, by being growne

Subject to forraigne motion, loſe their owne,

And being by others hurried every day,

Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:

Pleaſure or buſineſſe, ſo, our Soules admit

For their firſt mover, and are whirld by it.

Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the Weſt

This day, whē my Soules forme bends toward the Eaſt.

There I ſhould ſee a Sunne, by riſing ſet,

And by that ſetting endleſſe day beget;

But that Chriſt on this Croſſe, did riſe and fall,

Sinne had eternally benighted all.

Yet dare I'almoſt be glad, I do not ſee

That ſpectacle of too much weight for mee.

Who ſees Gods face, that is ſelfe life, muſt dye;

What a death were it then to ſee God dye?

It made his owne Lieutenant Nature ſhrinke,

It made his footſtoole crack, and the Sunne winke.

Could I behold thoſe hands which ſpan the Poles,

And tune all ſpheares at once peirc'd with thoſe holes?

Could I behold that endleſſe height which is

Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,

Humbled below us? or that blood which is

The ſeat of all our Soules, if not of his,

[Page] Made durt of duſt, or that fleſh which was worne

By God, for his apparell, rag'd, and torne?

If on theſe things I durſt not looke, durſt I

Upon his miſerable mother caſt mine eye,

Who was Gods partner here, and furniſh'd thus

Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ranſom'd us?

Though theſe things, as I ride, be from mine eye,

They'are preſent yet unto my memory,

For that looks towards them; & thou look'ſt towards mee,

O Saviour, as thou hang'ſt upon the tree;

I turne my backe to thee, but to receive

Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.

O thinke mee worth thine anger, puniſh mee,

Burne off my ruſts, and my deformity,

Reſtore thine Image, ſo much, by thy grace,

That thou may'ſt know mee, and I'll turne my face.

THE LITANIE.

[Page]

I.The FATHER.

FAther of Heaven, and him, by whom

It, and us for it, and all elſe, for us

Thou madeſt, and govern'ſt ever, come

And re-create mee, now growne ruinous:

My heart is by dejection, clay,

And by ſelfe-murder, red.

From this red earth, O Father, purge away

All vicious tinctures, that new faſhioned

I may riſe up from death, before I'am dead.

II.The SONNE.

O Sonne of God, who ſeeing two things,

Sinne, and death crept in, which were never made,

By bearing one, tryed'ſt with what ſtings

The other could thine heritage invade;

O be thou nail'd unto my heart,

And crucified againe,

Part not from it, though it from thee would part,

But let it be by applying ſo thy paine,

Drown'd in thy blood, and in thy paſſion ſlaine.

[Page]

III.The HOLY GHOST.

O Holy Ghoſt, whoſe temple I

Am, but of mudde walls, and condenſed duſt,

And being ſacrilegiouſly

Halfe waſted with youths fires, of pride and luſt,

Muſt with new ſtormes be weatherbeat;

Double in my heart thy flame,

Which let devout ſad teares intend; and let

(Though this glaſſe lanthorne, fleſh, do ſuffer maime)

Fire, Sacrifice, Prieſt, Altar be the ſame.

IV.The TRINITY.

O Bleſſed glorious Trinity,

Bones to Philoſophy, but milke to faith,

Which, as wiſe ſerpents diverſly

Moſt ſlipperineſſe, yet moſt entanglings hath,

As you diſtinguiſh'd undiſtinct

By power, love, knowledge bee,

Give mee a ſuch ſelfe different inſtinct

Of theſe let all mee elemented bee,

Of power, to love, to know, you unnumbred three.

[Page]

V.The Virgin MARY.

For that faire bleſſed Mother-maid,

Whoſe fleſh redeem'd us; That ſhe-Cherubin,

Which unlock'd Paradiſe, and made

One claime for innocence, and diſſeiz'd ſinne,

Whoſe wombe was a ſtrange heav'n, for there

God cloath'd himſelfe, and grew,

Our zealous thankes wee poure. As her deeds were

Our helpes, ſo are her prayers; nor can ſhe ſue

In vaine, who hath ſuch titles unto you.

VI.The Angels.

And ſince this life our nonage is,

And wee in Wardſhip to thine Angels be,

Native in heavens faire Palaces

Where we ſhall be but denizen'd by thee,

As th'earth conceiving by the Sunne,

Yeelds faire diverſitie,

Yet never knowes which courſe that light doth run,

So let mee ſtudy, that mine actions bee

Worthy their ſight, though blinde in how they ſee.

[Page]

VII.The Patriarches.

And let thy Patriarches Deſire

(Thoſe great Grandfathers, of thy Church, which ſaw

More in the cloud, then wee in fire,

Whom Nature clear'd more, then us grace and law,

And now in Heaven ſtill pray, that wee

May uſe our new helpes right,)

Be ſanctified, and fructifie in mee;

Let not my minde be blinder by more light

Nor Faith by Reaſon added, loſe her ſight.

VIII.The Prophets.

Thy Eagle-ſighted Prophets too,

Which were thy Churches Organs, and did ſound

That harmony, which made of two

One law, and did unite, but not confound;

Thoſe heavenly Poëts which did ſee

Thy will, and it expreſſe

In rythmique feet, in common pray for mee,

That I by them excuſe not my exceſſe

In ſeeking ſecrets, or Poëtiqueneſſe.

[Page]

IX.The Apoſtles.

And thy illuſtrious Zodiacke

Of twelve Apoſtles, which ingirt this All,

From whom whoſoever do not take

Their light, to darke deep pits, throw downe, and fall,

As through their prayers, thou'haſt let mee know

That their bookes are divine;

May they pray ſtill, and be heard, that I goe

Th'old broad way in applying; O decline

Mee, when my comment would make thy word mine.

X.The Martyrs.

And ſince thou ſo deſirouſly

Did'ſt long to die, that long before thou could'ſt,

And long ſince thou no more couldſt dye,

Thou in thy ſcatter'd myſtique body wouldſt

In Abel dye, and ever ſince

In thine, let their blood come

To begge for us, a diſcreet patience

Of death, or of worſe life: for Oh, to ſome

Not to be Martyrs, is a martyrdome.

[Page]

XI.The Confeſſors.

Therefore with thee triumpheth there

A Virgin Squadron of white Confeſſors,

Whoſe bloods betroth'd, not marryed were;

Tender'd, not taken by thoſe Raviſhers:

They know, and pray, that wee may know,

In every Chriſtian

Hourly tempeſtuous perſecutions grow,

Tentations martyr us alive; A man

Is to himſelfe a Diocleſian.

XII.The Virgins.

The cold white ſnowie Nunnery,

Which, as thy mother, their high Abbeſſe, ſent

Their bodies backe againe to thee,

As thou hadſt lent them, cleane and innocent,

Though they have not obtain'd of thee,

That or thy Church, or I,

Should keep, as they, our firſt integrity;

Divorce thou ſinne in us, or bid it die,

And call chaſt widowhead Virginitie.

[Page]

XIII.The Doctors.

Thy ſacred Academie above

Of Doctors, whoſe paines have unclaſp'd, and taught

Both bookes of life to us (for love

To know thy Scriptures tells us, we are wrought

In thy other booke) pray for us there

That what they have miſdone

Or miſ-ſaid, wee to that may not adhere,

Their zeale may be our ſinne. Lord let us runne

Meane waies, and call them ſtars, but not the Sunne.

XIV.

And whil'ſt this univerſall Quire,

That Church in triumph, this in warfare here,

Warm'd with one all-partaking fire

Of love, that none be loſt, which coſt thee deare,

Prayes ceaſleſly, 'and thou hearken too

(Since to be gratious

Our taske is treble, to pray, beare, and doe)

Heare this prayer Lord, O Lord deliver us

Frō truſting in thoſe prayers, though powr'd out thus.

[Page]

XV.

From being anxious, or ſecure,

Dead clods of ſadneſſe, or light ſquibs of mirth,

From thinking, that great courts immure

All, or no h [...]ppineſſe, or that this earth

Is only for our priſon fram'd,

Or that thou art covetous

To them whom thou loveſt, or that they are maim'd

From reaching this worlds ſweet, who ſeek thee thus,

With all their might, Good Lord deliver us.

XVI.

From needing danger, to bee good,

From owing thee yeſterdaies teares to day,

From truſting ſo much to thy blood,

That in that hope, wee wound our ſoule away,

From bribing thee with Almes, to excuſe

Some ſinne more burdenous,

From light affecting, in religion, newes,

From thinking us all ſoule, neglecting thus

Our mutuall duties, Lord deliver us.

[Page]

XVII.

From tempting Satan to tempt us,

By our connivence, or ſlack companie,

From meaſuring ill by vitious,

Neglecting to choake ſins ſpawne, Vanitie,

From indiſcreet humilitie,

Which might be ſcandalous,

And caſt reproach on Chriſtianitie,

From being ſpies, or to ſpies pervious,

From thirſt, or ſcorne of flame, deliver us.

XVIII.

Deliver us for thy deſcent

Into the Virgin, whoſe wombe was a place

Of midle kind▪ and thou being ſent

To'ungratious us, ſtaid'ſt at her full of grace,

And through thy poore birth, where firſt thou

Glorifiedſt Povertie,

And yet ſoone after riches didſt allow,

By accepting Kings gifts in the Epiphanie,

Deliver, and make us, to both waies free.

[Page]

XIX.

And though that bitter agonie,

Which is ſtill the agonie of pious wits,

Diſputing what diſtorted thee,

And interrupted evenneſſe, with fits,

And through thy free confeſſion

Though thereby they were then

Made blind, ſo that thou might'ſt from thē have gone,

Good Lord deliver us, and teach us when

Wee may not, and we may blinde unjuſt men.

XX.

Through thy ſubmitting all, to blowes

Thy face, thy clothes to ſpoile; thy fame to ſcorne,

All waies, which rage, or Juſtice knowes,

And by which thou could'ſt ſhew, that thou waſt born,

And through thy gallant humbleneſſe

Which thou in death did'ſt ſhew,

Dying before thy ſoule they could expreſſe,

Deliver us from death, by dying ſo,

To this world, ere this world doe bid us goe.

[Page]

XXI.

When ſenſes, which thy ſouldiers are,

Wee arme againſt thee, and they fight for ſinne,

When want, ſent but to tame, doth warre

And worke deſpaire a breach to enter in,

When plenty, Gods image, and ſeale

Makes us Idolatrous,

And love it, not him, whom it ſhould reveale,

When wee are mov'd to ſeeme religious

Only to vent wit, Lord deliver us.

XXII.

In Churches, when the'infirmitie

Of him which ſpeakes, diminiſhes the Word,

When Magiſtrates doe miſ-apply

To us, as we judge, lay or ghoſtly ſword,

When plague, which is thine Angell, raignes,

Or wars, thy Champions, ſwaie,

When Hereſie, thy ſecond deluge, gaines;

In th'houre of death, the'Eve of laſt judgement day,

Deliver us from the ſiniſter way.

[Page]

XXIII.

Heare us, O heare us Lord; to thee

A ſinner is more muſique, when he prayes,

Then ſpheares, or Angels praiſes bee,

In Panegyrique Allelujaes,

Heare us, for till thou heare us, Lord

We know not what to ſay.

Thine eare to'our ſighes, teares, thoughts gives voice and word.

O Thou who Satan heard'ſt in Jobs ſicke day,

Heare thy ſelfe now, for thou in us doſt pray.

XXIV.

That wee may change to evenneſſe

This intermitting aguiſh Pietie,

That ſnatching cramps of wickedneſſe

And Apoplexies of faſt ſin, may die;

That muſique of thy promiſes,

Not threats in Thunder may

Awaken us to our juſt offices,

What in thy booke, thou doſt, or creatures ſay,

That we may heare, Lord heare us, when wee pray.

[Page]

XXV.

That our eares ſickneſſe wee may cure,

And rectifie thoſe Labyrinths aright,

That wee by harkning, not procure

Our praiſe, nor others diſpraiſe ſo invite,

That wee get not a ſlipperineſſe,

And ſenſleſly decline,

From hearing bold wits jeaſt at Kings exceſſe,

To'admit the like of majeſtie divine,

That we may locke our eares, Lord open thine.

XXVI.

That living law, the Magiſtrate,

Which to give us, and make us phyſicke, doth

Our vices often aggravate,

That Preachers taxing ſinne, before her growth,

That Satan, and invenom'd men

Which well, if we ſtarve, dine,

When they doe moſt accuſe us, may ſee then

Us, to amendment, heare them; thee decline;

That we may open our eares, Lord lock thine.

[Page]

XXVII.

That learning, thine Ambaſſador,

From thine allegeance wee never tempt,

That beauty, paradiſes flower

For phyſicke made, from poyſon be exempt,

That wit, borne apt, high good to doe

By dwelling lazily

On Natures nothing, be not nothing too,

That our affections kill us not, nor dye,

Heare us, weake ecchoes, O thou eare, and cry.

XXVIII.

Sonne of God heare us, and ſince thou

By taking our blood, oweſt it us againe

Gaine to thy ſelfe, or us allow;

And let not both us and thy ſelfe be ſlaine;

O lambe of God, which took'ſt our ſinne

Which could not ſtick to thee,

O let it not returne to us againe,

But Patient and Phyſition being free,

As ſinne is nothing, let it no where be.

§

[Page]

SEnd home my long ſtrayd eyes to mee,

Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee,

Yet ſince there they have learn'd ſuch ill,

Such forc'd faſhions,

And falſe paſſions,

That they be

Made by thee

Fit for no good ſight, keep them ſtill.

Send home my harmleſſe heart againe,

Which no unworthy thought could ſtaine,

Which if it be taught by thine

To make jeſtings

Of proteſtings,

And breake both

Word and oath,

Keepe it, for then 'tis none of mine.

Yet ſend me back my heart and eyes,

That I may know, and ſee thy lyes,

And may laugh and joy, when thou

Art in anguiſh

And doſt languiſh

For ſome one

That will none,

Or prove as falſe as thou art now.

A nocturnall upon S. Lucies day, Being the ſhorteſt day.

[Page]

TIs the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes,

Lucies, who ſcarce ſeaven houres herſelf unmaskes,

The Sunne is ſpent, and now his flasks

Send forth light ſquibs, no conſtant rayes;

The worlds whole ſap is ſunke:

The generall balme th'hydroptique earth hath drunk,

Whither, as to the beds-feet life is ſhrunke,

Dead and enterr'd; yet all theſe ſeeme to laugh,

Compar'd with mee, who am their Epitaph.

Study me then, you who ſhall lovers bee

At the next world, that is, at the next Spring:

For I am every dead thing,

In whom love wrought new Alchimie.

For his art did expreſſe

A quinteſſence even from nothingneſſe,

From dull privations, and leane emptineſſe

He ruin'd mee, and I am re-begot

Of abſence, darkneſſe, death; things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,

Life, ſoule, forme, ſpirit, whence they beeing have,

I, by loves limbecke, am the grave

Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood

Have wee two wept, and ſo

[Page] Drownd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow

To be two Chaoſſes, when we did ſhow

Care to ought elſe; and often abſences

Withdrew our ſoules, and made us carcaſſes.

But I am by her death, (which word wrongs her)

Of the firſt nothing, the Elixer grown;

Were I a man, that I were one,

I needs muſt know, I ſhould preferre,

If I were any beaſt,

Some ends, ſome means; Yea plants, yea ſtones deteſt,

And love, all, all ſome properties inveſt,

If I an ordinary nothing were,

As ſhadow, a light, and body muſt be here.

But I am None; nor will my Sunne renew.

You lovers, for whoſe ſake, the leſſer Sunne

At this time to the Goat is runne

To fetch new luſt, and give it you,

Enjoy your ſummer all,

Since ſhee enjoyes her long nights feſtivall,

Let mee prepare towards her, and let mee call

This houre her Vigill, and her eve, ſince this

Both the yeares, and the dayes deep midnight is.

Witchcraft by a picture.

[Page]

I Fixe mine eye on thine, and there

Pitty my picture burning in thine eye,

My picture drown'd in a tranſparent teare,

When I looke lower I eſpie,

Hadſt thou the wicked skill

By pictures made and mard, to kill?

How many wayes mightſt thou performe thy will?

But now I have drunke thy ſweet ſalt teares,

And though thou poure more I'll depart;

My picture vaniſh'd, vaniſh feares,

That I can be endamag'd by that art;

Though thou retaine of mee

One picture more, yet that will bee,

Being in thine owne heart, from all malice free.

§

[Page]

COme live with mee, and bee my love,

And wee will ſome new pleaſures prove

Of golden ſands, and chriſtall brookes:

With ſilken lines, and ſilver hookes.

There will the river whiſpering runne

Warm'd by thy eyes, more then the Sunne.

And there the'inamor'd fiſh will ſtay,

Begging themſelves they may betray.

When thou wilt ſwimme in that live bath,

Each fiſh, which every channell hath,

Will amorouſly to thee ſwimme,

Gladder to catch thee, then thou him.

If thou, to be ſo ſeene, beeſt loath,

By Sunne, or Moone, thou darkneſt both,

And if my ſelfe have leave to ſee,

I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,

And cut their legges, which ſhells and weeds,

Or treacherouſly poore fiſh beſet,

With ſtrangling ſnare, or windowie net:

Let coarſe bold hands, from ſlimy neſt

The bedded fiſh in banks out-wreſt,

Or curious traitors, ſleaveſicke flies

Bewitch poore fiſhes wandring eyes.

[Page]

For thee, thou needſt no ſuch deceit,

For thou thy ſelfe art thine owne bait,

That fiſh, that is not catch'd thereby,

Alas, is wiſer farre then I.

The Apparition.

WHen by thy ſcorne, O murdreſſe, I am dead,

And that thou thinkſt thee free

From all ſolicitation from mee,

Then ſhall my ghoſt come to thy bed,

And thee fain'd veſtall in worſe armes ſhall ſee;

Then thy ſicke taper will begin to winke,

And he, whoſe thou art then, being tyr'd before,

Will, if thou ſtirre, or pinch to wake him, thinke

Thou call'ſt for more,

And in falſe ſleepe will from thee ſhrinke,

And then poore Aſpen wretch, neglected thou

Bath'd in a cold quickſilver ſweat wilt lye

A veryer ghoſt then I;

What I will ſay, I will not tell thee now,

Leſt that preſerve thee'; and ſince my love is ſpent,

I'had rather thou ſhouldſt painfully repent,

Then by my threatnings reſt ſtill innocent.

§

[...]

[Page] Dull ſublunary lovers love

(Whoſe ſoule is ſenſe) cannot admit

Abſence, becauſe it doth remove

Thoſe things which elemented it.

But we by a love, ſo much refin'd,

That our ſelves know not what it is,

Inter-aſſured of the mind,

Care leſſe, eyes, lips, hands to miſſe.

Our two ſoules therefore, which are one,

Though I muſt goe, endure not yet

A breach, but an expanſion,

Like gold to ayery thinneſſe beate.

If they be two, they are two ſo

As ſtiffe twin compaſſes are two,

Thy ſoule the fixt foot, makes no ſhow

To move, but doth, if the'other doe.

And though it in the center ſit,

Yet when the other far doth rome,

It leanes, and hearkens after it,

And growes erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to mee, who muſt

Like th'other foot, obliquely runne.

Thy firmnes makes my circle juſt,

And makes me end, where I begunne.

The good-morrow.

[Page]

I Wonder by my troth, what thou, and I

Did, till we lov'd, were we not wean'd till then?

But ſuck'd on countrey pleaſures; childiſhly?

Or ſnorted we in the ſeaven ſleepers den?

T'was ſo; But this, all pleaſures fancies bee.

If ever any beauty I did ſee,

Which I deſir'd, and got, t'was but a dreame of thee.

And now good morrow to our waking ſoules,

Which watch not one another out of feare;

For love, all love of other ſights controules,

And makes one little roome, an every where.

Let ſea-diſcoverers to new worlds have gone,

Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have ſhowne,

Let us poſſeſſe one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares,

And true plaine hearts doe in the faces reſt,

Where can we finde two better hemiſpheares

Without ſharpe North, without declining Weſt?

What ever dyes, was not mixt equally;

If our two loves be one, or, thou and I

Love ſo alike, that none doe ſlacken, none can die.

Song.

[Page]

Goe, and catche a falling ſtarre,

Get with child a mandrake roote,

Tell me, where all paſt yeares are,

Or who cleft the Divels foot,

Teach me to heare Mermaides ſinging,

Or to keep off envies ſtinging,

And finde

What winde

Serves to advance an honeſt minde.

If thou beeſt borne to ſtrange ſights,

Things inviſible to ſee,

Ride ten thouſand daies and nights,

Till age ſnow white haires on thee,

Thou, when thou retorn'ſt, wilt tell mee

All ſtrange wonders that befell thee,

And ſweare

No where

Lives a woman true, and faire.

[Page]

If thou findſt one, let mee know,

Such a Pilgrimage were ſweet,

Yet doe not, I would not goe,

Though at next doore wee might meet,

Though ſhee were true, when you met her,

And laſt, till you write your letter,

Yet ſhee

Will bee

Falſe, ere I come, to two, or three.

Womans conſtancy.

NOw thou haſt lov'd me one whole day,

To morrow when thou leav'ſt, what wilt thou ſay?

Wilt thou then Antedate ſome new made vow?

Or ſay that now

We are not juſt thoſe perſons, which we were?

Or, that oathes made in reverentiall feare

Of Love, and his wrath, any may forſweare?

Or, as true deaths, true maryages untie,

So lovers contracts, images of thoſe,

Binde but till ſleep, deaths image, them unlooſe?

Or, your owne end to Juſtifie,

For having purpoſ'd change, and falſehood; you

Can have no way but falſehood to be true?

Vaine lunatique, againſt theſe ſcapes I could

[Page] Diſpute, and conquer, if I would,

Which I abſtaine to doe,

For by to morrow, I may thinke ſo too.

§

I Have done one braver thing

Then all the worthies did,

And yet a braver thence doth ſpring,

Which is, to keepe that hid.

It were but madnes now t'impart

The skill of ſpecular ſtone,

When he which can have learn'd the art,

To cut it can finde none.

So, if I now ſhould utter this,

Others (becauſe no more

Such ſtuffe to worke upon, there is,)

Would love but as before.

But he who lovelineſſe within

Hath found, all outward loathes,

For he who colour loves, and skinne,

Loves but their oldeſt clothes.

If, as I have, you alſo doe

Vertue' attir'd in woman ſee,

And dare love that, and ſay ſo too,

And forget the Hee and Shee;

And if this love, though placed ſo,

From prophane men you hide,

Which will no faith on this beſtow,

Or, if they doe, deride:

[Page] Then you have done a braver thing

Then all the Worthies did.

And a braver thence will ſpring.

Which is, to keepe that hid.

The Sunne Riſing.

BUſie old foole, unruly Sunne,

Why doſt thou thus,

Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us?

Muſt to thy motions lovers ſeaſons run?

Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide

Late ſchoole boyes, and ſowre prentices,

Goe tell Court-huntſmen, that the King will ride,

Call countrey ants to harveſt offices,

Love, all alike, no ſeaſon knowes, nor clyme,

Nor houres, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time.

Thy beames, ſo reverend, and ſtrong

Why ſhouldſt thou thinke?

I could eclipſe and cloud them with a winke,

But that I would not loſe her ſight ſo long:

If her eyes have not blinded thine,

Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee,

Whether both the'India's of ſpice and Myne

Be where thou leftſt them, or lie here with mee.

Aske for thoſe Kings whom thou ſaw'ſt yeſterday,

And thou ſhalt heare, All here in one bed lay.

[Page]

She'is all States, and all Princes, I,

Nothing elſe is.

Princes doe but play us, compar'd to this,

All honor's mimique; All wealth alchimie;

Thou ſunne art halfe as happy'as wee,

In that the world's contracted thus.

Thine age aſkes eaſe, and ſince thy duties bee

To warme the world, that's done in warming us.

Shine here to us, and thou art every where;

This bed thy center is, theſe walls, thy ſpheare.

The Indifferent.

I Can love both faire and browne,

Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betraies,

Her who loves loneneſſe beſt, and her who maskes and plaies,

Her whō the country form'd, & whō the town,

Her who beleeves, and her who tries,

Her who ſtill weepes with ſpungie eyes,

And her who is dry corke, and never cries;

I can love her, and her, and you and you,

I can love any, ſo ſhe be not true.

Will no other vice content you?

Wil it not ſerve your turn to do, as did your mothers?

Or have you all old vices ſpent, and now would finde out others?

Or doth a feare, that men are true, torment you?

Oh we are not, be not you ſo,

Let mee, and doe you, twenty know.

[Page] Rob mee, but binde me not, and let me goe.

Muſt I, who came to travaile thorow you,

Grow your fixt ſubject, becauſe you are true?

Venus heard me ſigh this ſong,

And by Loves ſweeteſt Part, Variety, ſhe ſwore,

She heard not this till now; and that it ſhould be ſo no more,

She went, examin'd, and return'd ere long,

And ſaid, alas, Some two or three

Poore Heretiques in love there bee,

Which thinke to ſtabliſh dangerous conſtancie.

But I have told them, ſince you will be true,

You ſhall be true to them, who'are falſe to you.

Loves Vſury.

FOr every houre that thou wilt ſpare mee now,

I will allow,

Uſurious God of Love, twenty to thee,

When with my browne, my gray haires equall bee;

Till then, Love, let my body raigne, and let

Mee travell, ſojourne, ſnatch, plot, have, forget,

Reſume my laſt yeares relict: thinke that yet

We'had never met.

[Page]

Let mee thinke any rivalls letter mine,

And at next nine

Keepe midnights promiſe; miſtake by the way

The maid, and tell the Lady of that delay;

Onely let mee love none, no, not the ſport

From country graſſe, to comfitures of Court,

Or cities quelque choſes, let report

My minde tranſport.

This bargaine's good; if when I'am old, I bee

Inflam'd by thee,

If thine owne honour, or my ſhame, or paine,

Thou cover moſt, at that age thou ſhalt gaine,

Doe thy will then, then ſubject and degree,

And fruit of love, Love I ſubmit to thee,

Spare mee till then, I'll beare it, though ſhe bee

One that loves mee.

The Canonization.

FOr Godſake hold your tongue, and let me love,

Or chide my palſie, or my gout,

My five gray haires, or ruin'd fortune flout,

With wealth your ſtate, your minde with Arts improve

Take you a courſe, get you a place,

Obſerve his honour, or his grace,

Or the Kings reall, or his ſtamped face

Contemplate, what you will, approve,

So you will let me love.

[Page]

Alas, alas, who's injur'd by my love?

What merchants ſhips have my ſighs drown'd?

Who ſaies my teares have overflow'd his ground?

When did my colds a forward ſpring remove?

When did the heats which my veines fill

Adde one more, to the plaguie Bill?

Soldiers finde warres, and Lawyers finde out ſtill

Litigious men, which quarrels move,

Though ſhe and I do love.

Call us what you will, wee are made ſuch by love;

Call her one, mee another flye,

We'are Tapers too, and at our owne coſt die,

And wee in us finde the'Eagle and the dove,

The Phoenix ridle hath more wit

By us, we two being one, are it.

So, to one neutrall thing both ſexes fit.

Wee dye and riſe the ſame, and prove

Myſterious by this love.

Wee can dye by it, if not live by love,

And if unfit for tombes and hearſe

Our legends bee, it will be fit for verſe;

And if no peece of Chronicle wee prove,

We'll build in ſonnets pretty roomes;

As well a well wrought urne becomes

The greateſt aſhes, as halfe-acre tombes,

And by theſe hymnes, all ſhall approve

Us Canoniz'd for Love.

[Page]

And thus invoke us; You whom reverend love

Made one anothers hermitage;

You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage,

Who did the whole worlds ſoule contract, & drove

Into the glaſſes of your eyes

So made ſuch mirrors, and ſuch ſpies,

That they did all to you epitomize,

Countries, Townes, Courts: Beg frow above

A patterne of our love.

The triple Foole.

I am two fooles, I know,

For loving, and for ſaying ſo

In whining Poëtry;

But where's that wiſe man, that would not be I,

If ſhe would not deny?

Then as th'earths inward narrow crooked lanes

Do purge ſea waters fretfull ſalt away,

I thought, if I could draw my paines,

Through Rimes vexation, I ſhould them allay,

Griefe brought to numbers cannot be ſo fierce,

For, he tames it, that fetters it in verſe.

But when I have done ſo,

Some man, his art and voice to ſhow,

Doth Set and ſing my paine,

And, by delighting many, frees againe

[Page] Griefe, which verſe did reſtraine.

To Love, and Griefe tribute of Verſe belongs,

But not of ſuch as pleaſes when'tis read,

Both are increaſed by ſuch ſongs:

For both their triumphs ſo are publiſhed,

And I, which was two fooles, do ſo grow three;

Who are a little wiſe, the beſt fooles bee.

Lovers infiniteneſſe.

IF yet I have not all thy love,

Deare, I ſhall never have it all,

I cannot breath one other ſigh, to move;

Nor can intreat one other teare to fall.

And all my treaſure, which ſhould purchaſe thee,

Sighs, teares and oathes, and letters I have ſpent,

Yet no more can be due to mee,

Then at the bargaine made was ment,

If then thy gift of love were partiall,

That ſome to mee, ſome ſhould to others fall,

Deare, I ſhall never have Thee All.

Or if then thou gaveſt mee all,

All was but All, which thou hadſt then,

But if in thy heart, ſince, there be or ſhall,

New love created bee, by other men,

Which have their ſtocks intire, and can in teares,

In ſighs, in oathes, and letters outbid mee,

[Page] This new love may beget new feares,

For, this love was not vowed by thee,

And yet is was, thy gift being generall,

The ground, thy heart is mine, what ever ſhall

Grow there, deare, I ſhould have it all.

Yet I would not have all yet,

Hee that hath all can have no more,

And ſince my love doth every day admit

New growth, thou ſhouldſt have new rewards in ſtore,

Thou canſt not every day give me thy heart,

If thou canſt give it, then thou never gaveſt it:

Loves riddles are, that though thy heart depart,

It ſtayes at home, and thou with loſing ſaveſt it:

But wee will have a way more liberall,

Then changing hearts, to joyne them, ſo wee ſhall

Be one, and one anothers All.

Song.

SWeeteſt love, I do not goe,

For wearineſſe of thee,

Nor in hope the world can ſhow

A fitter Love for mee,

But ſince that I

Muſt dye at laſt, 'tis beſt,

To uſe my ſelfe in jeſt

Thus by fain'd deaths to dye;

[Page]

Yeſternight the Sunne went hence,

And yet is here to day,

He hath no deſire nor ſenſe,

Nor halfe ſo ſhort a way:

Then feare not mee,

But beleeve that I ſhall make

Speedier journeyes, ſince I take

More wings and ſpurres then hee.

O how feeble is mans power,

That if good fortune fall,

Cannot adde another houre,

Nor a loſt houre recall?

But come bad chance,

And wee joyne to'it our ſtrength,

And wee teach it art and length,

It ſelfe o'r us to'advance.

When thou ſigh'ſt, thou ſigh'ſt not winde,

But ſigh'ſt my ſoule away,

When thou weep'ſt, unkindly kinde,

My lifes blood doth decay.

It cannot bee

That thou lov'ſt mee, as thou ſay'ſt,

If in thine my life thou waſte,

Thou art the beſt of mee.

Let not thy divining heart

Forethinke me any ill,

Deſtiny may take thy part,

[Page] And may thy feares fulfill,

But thinke that wee

Are but turn'd aſide to ſleepe;

They who one another keepe

Alive, ne'r parted bee.

The Legacie.

VVHen I dyed laſt, and, Deare, I dye

As often as from thee I goe,

Though it be▪ but an houre agoe,

And Lovers houres be full eternity,

I can remember yet, that I

Something did ſay, and ſomething did beſtow;

Though I be dead, which ſent mee, I ſhould be

Mine owne executor and Legacie.

I heard mee ſay, Tell her anon,

That my ſelfe, that's you, not I,

Did kill me, and when I felt mee dye,

I bid mee ſend my heart, when I was gone,

But I alas could there finde none,

When I had ripp'd me, 'and ſearch'd where hearts did lye,

It kill'd mee againe, that I who ſtill was true,

In life, in my laſt Will ſhould cozen you.

[Page]

Yet I found ſomething like a heart,

But colours it, and corners had,

It was not good, it was not bad,

It was intire to none, and few had part.

As good as could be made by art

It ſeem'd, and therefore for our loſſes ſad,

I meant to ſend this heart in ſtead of mine,

But oh, no man could hold it, for twas thine.

A Feaver.

OH doe not die, for I ſhall hate

All women ſo, when thou art gone,

That thee I ſhall not celebrate,

When I remember, thou waſt one.

But yet thou canſt not die, I know,

To leave this world behinde, is death,

But when thou from this world wilt goe,

The whole world vapors with thy breath.

Or if, when thou, the worlds ſoule, goeſt,

It ſtay, tis but thy carkaſſe then,

The faireſt woman, but thy ghoſt,

But corrupt wormes, the worthyeſt men.

[Page]

O wrangling ſchooles, that ſearch what fire

Shall burne this world, had none the wit

Unto this knowledge to aſpire,

That this her feaver might be it?

And yet ſhe cannot waſt by this,

Nor long beare this torturing wrong,

For much corruption needfull is

To fuell ſuch a feaver long.

Theſe burning fits but meteors bee,

Whoſe matter in thee is ſoone ſpent.

Thy beauty, 'and all parts, which are thee,

Are unchangeable firmament.

Yet t'was of my minde, ſeiſing thee,

Though it in thee cannot perſever.

For I had rather owner bee

Of thee one houre, then all elſe ever.

Aire and Angels.

[Page]

Twice or thrice had I loved thee,

Before I knew thy face or name;

So in a voice, ſo in a ſhapeleſſe flame,

Angells affect us oft, and worſhip'd bee,

Still when, to where thou wert, I came

Some lovely glorious nothing I did ſee,

But ſince, my ſoule, whoſe child love is,

Takes limmes of fleſh, and elſe could nothing doe,

More ſubtile then the parent is,

Love muſt not be, but take a body too,

And therefore what thou wert, and who

I bid Love aske, and now

That it aſſume thy body, I allow,

And fixe it ſelfe in thy lip, eye, and brow.

Whilſt thus to ballaſt love, I thought,

And ſo more ſteddily to have gone,

With wares which would ſinke admiration,

I ſaw, I had loves pinnace overfraught,

Ev'ry thy haire for love to worke upon

Is much too much, ſome fitter muſt be ſought;

For, nor in nothing, nor in things

Extreme, and ſcattring bright, can love inhere;

Then as an Angell, face, and wings

Of aire, not pure as it, yet pure doth weare,

So thy love may be my loves ſpheare;

Juſt ſuch diſparitie

[Page] As is twixt Aire and Angells puritie,

'Twixt womens love, and mens will ever bee.

Breake of day.

'TIs true, 'tis day, what though it be?

O wilt thou therefore riſe from me?

Why ſhould we riſe, becauſe 'tis light?

Did we lie downe, becauſe 'twas night?

Love which in ſpight of darkneſſe brought us hether,

Should in deſpight of light keepe us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;

If it could ſpeake as well as ſpie,

This were the worſt, that it could ſay,

That being well, I faine would ſtay,

And that I lov'd my heart and honor ſo,

That I would not from him, that had them, goe.

Muſt buſineſſe thee from hence remove?

Oh, that's the worſt diſeaſe of love,

The poore, the foule, the falſe, love can

Admit, but not the buſied man.

He which hath buſineſſe, and makes love, doth doe

Such wrong, as when a maryed man doth wooe.

The Anniverſarie.

[Page]

ALL Kings, and all their favorites,

All glory of honors, beauties, wits,

The Sun it ſelfe, which makes times, as they paſſe,

Is elder by a yeare, now, then it was

When thou and I firſt one another ſaw:

All other things, to their deſtruction draw,

Only our love hath no decay;

This, no to morrow hath, nor yeſterday,

Running it never runs from us away,

But truly keepes his firſt, laſt, everlaſting day.

Two graves muſt hide thine and my coarſe,

If one might, death were no divorce,

Alas, as well as other Princes, wee,

(Who Prince enough in one another bee,)

Muſt leave at laſt in death, theſe eyes, and eares,

Oft fed with true oathes, and with ſweet ſalt teares;

But ſoules where nothing dwells but love;

(All other thoughts being inmates) then ſhall prove

This, or a love increaſed there above,

When bodies to their graves, ſoules from their graves remove.

And then wee ſhall be throughly bleſt,

But now no more, then all the reſt.

Here upon earth, we'are Kings, and none but wee

Can be ſuch Kings, nor of ſuch ſubjects bee;

Who is ſo ſafe as wee? where none can doe

[Page] Treaſon to us, except one of us two.

True and falſe feares let us refraine,

Let us love nobly, and live, and adde againe

Yeares and yeares unto yeares, till we attaine

To write threeſcore, this is the ſecond of our raigne.

A Valediction of my name, in the window.

I.

MY name engrav'd herein,

Doth contribute my firmneſſe to this glaſſe,

Which, ever ſince that charme, hath beene

As hard, as that which grav'd it, was,

Thine eye will give it price enough, to mock

The diamonds of either rock.

II.

'Tis much that Glaſſe ſhould bee

As all confeſſing, and through-ſhine as I,

'Tis more, that it ſhewes thee to thee,

And cleare reflects thee to thine eye.

But all ſuch rules, loves magique can undoe,

Here you ſee mee, and I am you.

[Page]

III.

As no one point, nor daſh,

Which are but acceſſaries to this name,

The ſhowers and tempeſts can outwaſh,

So ſhall all times finde mee the ſame;

You this intireneſſe better may fulfill,

Who have the patterne with you ſtill.

IIII.

Or if too hard and deepe

This learning be, for a ſcratch'd name to teach,

It, as a given deaths head keepe,

Lovers mortalitie to preach,

Or thinke this ragged bony name to bee

My ruinous Anatomie.

V.

Then, as all my ſoules bee,

Emparadiſ'd in you, (in whom alone

I underſtand, and grow and ſee,)

The rafters of my body, bone

Being ſtill with you, the Muſcle, Sinew, and Veine,

Which tile this houſe, will come againe.

[Page]

VI.

Till my returne, repaire

And recompact my ſcattered body ſo.

As all the vertuous powers which are

Fix'd in the ſtarres, are ſaid to flow,

Into ſuch characters, as graved bee

When theſe ſtarres have ſupremacie:

VII.

So ſince this name was cut

When love and griefe their exaltation had,

No doore'gainſt this names influence ſhut,

As much more loving, as more ſad,

'Twill make thee; and thou ſhouldſt, till I returne,

Since I die daily, daily mourne.

VIII.

When thy inconſiderate hand

Flings ope this caſement, with my trembling name,

To looke on one, whoſe wit or land,

New battry to thy heart may frame,

Then thinke this name alive, and that thou thus

In it offendſt my Genius.

[Page]

IX.

And when thy melted maid,

Corrupted by thy Lover's gold, and page,

His letter at thy pillow'hath laid,

Diſputed it, and tam'd thy rage,

And thou begin'ſt to thaw towards him, for this,

May my name ſtep in, and hide his.

X.

And if this treaſon goe

To an overt act, and that thou write againe;

In ſuperſcribing, this name flow

Into thy fancy, from the pane.

So, in forgetting thou remembreſt right,

And unaware to mee ſhalt write.

XI.

But glaſſe, and lines muſt bee,

No meanes our firme ſubſtantiall love to keepe;

Neere death inflicts this lethargie,

And this I murmure in my ſleepe;

Impute this idle talke, to that I goe,

For dying men talke often ſo.

Twicknam garden.

[Page]

BLaſted with ſighs, and ſurrounded with teares,

Hither I come to ſeeke the ſpring,

And at mine eyes, and at mine eares,

Receive ſuch balmes, as elſe cure every thing,

But O, ſelfe traytor, I do bring

The ſpider love, which tranſubſtantiates all,

And can convert Manna to gall,

And that this place may thoroughly be thought

True Paradiſe, I have the ſerpent brought.

'Twere wholſomer for mee, that winter did

Benight the glory of this place,

And that a grave froſt did forbid

Theſe trees to laugh and mocke mee to my face;

But that I may not this diſgrace

Indure, nor yet leave loving, Love let mee

Some ſenſleſſe peece of this place bee;

Make me a mandrake, ſo I may grow here,

Or a ſtone fountaine weeping out my yeare.

Hither with chriſtall vyals, lovers come,

And take my teares, which are loves wine,

And try your miſtreſſe Teares at home,

For all are falſe, that taſt not juſt like mine;

Alas▪ hearts do not in eyes ſhine,

Nor can you more judge womens thoughts by teares,

[Page] Then by her ſhadow, what ſhe weares.

O perverſe ſexe, where none is true but ſhee,

Who's therefore true, becauſe her truth kills mee.

Valediction to his booke.

I'Ll tell thee now (deare Love) what thou ſhalt doe

To anger deſtiny, as ſhe doth us,

How I ſhall ſtay, though ſhe Eſloygne me thus

And how poſterity ſhall know it too;

How thine may out-endure

Sybills glory, and obſcure

Her who from Pindar could allure,

And her, through whoſe helpe Lucan is not lame,

And her, whoſe booke (they ſay) Homer did finde, and name.

Study our manuſcripts, thoſe Myriades

Of letters, which have paſt twixt thee and mee,

Thence write our Annals, and in them will bee

To all whom loves ſubliming fire invades,

Rule and example found;

There, the faith of any ground

No ſchiſmatique will dare to wound,

That ſees, how Love this grace to us affords,

To make, to keep, to uſe, to be theſe his Records.

[Page]

This Booke, as long-liv'd as the elements,

Or as the worlds forme, this all-graved tome

In cypher writ, or new made Idiome;

Wee for loves clergie only'are inſtruments,

When this booke is made thus,

Should againe the ravenous

Vandals and the Goths invade us,

Learning were ſafe; in this our Univerſe

Schooles might learne Sciences, Spheares Muſick, Angels Verſe,

Here Loves Divines, (ſince all Divinity

Is love or wonder) may finde all they ſeeke,

Whether abſtract ſpirituall love they like,

Their Soules exhal'd with what they do not ſee,

Or loth ſo to amuze,

Faiths infirmitie, they chuſe

Something which they may ſee and uſe;

For, though minde be the heaven, where love doth ſit,

Beauty a convenient type may be to figure it.

Here more then in their bookes may Lawyers finde,

Both by what titles, Miſtreſſes are ours,

And how prerogative theſe ſtates devours,

Transferr'd from Love himſelfe, to womankinde.

Who though from heart, and eyes,

They exact great ſubſidies,

Forſake him who on them relies

And for the cauſe, honour, or conſcience give,

Chimeraes, vaine as they, or their prerogative.

[Page]

Here Stateſmen, (or of them, they which can reade,)

May of their occupation finde the grounds,

Love and their art alike it deadly wounds,

If to conſider what 'tis, one proceed,

In both they doe excell

Who the preſent governe well,

Whoſe weakneſſe none doth, or dares tell;

In this thy booke, ſuch will there ſomething ſee,

As in the Bible ſome can finde out Alchimy.

Thus vent thy thoughts; abroad I'll ſtudie thee,

As he removes farre off, that great heights takes;

How great love is, preſence beſt tryall makes,

But abſence tryes how long this love will bee;

To take a latitude

Sun, or ſtarres, are fitlieſt view'd

At their brighteſt, but to conclude

Of longitudes, what other way have wee,

But to marke when, and where the darke eclipſes bee?

§

[Page]

GOod wee muſt love, and muſt hate ill,

For ill is ill, and good good ſtill,

But theſe are things indifferent,

Which wee may neither hate, nor love,

But one, and then another prove,

As wee ſhall finde our fancy bent.

If then at firſt wiſe Nature had,

Made women either good or bad,

Then ſome wee might hate, and ſome chuſe,

But ſince ſhee did them ſo create,

That we may neither love, nor hate,

Onely this reſt, All, all may uſe.

If they were good it would be ſeene,

Good is as viſible as greene,

And to all eyes it ſelfe betrayes,

If they were bad, they could not laſt,

Bad doth it ſelfe, and others waſt,

So, they deſerve nor blame, nor praiſe.

But they are ours as fruits are ours,

He that but taſts, he that devours,

And he that leaves all, doth as well,

Chang'd loves are but chang'd ſorts of meat,

And when hee hath the kernell eate,

Who doth not fling away the ſhell?

Loves growth.

[Page]

I Scarce beleeve my love to be ſo pure

As I had thought it was,

Becauſe it doth endure

Viciſſitude, and ſeaſon, as the graſſe;

Me thinkes I lyed all winter, when I ſwore,

My love was infinite, if ſpring make'it more.

But if this medicine, love, which cures all ſorrow

With more, not onely bee no quinteſſence,

But mixt of all ſtuffes, paining ſoule, or ſenſe,

And of the Sunne his working vigour borrow,

Love's not ſo pure, and abſtract, as they uſe

To ſay, which have no Miſtreſſe but their Muſe,

But as all elſe, being elemented too,

Love ſometimes would contemplate, ſometimes do

And yet no greater, but more eminent,

Love by the ſpring is growne;

As, in the firmament,

Starres by the Sunne are not inlarg'd, but ſhowne,

Gentle love deeds, as bloſſomes on a bough,

From loves awakened root do bud out now.

If, as in water ſtir'd more circles bee

Produc'd by one, love ſuch additions take,

Thoſe like ſo many ſpheares, but one heaven make,

For, they are all concentrique unto thee,

[Page] And though each ſpring doe adde to love new heate,

As princes doe in times of action get

New taxes, and remit them not in peace,

No winter ſhall abate the ſprings encreaſe.

Loves exchange.

LOve, any devill elſe but you,

Would for a given Soule give ſomething too.

At Court your fellowes every day,

Give th'art of Riming, Huntſmanſhip, or play,

For them which were their owne before;

Onely I have nothing which gave more,

But am, alas, by being lowly, lower.

I aske no diſpenſation now

To falſifie a teare, or ſigh, or vow,

I do not ſue from thee to draw

A non obſtante on natures law,

Theſe are prerogatives, they inhere

In thee and thine; none ſhould forſweare

Except that hee Loves minion were.

Give mee thy weakneſſe, make mee blinde,

Both wayes, as thou and thine, in eies and minde;

Love, let me never know that this

Is love, or, that love childiſh is.

[Page] Let me not know that others know

That ſhe knowes my paines, leaſt that ſo

A tender ſhame make me mine owne new woe.

If thou give nothing, yet thou'art juſt,

Becauſe I would not thy firſt motions truſt;

Small townes which ſtand ſtiffe, till great ſhot

Enforce them, by warres law condition not.

Such in loves warfare is my caſe,

I may not article for grace,

Having put love at laſt to ſhew this face.

This face, by which he could commnd

And change the Idolatrie of any land,

This face, which whereſoe'r it comes,

Can call vow'd men from cloiſters, dead from tombes,

And melt both Poles at once, and ſtore

Deſerts with cities, and make more

Mynes in the earth, then Quarries were before.

For, this love is enrag'd with mee,

Yet kills not; if I muſt example bee

To future Rebells; If th'unborne

Muſt learne, by my being cut up, and torne:

Kill, and diſſect me, Love; for this

Torture againſt thine owne end is,

Rack't carcaſſes make ill Anatomies.

§

[Page]

SOme man unworthy to be poſſeſſor

Of old or new love, himſelfe being falſe or weake,

Thought his paine and ſhame would be leſſer,

If on womankind he might his anger wreake,

And thence a law did grow,

One might but one man know;

But are other creatures ſo?

Are Sunne, Moone, or Starres by law forbidden,

To ſmile where they liſt, or lend away their light?

Are birds divorc'd, or are they chidden

If they leave their mate, or lie abroad a night?

Beaſts doe no joyntures loſe

Though they new lovers chooſe,

But we are made worſe then thoſe.

Who e'r rigg'd faire ſhip to lie in harbors,

And not to ſeeke new lands, or not to deale withall?

Or built faire houſes, ſet trees, and arbors,

Only to lock up, or elſe to let them fall?

Good is not good, unleſſe

A thouſand it poſſeſſe,

But doth waſt with greedineſſe.

The Dreame.

[Page]

DEare love, for nothing leſſe then thee

Would I have broke this happy dreame,

It was a theame

For reaſon, much too ſtrong for phantaſie,

Therefore thou wakd'ſt me wiſely; yet

My Dreame thou brok'ſt not, but continued'ſt it,

Thou art ſo truth, that thoughts of thee ſuffice,

To make dreames truths; and fables hiſtories;

Enter theſe armes, for ſince thou thoughtſt it beſt,

Not to dreame all my dreame, let's act the reſt.

As lightning, or a Tapers light,

Thine eyes, and not thy noiſe wak'd mee;

Yet I thought thee

(For thou loveſt truth) an Angell, at firſt ſight,

But when I ſaw thou ſaweſt my heart,

And knew'ſt my thoughts, beyond an Angels art,

When thou knew'ſt what I dreamt, whē thou knew'ſt whē

Exceſſe of joy would wake me, and cam'ſt then,

I muſt confeſſe, it could not chuſe but bee

Prophane, to thinke thee any thing but thee.

Comming and ſtaying ſhow'd thee, thee,

But riſing makes me doubt, that now,

Thou art not thou.

That love is weake, where feare's as ſtrong as hee;

'Tis not all ſpirit, pure, and brave,

[Page] If mixture it of Feare, Shame, Honor have;

Perchance as torches which muſt ready bee,

Men light and put out, ſo thou deal'ſt with mee,

Thou cam'ſt to kindle, goeſt to come; Then I

Will dreame that hope againe, but elſe would die.

A Valediction of weeping.

LEt me powre forth

My teares before thy face, whil'ſt I ſtay here,

For thy face coines them, and thy ſtampe they beare,

And by this Mintage they are ſomething worth,

For thus they bee

Pregnant of thee,

Fruits of much griefe they are, emblemes of more,

When a teare falls, that thou falſt which it bore,

So thou and I are nothing then, when on a divers ſhore

On a round ball

A workeman that hath copies by, can lay

An Europe, Afrique, and an Aſia,

And quickly make that, which was nothing, All,

So doth each teare,

Which thee doth weare,

A globe, yea world by that impreſſion grow,

Till thy teares mixt with mine doe overflow

This world, by waters ſent from thee, my heaven diſſolved ſo.

[Page]

O more then Moone,

Draw not up ſeas to drowne me in thy ſpheare,

Weepe me not dead, in thine armes, but forbeare

To teach the ſea, what it may doe too ſoone,

Let not the winde

Example finde,

To doe me more harme, then it purpoſeth,

Since thou and I ſigh one anothers breath,

Who e'r ſighes moſt, is cruelleſt, and haſts the others death.

Loves Alchymie.

SOme that have deeper digg'd loves Myne then I,

Say, where his centrique happineſſe doth lie:

I have lov'd, and got, and told,

But ſhould I love, get, tell, till I were old,

I ſhould not finde that hidden myſterie;

Oh, 'tis impoſture all:

And as no chymique yet th'Elixar got,

But glorifies his pregnant pot,

If by the way to him befall

Some odoriferous thing, or medicinall,

So, lovers dreame a rich and long delight,

But get a winter-ſeeming ſummers night.

[Page]

Our eaſe, our thrift, our honor, and our day,

Shall we, for this vaine Bubles ſhadow pay?

Ends love in this, that my man,

Can be as happy'as I can; If he can

Endure the ſhort ſcorne of a Bridegroomes play?

That loving wretch that ſweares,

'Tis not the bodies marry, but the mindes,

Which he in her Angelique findes,

Would ſweare as juſtly, that he heares,

In that dayes rude hoarſe minſtralſey, the ſpheares.

Hope not for minde in women; at their beſt,

Sweetneſſe, and wit they'are, but, Mummy, poſſeſt▪

The Flea.

MArke but this flea, and marke in this,

How little that which thou deny'ſt me is;

It ſuck'd me firſt, and now ſucks thee,

And in this flea, our two bloods mingled bee;

Thou know'ſt that this cannot be ſaid

A ſinne, nor ſhame nor loſſe of maidenhead,

Yet this enjoyes before it wooe,

And pamper'd ſwells with one blood made of two,

And this, alas, is more then wee would doe.

Oh ſtay, three lives in one flea ſpare,

Where wee almoſt, yea more then maryed are.

This flea is you and I, and this

[Page] Our mariage bed, and mariage temple is;

Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,

And cloyſterd in theſe living walls of Jet.

Though uſe make you apt to kill mee,

Let not to that, ſelfe murder added bee,

And ſacrilege, three ſinnes in killing three.

Cruell and ſodaine, haſt thou ſince

Purpled thy naile, in blood of innocence?

Wherein could this flea guilty bee,

Except in that drop which it ſuckt from thee?

Yet thou triumph'ſt, and ſaiſt that thou

Find'ſt not thy ſelfe, nor mee the weaker now;

'Tis true, then learne how falſe, feares bee;

Juſt ſo much honor, when thou yeeld'ſt to mee,

Will waſt, as this flea's death tooke life from thee.

The Curſe.

WHo ever gueſſes, thinks, or dreames he knowes

Who is my miſtris, wither by this curſe;

His only, and only his purſe

May ſome dull heart to love diſpoſe,

And ſhee yeeld then to all that are his foes;

May he be ſcorn'd by one, whom all elſe ſcorne,

Forſweare to others, what to her he'hath ſworne,

With feare of miſſing, ſhame of getting torne;

[Page]

Madneſſe his ſorrow, gout his cramp, may hee

Make, by but thinking, who hath made him ſuch:

And may he feele no touch

Of conſcience, but of fame, and bee

Anguiſh'd, not that 'twas ſinne, but that 'twas ſhee▪

In early and long ſcarceneſſe may he rot,

For land which had been his, if he had not

Himſelfe inceſtuouſly an heire begot:

May he dreame Treaſon, and beleeve, that hee

Meant to performe it, and confeſſe, and die,

And no record tell why:

His ſonnes, which none of his may bee,

Inherite nothing but his infamie:

Or may he ſo long Paraſites have fed,

That he would faine be theirs, whom he hath bred,

And at the laſt be circumciſ'd for bread:

The venom of all ſtepdames, gamſters gall,

What Tyrans, and their ſubjects interwiſh,

What Plants, Myne, Beaſts, Foule, Fiſh,

Can contribute, all ill, which all

Prophets, or Poets ſpake; And all which ſhall

Be annex'd in ſchedules unto this by mee,

Fall on that man; For if it be a ſhee

Nature before hand hath out-curſed mee.

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

[Page]

To the praiſe of the dead, and the ANATOMIE.

VVEll dy'd the World, that we might live to ſee

This world of wit, in his Anatomie:

No evill wants his good; ſo wilder heires

Bedew their Fathers Tombes, with forced teares,

Whoſe ſtate requites their loſſe: whiles thus we gain,

Well may wee walke in blacks, but not complaine.

[Page] Yet how can I conſent the world is dead

While this Muſe lives? which in his ſpirits ſtead

Seemes to informe a World; and bids it bee,

In ſpight of loſſe or fraile mortalitie?

And thou the ſubject of this welborne thought,

Thrice noble maid, couldſt not have found nor ſought

A fitter time to yeeld to thy ſad Fate,

Then whiles this ſpirit lives, that can relate

Thy worth ſo well to our laſt Nephews eyne,

That they ſhall wonder both at his and thine:

Admired match! where ſtrives in mutuall grace

The cunning pencill, and the comely face:

A taske which thy faire goodneſſe made too much

For the bold pride of vulgar pens to touch;

Enough is us to praiſe them that praiſe thee,

And ſay, that but enough thoſe prayſes bee,

Which hadſt thou liv'd, had hid their fearfull head

From th'angry checkings of thy modeſt red:

Death barres reward and ſhame, when envy's gone,

And gaine, 'tis ſafe to give the dead their owne.

As then the wiſe Egyptians wont to lay

More on their Tombes, then houſes: theſe of clay,

But thoſe of braſſe, or marble were: ſo wee

Give more unto thy Ghoſt, then unto thee.

Yet what wee give to thee, thou gav'ſt to us,

And may'ſt but thanke thy ſelfe, for being thus:

Yet what thou gav'ſt, and wert, O happy maid,

Thy grace profeſt all due, where'tis repayd.

So theſe high ſongs that to thee ſuited bin

Serve but to ſound thy Makers praiſe and thine,

[Page] Which thy deare ſoule as ſweetly ſings to him

Amid the quire of Saints, and Seraphim,

As any Angels tongue can ſing of thee;

The ſubjects differ, though the skill agree:

For as by infant yeares men judge of age,

Thy early love, thy vertues did preſage,

What high part thou bear'ſt in thoſe beſt of ſongs,

Whereto no burden, nor no end belongs.

Sing on thou virgin Soule, whoſe loſsfull gaine

Thy loveſick parents have bewail'd in vaine;

Never may thy Name be in our ſongs forgot,

Till wee ſhall ſing thy ditty and thy note.

An Anatomy of the World.
The firſt Anniverſary.

WHen that rich Soule which to her heaven is gone,

Who all do celebrate, who know they have one,

(For who is ſure he hath a Soule, unleſſe

It ſee, and judge, and follow worthineſſe,

And by deeds praiſe it? hee who doth not this,

May lodge an immate ſoule, but'tis not his.)

When that Queene ended here her progreſſe time,

And, as t'her ſtanding houſe to heaven did climbe,

[Page] Where loath to make the Saints attend her long,

She's now a part both of the Quire, and Song.

This World, in that great earthquake languiſhed;

For in a common bath of teares it bled,

Which drew the ſtrongeſt vitall ſpirits out:

But ſuccour'd then with a perplexed doubt,

Whether the world did loſe, or gaine in this,

(Becauſe ſince now no other way there is,

But goodneſſe, to ſee her, whom all would ſee,

All muſt endeavour to be good as ſhee.)

This great conſumption to a fever turn'd,

And ſo the world had fits; it joy'd, it mourn'd;

And, as men thinke, that Agues phyſick are,

And th'Ague being ſpent, give over care.

So thou ſicke World, miſtak'ſt thy ſelfe to bee

Well, when alas, thou'rt in a Lethargie.

Her death did wound and tame thee than, and than

Thou might'ſt have better ſpar'd the Sunne, or man.

That wound was deep, but 'tis more miſery,

That thou haſt loſt thy ſenſe and memory.

'Twas heavy then to heare thy voyce of mone,

But this is worſe, that thou art ſpeechleſſe growne.

Thou haſt forgot thy name thou hadſt; thou waſt

Nothing but ſhee, and her thou haſt o'rpaſt.

For as a child kept from the Fount, untill

A prince, expected long, come to fulfill

The ceremonies, thou unnam'd had'ſt laid,

Had not her comming, thee her palace made:

Her name defin'd thee, gave thee forme, and frame,

And thou forgett'ſt to celebrate thy name.

[Page] Some moneths ſhe hath beene dead (but being dead,

Meaſures of times are all determined)

But long ſhe'ath beene away, long, long, yet none

Offers to tell us who it is that's gone.

But as in ſtates doubtfull of future heires,

When ſickneſſe without remedie empaires

The preſent Prince, they're loth it ſhould be ſaid,

The Prince doth languiſh, or the Prince is dead:

So mankinde feeling now a generall thaw,

A ſtrong example gone, equall to law;

The Cyment which did faithfully compact,

And glue all vertues, now reſolv'd, and ſlack'd,

Thought it ſome blaſphemy to ſay ſh'was dead,

Or that our weakneſſe was diſcovered

In that confeſſion; therefore ſpoke no more

Then tongues, the Soule being gone, the loſſe deplore.

But though it be too late to ſuccour thee,

Sicke World, yea, dead, yea putrified, ſince ſhee

Thy'intrinſique balme, and thy preſervative,

Can never be renew'd, thou never live,

I (ſince no man can make thee live) will try,

What wee may gaine by thy Anatomy.

Her death hath taught us dearely, that thou art

Corrupt and mortall in thy pureſt part.

Let no man ſay, the world it ſelfe being dead,

'Tis labour loſt to have diſcovered

The worlds infirmities, ſince there is none

Alive to ſtudy this diſſection;

For there's a kinde of World remaining ſtill,

Though ſhee which did inanimate and fill

[Page] The world, be gone, yet in this laſt long night,

Her Ghoſt doth walke, that is, a glimmering light,

A faint weake love of vertue, and of good,

Reflects from her, on them which underſtood

Her worth; and though ſhe have ſhut in all day,

The twilight of her memory doth ſtay;

Which, from the carcaſſe of the old world, free,

Creates a new world, and new creatures bee

Produc'd: the matter and the ſtuffe of this,

Her vertue, and the forme our practice is:

And thought to be thus elemented, arme

Theſe creatures, from homeborne intrinſique harme,

(For all aſſum'd unto this dignitie,

So many weedleſſe Paradiſes bee,

Which of themſelves produce no venemous ſinne,

Except ſome forraine Serpent bring it in)

Yet becauſe outward ſtormes the ſtrongeſt breake,

And ſtrength it ſelfe by confidence growes weake,

This new world may be ſafer, being told

The ſicknes of the World

The dangers and diſeaſes of the old:

For with due temper men doe then forgoe,

Or covet things, when they their true worth know.

Impoſſibility of health

There is no health; Phyſitians ſay that wee,

At beſt, enjoy but a neutralitie.

And can there bee worſe ſickneſſe, then to know

That we are never well, nor can be ſo?

Wee are borne ruinous: poore mothers cry,

That children come not right, nor orderly;

Except they headlong come and fall upon

An ominous precipitation.

[Page] How witty's ruine, how importunate

Upon mankinde? it labour'd to fruſtrate

Even Gods purpoſe; and made woman, ſent

For mans reliefe, cauſe of his languiſhment.

They were to good ends, and they are ſo ſtill,

But acceſſory, and principall in ill;

For that firſt marriage was our funerall:

One woman at one blow, then kill'd us all,

And ſingly, one by one, they kill us now.

We doe delightfully our ſelves allow

To that conſumption; and profuſely blinde,

Wee kill our ſelves to propagate our kinde.

And yet we do not that; we are not men:

There is not now that mankinde, which was then,

When as, the Sunne and man did ſeeme to ſtrive,

Shortneſſe of life.

(Joynt tenants of the world) who ſhould ſurvive.

When, Stagge, and Raven, and the long-liv'd tree,

Compar'd with man, dy'd in minoritie,

When, if a ſlow pac'd ſtarre had ſtolne away

From the obſervers marking, he might ſtay

Two or three hundred yeares to ſee't againe,

And then make up his obſervation plaine;

When, as the age was long, the ſiſe was great;

Mans growth confeſs'd, and recompenc'd the meat;

So ſpacious and large, that every Soule

Did a faire Kingdome, and large Realme controule:

And when the very ſtature, thus erect,

Did that ſoule a good way towards heaven direct.

Where is this mankinde now? who lives to age,

Fit to be made Methuſalem his page?

[Page] Alas, we ſcarce live long enough to try

Whether a true made clocke run right, or lie.

Old Granſires talke of yeſterday with ſorrow:

And for our children wee reſerve to morrow.

So ſhort is life, that every peſant ſtrives,

In a torne houſe, or field, to have three lives.

And as in laſting, ſo in length is man,

Smalneſſe of ſtature.

Contracted to an inch, who was a ſpanne;

For had a man at firſt in forreſts ſtray'd,

Or ſhipwrack'd in the Sea, one would have laid

A wager, that an Elephant, or Whale,

That met him, would not haſtily aſſaile

A thing ſo equall to him: now alas,

The Fairies, and the Pigmies well may paſſe

As credible; mankinde decayes ſo ſoone,

We'are ſcarce our Fathers ſhadowes caſt at noone:

Onely death ads t'our length: nor are wee growne

In ſtature to be men, till we are none.

But this were light, did our leſſe volume hold

All the old Text; or had wee chang'd to gold

Their ſilver, or diſpos'd into leſſe glaſſe

Spirits of vertue, which then ſcatter'd was.

But 'tis not ſo: w'are not retir'd, but dampt;

And as our bodies ſo our mindes are crampt:

'Tis ſhrinking, not cloſe weaving that hath thus,

In minde, and body both bedwarfed us.

Wee ſeeme ambitious, Gods whole worke t'undoe;

Of nothing hee made us, and we ſtrive too,

To bring our ſelves to nothing backe; and wee

Doe what wee can, to do't ſo ſoone as hee.

[Page] With new diſeaſes on our ſelves wee warre,

And with new Phyſicke, a worſe Engin farre.

Thus man, this worlds Vice-Emperour, in whom

All faculties, all graces are at home;

And if in other creatures they appeare,

They're but mans Miniſters, and Legats there,

To worke on their rebellions, and reduce

Them to Civility, and to mans uſe.

This man, whom God did wooe, and loth t'attend

Till man came up, did downe to man deſcend,

This man ſo great, that all that is, is his,

Oh what a trifle, and poore thing he is!

If man were any thing; he's nothing now:

Helpe, or at leaſt ſome time to waſt, allow

T'his other wants, yet when he did depart

With her whom we lament, hee loſt his heart.

She, of whom th'Ancients ſeem'd to propheſie,

When they call'd vertues by the name of ſhee;

Shee in whom vertue was ſo much refin'd,

That for allay unto ſo pure a minde

Shee tooke the weaker Sex: ſhee that could drive

The poyſonous tincture, and the ſtaine of Eve,

Out of her thought, and deeds; and purifie

All, by a true religious Alchymie;

She▪ ſhe is dead; ſhee's dead: when thou knoweſt this,

Thou knoweſt how poore a trifling thing man is.

And learn'ſt thus much by our Anatomie,

The heart being periſh'd, no part can be free.

And that except thou feed (not banquet) on

The ſupernaturall food, Religion:

[Page] Thy better growth growes withered, and ſcant;

Be more then man, or thou'rt leſſe then an Ant.

Then as mankinde, ſo is the worlds whole frame

Quite out of joynt, almoſt created lame:

For, before God had made up al the reſt,

Corruption entred, and deprav'd the beſt:

It ſeis'd the Angells, and then firſt of all

The world did in her cradle take a fall,

And turn'd her braines, and tooke a generall maime,

Wronging each joynt of th'univerſall frame.

The nobleſt part, man, felt it firſt; and than

Decay of nature in other parts.

Both beaſts and plants, curſt in the curſe of man,

So did the world from the firſt houre decay,

That evening was beginning of the day,

And now the Springs and Sommers which we ſee,

Like ſonnes of women after fiftie bee.

And new Philoſophy calls all in doubt,

The Element of fire is quite put out;

The Sun is loſt, and th'earth, and no mans wit

Can well direct him where to looke for it.

And freely men confeſſe that this world's ſpent,

When in the Planets, and the firmament

They ſeeke ſo many new; they ſee that this

Is crumbled out againe to his Atomies.

'Tis all in peeces, all coherence gone;

All juſt ſupply, and all Relation:

Prince, Subject, Father, Sonne, are things forgot,

For every man alone thinkes he hath got

To be a Phoenix, and that then can bee

None of that kinde, of which he is, but hee.

[Page] This is the worlds condition now, and now

She that ſhould all parts to reunion bow,

She that had all Magnetique force alone,

To draw, and faſten ſundred parts in one;

She whom wiſe nature had invented then

When ſhe obſerv'd that every ſort of men

Did in their voyage in this worlds Sea ſtray,

And needed a new compaſſe for their way;

She that was beſt, and firſt originall

Of all faire copies, and the generall

Steward to Fate; ſhe whoſe rich eyes, and breaſt,

Guilt the Weſt-Indies, and perfum'd the Eaſt,

Whoſe having breath'd in this world, did beſtow

Spice on thoſe Iles, and bad them ſtill ſmell ſo,

And that rich Indie which doth gold interre,

Is but as ſingle money coyn'd from her:

She to whom this world muſt it ſelfe refer,

As Suburbs, or the Microcoſme of her,

Shee, ſhee is dead; ſhee's dead: when thou knoweſt this

Thou knoweſt how lame a criple this world is.

And learn'ſt thus much by our Anatomy,

That this worlds generall ſickneſſe doth not lie

In any humour, or one certaine part;

But as thou ſaweſt it rotten at the heart,

Thou ſeeſt a Hectique feaver hath got hold

Of the whole ſubſtance, not to be contrould,

And that thou haſt but one way, not t'admit

The worlds infection, to be none of it.

For the worlds ſubtilſt immateriall parts

Feele this conſuming wound, and ages darts.

[Page] For the worlds beauty is decai'd, or gone,

Disformity of parts.

Beauty, that's colour, and proportion.

We thinke the heavens enjoy their Sphericall

Their round proportion embracing all,

But yet their various and perplexed courſe,

Obſerv'd in divers ages, doth enforce

Men to finde out ſo many Eccentrique parts,

Such divers downe right lines, ſuch overthwarts,

As diſproportion that pure forme: It teares

The Firmament in eight and forty ſheires,

And in theſe Conſtellations then ariſe

New ſtarres, and old doe vaniſh from our eyes:

As though heav'n ſuffered earthquakes, peace or war,

When new Towers riſe, and old demoliſh't are.

They have impal'd within a Zodiake

The free-borne Sun, and keepe twelve Signes awake

To watch his ſteps; the Goat and Crab controule,

And fright him backe, who elſe to either Pole

(Did not theſe tropiques fetter him) might runne:

For his courſe is not round; nor can the Sunne

Perfit a Circle, or maintaine his way

One inch direct; but where he roſe to day

He comes no more, but with a couzening line,

Steales by that point, and ſo is Serpentine:

And ſeeming weary with his reeling thus,

He meanes to ſleepe, being now falne nearer us.

So, of the Starres which boaſt that they doe runne

In Circle ſtill, none ends where he begun.

All their proportion's lame, it ſinkes, it ſwels.

For of Meridians, and Parallels,

[Page] Man hath weav'd out a net, and this net throwne

Upon the Heavens, and now they are his owne.

Loth to goe up the hill, or labour thus

To goe to heaven, we make heaven come to us.

We ſpur, we reine the ſtarres, and in their race

They're diverſly content t'obey our peace.

But keepes the earth her round proportion ſtill?

Doth not a Tenarus or higher hill

Riſe ſo high like a Rocke, that one might thinke

The floating Moone would ſhipwrack there & ſinke?

Seas are ſo deepe, that Whales being ſtrucke to day,

Perchance to morrow ſcarſe at middle way

Of their wiſh'd journies end, the bottome, die.

And men, to ſound depths, ſo much line untie,

As one might juſtly thinke, that there would riſe

At end thereof, one of th'Antipodies:

If under all, a vault infernall bee,

(Which ſure is ſpacious, except that we

Invent another torment, that there muſt

Millions into a ſtraight hot roome be thruſt)

Then ſolidneſſe, and roundneſſe have no place.

Are theſe but warts, and pockholes in the face

Of th'earth; Thinke ſo: but yet confeſſe, in this

The worlds proportion disfigured is;

Diſorder in the world.

That thoſe two legges whereon it doth rely,

Reward and puniſhment are bent awry.

And, Oh, it can no more be queſtioned,

That beauties beſt, proportion, is dead,

Since even griefe it ſelfe, which now alone

Is left us, is without proportion.

[Page] Shee by whoſe lines proportion ſhould bee

Examin'd, meaſure of all Symmetree,

Whom had that Ancient ſeen, who thought ſoules mad [...]

Of Harmony, he would at next have ſaid

That Harmony was ſhee, and thence infer

That ſoules were but Reſultances from her,

And did from her into our bodies goe,

As to our eyes, the formes from objects flow:

Shee, who if thoſe great Doctors truly ſaid

That the Arke to mans proportion was made,

Had been a type for that, as that might be

A type of her in this, that contrary

Both Elements and Paſſions liv'd at peace

In her, who caus'd all Civill war to ceaſe.

Shee, after whom, what forme ſoe'r we ſee,

Is diſcord, and rude incongruitie;

She, ſhe is dead, ſhe's dead; when thou know'ſt this,

Thou knoweſt how ugly a monſter this world is:

And learn'ſt thus much by our Anatomie,

That here is nothing to enamour thee:

And that, not only faults in inward parts,

Corruptions in our braines, or in our hearts,

Poyſoning the fountaines, whence our actions ſpring,

Endanger us: but that if every thing

Be not done fitly'and in proportion,

To ſatisfie wiſe, and good lookers on,

(Since moſt men be ſuch as moſt thinke they bee)

They're lothſome too, by this deformitie.

For good, and well, muſt in our actions meet;

Wicked is not much worſe then indiſcreet.

[Page] But beauties other ſecond Element,

Colour, and luſtre now, is as neere ſpent.

And had the world his juſt proportion,

Were it a ring ſtill, yet the ſtone is gone.

As a compaſſionate Turcoyſe which doth tell

By looking pale, the wearer is not well,

As gold falls ſicke being ſtung with Mercury,

All the worlds parts of ſuch complexion bee.

When nature was moſt buſie, the firſt weeke,

Swadling the new borne earth, God ſeem'd to like

That ſhe ſhould ſport her ſelfe ſometimes, and play,

To mingle, and vary colours every day:

And then, as though ſhee could not make enough,

Himſelfe his various Rainbow did allow,

Sight is the nobleſt ſenſe of any one,

Yet ſight hath only colour to feed on,

And colour is decai'd: ſummers robe growes

Duskie, and like an oft dyed garment ſhowes.

Our bluſhing red, which us'd in cheekes to ſpred,

Is inward ſunke, and only our ſoules are red.

Perchance the world might have recovered,

If ſhe whom we lament had not beene dead:

But ſhee, in whom all white, and red, and blew

(Beauties ingredients) voluntary grew,

As in an unvext Paradiſe; from whom

Did all things verdure, and their luſtre come,

Whoſe compoſition was miraculous,

Being all colour, all diaphanous,

(For Ayre, and Fire but thick groſſe bodies were,

And livelieſt ſtones but drowſie, and pale to her,)

[Page] She, ſhe is dead; ſhee's dead: when thou know'ſt this,

Thou knoweſt howwan a Ghoſt this our world is:

And learn'ſt thus much by our Anatomie,

That it ſhould more affright, then pleaſure thee.

And that, ſince all faire colour then did ſinke,

'Tis now but wicked vanitie, to thinke

Weakneſſe in the want of correſpondence of heaven and earth.

To colour vicious deeds with good pretence,

Or with bought colors to illude mens ſenſe.

Nor in ought more this worlds decay appeares,

Then that her influence the heav'n forbeares,

Or that the Elements doe not feele this,

The father, or the mother barren is.

The cloudes conceive not raine, or doe not powre,

In the due birth time, downe the balmy ſhowre;

Th'ayre doth not motherly ſit on the earth,

To hatch her ſeaſons, and give all things birth;

Spring-times were common cradles, but are tombes;

And falſe-conceptions fill the generall wombes;

Th'ayre ſhowes ſuch Meteors, as none can ſee,

Not only what they meane, but what they bee;

Earth ſuch new wormes, as would have troubled much

Th'Aegyptian Mages to have made more ſuch.

What Artiſt now dares boaſt that he can bring

Heaven hither, or conſtellate any thing,

So as the influence of thoſe ſtarres may bee

Impriſon'd in an Hearbe, or Charme or Tree,

And doe by touch, all which thoſe ſtars could doe?

The art is loſt, and correſpondence too.

For heaven gives little, and the earth takes leſſe,

And man leaſt knowes their trade and purpoſes.

[Page] If this commerce twixt heaven and earth were not

Embarr'd, and all this traffique quite forgot,

She, for whoſe loſſe we have lamented thus,

Would worke more fully, and pow'rfully on us:

Since herbes, and roots, by dying loſe not all,

But they, yea aſhes too, are medicinall,

Death could not quench her vertue ſo, but that

It would be (if not follow'd) wondred at:

And all the world would be one dying ſwan,

To ſing her funerall praiſe, and vaniſh than.

But as ſome Serpents poyſon hurteth not,

Except it be from the live Serpent ſhot,

So doth her vertue need her here, to fit

That unto us; ſhee working more then it.

But ſhee, in whom to ſuch maturity

Vertue was growne, paſt growth, that it muſt die;

She, from whoſe influence all impreſſion came,

But by receivers impotencies, lame,

Who, though ſhe could not tranſubſtantiate

All ſtates to gold, yet guilded every ſtate,

So that ſome Princes have ſome temperance;

Some Counſellers ſome purpoſe to advance

The common profit; and ſome people have,

Some ſtay, no more then Kings ſhould give, to crave;

Some women have ſome taciturnity,

Some nunneries ſome graines of chaſtitie.

She that did thus much, and much more could doe,

But that our age was Iron, and ruſtie too,

Shee, ſhe is dead, ſhe's dead; when thou knowſt this,

Thou knowſt how drie a Cinder this world is.

[Page] And learn'ſt thus much by our Anatomy,

That 'tis in vaine to dew, or mollifie

It with thy teares, or ſweat, or blood: nothing

Is worth our travaile, griefe, or periſhing,

But thoſe rich joyes, which did poſſeſſe her heart,

Of which ſhe's now partaker, and a part.

Concluſion.

But as in cutting up a man that's dead,

The body will not laſt out, to have read

On every part, and therefore men direct

Their ſpeech to parts, that are of moſt effect;

So the worlds carcaſſe would not laſt, if I

Were punctuall in this Anatomy;

Nor ſmels it well to hearers, if one tell

Them their diſeaſe, who faine would think thy're well.

Here therefore be the end: and, bleſſed maid,

Of whom is meant what ever hath been ſaid,

Or ſhall be ſpoken well by any tongue,

Whoſe name refines courſe lines, and makes proſe ſong,

Accept this tribute, and his firſt yeares rent,

Who till his darke ſhort tapers end be ſpent,

As oft as thy feaſt ſees this widowed earth,

Will yearely celebrate thy ſecond birth,

That is, thy death; for though the ſoule of man

Be got when man is made, 'tis borne but than

When man doth die; our body's as the wombe,

And, as a Mid-wife, death directs it home.

And you her creatures, whom ſhe workes upon,

And have your laſt, and beſt concoction

From her example, and her vertue, if you

In reverence to her, do thinke it due,

[Page] That no one ſhould her praiſes thus rehearſe,

As matter fit for Chronicle, not verſe;

Vouchſafe to call to minde that God did make

A laſt, and laſting'ſt peece, a ſong. He ſpake

To Moſes to deliver unto all,

That ſong, becauſe hee knew they would let fall

The Law, the Prophets, and the Hiſtory,

But keepe the ſong ſtill in their memory:

Such an opinion, in due meaſure, made

Me this great office boldly to invade:

Nor could incomprehenſibleneſſe deterre

Mee, from thus trying to empriſon her,

Which when I ſaw that a ſtrict grave could doe,

I ſaw not why verſe might not do ſo too.

Verſe hath a middle nature, heaven keepes Soules,

The Grave keepes bodies, Verſe the Fame enroules.

A Funerall ELEGIE.

[Page]

'TIs loſt to truſt a Tombe with ſuch a gueſt,

Or to confine her in a marble cheſt,

Alas, what's Marble, Jeat, or Porphyrie,

Priz'd with the Chryſolite of either eye,

Or with thoſe Pearles, and Rubies, which ſhe was?

Joyne the two Indies in one Tombe, 'tis glaſſe;

And ſo is all to her materials,

Though every inch were ten Eſcurials;

Yet ſhe's demoliſh'd: can wee keepe her then

In works of hands, or of the wits of men?

Can theſe memorials, ragges of paper, give

Life to that name, by which name they muſt live?

Sickly, alas, ſhort-liv'd, aborted bee

Thoſe carcaſſe verſes, whoſe ſoule is not ſhee.

And can ſhee, who no longer would be ſhee,

Being ſuch a Tabernacle, ſtoop to be

In paper wrapt; or when ſhee would not lie

In ſuch a houſe, dwell in an Elegie?

But'tis no matter; wee may well allow

Verſe to live ſo long as the world will now,

For her death wounded it. The world containes

Princes for armes, and counſellors for braines,

Lawyers for tongues, Divines for hearts, and more,

The rich for ſtomackes, and for backs the poore;

[Page] The officers for hands, merchants for feet,

By which, remote and diſtant Countries meet.

But thoſe fine ſpirits which do tune, and ſet

This Organ, are thoſe peeces, which beget

Wonder and love; and theſe were ſhee; and ſhee

Being ſpent, the world muſt needs decrepit bee;

For ſince death will proceed to triumph ſtill,

He can finde nothing, after her, to kill,

Except the world it ſelfe, ſo great was ſhee.

Thus brave and confident may Nature bee,

Death cannot give her ſuch another blow,

Becauſe ſhee cannot ſuch another ſhow.

But muſt wee ſay ſhe's dead? may't not be ſaid

That as a ſundred clocke is peecemeale laid,

Not to be loſt, but by the makers hand

Repolliſh'd, without errour then to ſtand,

Or as the Affrique Niger ſtreame enwombs

It ſelfe into the earth, and after comes

(Having firſt made a naturall bridge, to paſſe

For many leagues) farre greater then it was,

May't not be ſaid, that her grave ſhall reſtore

Her, greater, purer, firmer, then before?

Heaven may ſay this, and joy in't, but can wee

Who live, and lacke her, here, this vantage ſee?

What is't to us, alas, if there have beene

An Angell made a Throne, or Cherubin?

Wee loſe by't: and as aged men are glad

Being taſtleſſe growne, to joy in joyes they had,

So now the ſick ſtarv'd world muſt feed upon

This joy, that we had her, who now is gone.

[Page] Rejoyce then Nature, and this World, that you,

Fearing the laſt fires haſtning to ſubdue

Your force and vigour, ere it were neere gone,

Wiſely beſtow'd and laid it all on one;

One, whoſe cleare body was ſo pure and thinne,

Becauſe it need diſguiſe no thought within.

'Twas but a through-light ſcarfe, her minde t'inroule;

Or exhalation breath'd out from her Soule.

One, whom all men who durſt no more, admir'd:

And whom, who ere had worke enough, deſir'd;

As when a Temple's built, Saints emulate

To which of them, it ſhall be conſecrate.

But, as when heaven lookes on us with new eyes,

Thoſe new ſtarres every Artiſt exerciſe,

VVhat place they ſhould aſſigne to them they doubt,

Argue, 'and agree not, till thoſe ſtarres goe out:

So the world ſtudied whoſe this peece ſhould be,

Till ſhee can be no bodies elſe, nor ſhee:

But like a Lampe of Balſamum, deſir'd

Rather t'adorne, then laſt, ſhe ſoone expir'd,

Cloath'd in her virgin white integritie,

For marriage, though it doth not ſtaine, doth die.

To ſcape th'infirmities which wait upon

VVoman, ſhe went away, before ſh'was one;

And the worlds buſie noyſe to overcome,

Tooke ſo much death, as ſerv'd for opium;

For though ſhe could not, nor could chuſe to dye,

She'ath yeelded to too long an extaſie:

Hee which not knowing her ſaid Hiſtory,

Should come to reade the booke of deſtiny,

[Page] How faire, and chaſt, humble, and high ſhe'ad been,

Much promis'd, much perform'd, at not fifteene,

And meaſuring future things, by things before,

Should turne the leafe to reade, and reade no more,

VVould thinke that either deſtiny miſtooke,

Or that ſome leaves were torne out of the booke.

But 'tis not ſo; Fate did but uſher her

To yeares of reaſons uſe, and then inferre

Her deſtiny to her ſelfe, which liberty

She tooke, but for thus much, thus much do die.

Her modeſtie not ſuffering her to bee

Fellow-Commiſſioner with Deſtinie,

She did no more but die; if after her

Any ſhall live, which dare true good prefer;

Every ſuch perſon is her deligate,

T'accompliſh that which ſhould have beene her Fate.

They ſhall make up that Booke and ſhall have thanks

Of Fate, and her, for filling up their blankes.

For future vertuous deeds are Legacies,

VVhich from the gift of her example riſe;

And 'tis in heav'n part of ſpirituall mirth,

To ſee how well the good play her, on earth.

OF THE PROGRESSE OF THE SOULE.
Wherein, By occaſion of the Religious death of Miſtris ELIZABETH DRVRY, the incommodities of the Soule in this life, and her exaltation in the next, are contemplated.
The ſecond Anniverſary.

[Page]

[Page]

The Harbinger to the PROGRESSE.

TWo Soules move here, and mine (a third) muſt move

Paces of admiration, and of love;

Thy Soule (deare virgin) whoſe this tribute is,

Mov'd from this mortall Spheare to lively bliſſe;

[Page] And yet moves ſtill, and ſtill aſpires to ſee

The worlds laſt day, thy glories full degree:

Like as thoſe ſtarres which thou o'r-lookeſt farre,

Are in their place, and yet ſtill moved are:

No ſoule (whiles with the luggage of this clay

It clogged is) can follow thee halfe way;

Or ſee thy flight, which doth our thoughts outgoe

So faſt, that now the lightning moves but ſlow:

But now thou art as high in heaven flowne

As heaven's from us; what ſoule beſides thine owne

Can tell thy joyes, or ſay he can relate

Thy glorious Journals in that bleſſed ſtate?

I envie thee (Rich ſoule) I envy thee,

Although I cannot yet thy glory ſee:

And thou (great ſpirit) which hers follow'd haſt

So faſt, as none can follow thine ſo faſt;

So far, as none can follow thine ſo farre,

(And if this fleſh did not the paſſage barre

Hadſt caught her) let me wonder at thy flight

Which long agone hadſt loſt the vulgar ſight,

And now mak'ſt proud the better eyes, that they

Can ſee thee leſs'ned in thine ayery way;

So while thou mak'ſt her ſoule by progreſſe knowne

Thou mak'ſt a noble progreſſe of thine owne.

From this worlds carkaſſe having mounted high

To that pure life of immortalitie;

Since thine aſpiring thoughts themſelves ſo raiſe

That more may not beſeeme a creatures praiſe,

Yet ſtill thou vow'ſt her more; and every yeare

Mak'ſt a new progreſſe, while thou wandreſt here;

[Page] Still upward mount; and let thy Makers praiſe

Honor thy Laura, and adorne thy laies.

And ſince thy Muſe her head in heaven ſhrouds,

Oh let her never ſtoope below the clouds:

And if thoſe glorious ſainted ſoules may know

Or what wee doe, or what wee ſing below,

Thoſe acts, thoſe ſongs ſhall ſtill content them beſt

Which praiſe thoſe awfull Powers that make them bleſt.

OF THE PROGRESSE OF THE SOULE.
The ſecond Anniverſarie.

[Page]

NOthing could make me ſooner to confeſſe

That this world had an everlaſtingneſſe,

Then to conſider, that a yeare is runne,

Since both this lower world's, and the Sunnes Sunne,

The Luſtre, and the vigor of this all,

Did ſet; 'twere blaſphemie to ſay, did fall.

But as a ſhip which hath ſtrooke ſaile, doth runne

By force of that force which before, it wonne:

Or as ſometimes in a beheaded man,

Though at thoſe two Red ſeas, which freely ranne,

One from the Trunke, another from the Head,

His ſoule he ſail'd, to her eternall bed,

His eyes will twinckle, and his tongue will roll,

As though he beckned, and cal'd backe his ſoule,

He graſpes his hands, and he pulls up his feet,

And ſeemes to reach, and to ſtep forth to meet

His ſoule; when all theſe motions which we ſaw,

Are but as Ice, which crackles at a thaw:

[Page] Or as a Lute, which in moiſt weather, rings

Her knell alone, by cracking of her ſtrings.

So ſtruggles this dead world, now ſhee is gone;

For there is motion in corruption.

As ſome daies are, at the Creation nam'd,

Before the Sunne, the which fram'd daies, was fram'd:

So after this Sunne's ſet, ſome ſhew appeares,

And orderly viciſſitude of yeares.

Yet a new deluge, and of Lethe flood,

Hath drown'd us all, All have forgot all good,

Forgetting her, the maine reſerve of all,

Yet in this deluge, groſſe and generall,

Thou ſeeſt me ſtrive for life; my life ſhall bee,

To be hereafter prais'd, for prayſing thee;

Immortall maid, who though thou would'ſt refuſe

The name of Mother, be unto my Muſe

A Father, ſince her chaſt Ambition is

Yearely to bring forth ſuch a child as this.

Theſe Hymnes may worke on future wits, and ſo

May great Grand children of thy prayſes grow.

And ſo, though not revive, embalme and ſpice

The world, which elſe would putriſie with vice.

For thus, Man may extend thy progeny,

Untill man doe but vaniſh, and not die.

Theſe Hymnes thy iſſue, may encreaſe ſo long,

As till Gods great Venite change the ſong.

A iuſt diſeſtimation of this world.

Thirſt for that time, O my inſatiate ſoule,

And ſerve thy thirſt, with Gods ſafe-fealing Bowle.

Be thirſtie ſtill, and drinke ſtill till thou goe

To th'only Health, to be Hydroptique ſo,

[Page] Forget this rotten world; And unto thee

Let thine owne times as an old ſtorie bee

Be not concern'd: ſtudie not why nor when;

Doe not ſo much as not beleeve a man.

For though to erre, be worſt, to try truths forth,

Is far more buſineſſe, then this world is worth.

The world is but a carkaſſe; thou art fed

By it, but as a worme, that carkaſſe bred;

And why ſhould'ſt thou, poore worme, conſider more

When this world will grow better then before,

Then thoſe thy fellow wormes doe thinke upon

That carkaſſes laſt reſurrection.

Forget this world, and ſcarce thinke of it ſo,

As of old clothes, caſt off a yeare agoe.

To be thus ſtupid is Alacritie;

Men thus Lethargique have beſt Memory.

Look upward; that's towards her, whoſe happy ſtate

We now lament not, but congratulate.

Shee, to whom all this world was but a ſtage,

Where all ſat harkning how her youthfull age

Should be emploi'd, becauſe in all ſhee did,

Some Figure of the Golden times was hid.

Who could not lacke, what e'r this world could give,

Becauſe ſhee was the forme, that made it live;

Nor could complaine, that this world was unfit

To be ſtaid in, then when ſhee was in it;

Shee that firſt tried indifferent deſires

By vertue, and vertue by religious fires,

Shee to whoſe perſon Paradiſe adher'd,

As Courts to Princes, ſhee whoſe eyes enſphear'd

[Page] Star-light enough, t'have made the South controule,

(Had ſhee beene there) the Star-full Northerne Pole,

Shee, ſhe is gone; ſhe is gone; when thou knoweſt this,

What fragmentary rubbidge this world is

Thou knoweſt, and that it is not worth a thought;

He honors it too much that thinkes it nought.

Contemplation of our ſtate in our deathbed.

Thinke then, my ſoule, that death is but a Groome,

Which brings a Taper to the outward roome,

Whence thou ſpieſt firſt a little glimmering light,

And after brings it nearer to thy ſight:

For ſuch approaches doth heaven make in death.

Thinke thy ſelfe labouring now with broken breath,

And thinke thoſe broken and ſoft Notes to bee

Diviſion, and thy happyeſt Harmonie.

Thinke thee laid on thy death-bed, looſe and ſlacke;

And thinke that, but unbinding of a packe,

To take one precious thing, thy ſoule from thence.

Thinke thy ſelfe patch'd with fevers violence,

Anger thine ague more, by calling it

Thy Phyſicke; chide the ſlackneſſe of the fit.

Thinke that thou hear'ſt thy knell and think no more,

But that, as Bels cal'd thee to Church before,

So this, to the Triumphant Church, calls thee.

Thinke Satans Sergeants round about thee bee,

And thinke that but for Legacies they thruſt;

Give one thy Pride, to'another give thy Luſt:

Give them thoſe ſinnes which they gave thee before,

And truſt th'immaculate blood to waſh thy ſcore.

Thinke thy friends weeping round, & thinke that they

Weepe but becauſe they goe not yet thy way.

[Page] Thinke that they cloſe thine eyes, and thinke in this,

That they confeſſe much in the world, amiſſe,

Who dare not truſt a dead mans eye with that,

Which they from God, and Angels [...]er not.

Thinke that they ſhroud thee up, & think from thence

They reinveſt thee in white innocence.

Thinke that thy body rots, and (if ſo low,

Thy ſoule exalted ſo, thy thoughts can goe,)

Think thee a Prince, who of themſelves create

Wormes which inſenſibly devoure their State.

Thinke that they bury thee, and thinke that right

Laies thee to ſleepe but a Saint Lucies night.

Thinke theſe things cheerefully: and if thou bee

Drowſie or ſlacke, remember then that ſhee,

Shee whoſe complexion was ſo even made,

That which of her ingredients ſhould invade

The other three, no Feare, no Art could gueſſe:

So far were all remov'd from more or leſſe.

But as in Mithridate, or juſt perfumes,

Where all good things being met, no one preſumes

To governe, or to triumph on the reſt,

Only becauſe all were, no part was beſt.

And as, though all doe know, that quantities

Are made of lines, and lines from Points ariſe,

None can theſe lines or quantities unjoynt,

And ſay this is a line, or this a point:

So though the Elements and Humors were

In her, one could not ſay, this governes there,

Whoſe even conſtitution might have woon

Any diſeaſe to venter on the Sunne,

[Page] Rather then her: and make a ſpirit feare,

That hee too diſuniting ſubject were.

To whoſe proportions if we would compare

Cubes, th'are unſtable; Circles, Angular;

She who was ſuch a chaine as Fate employes

To bring mankinde all Fortunes it enjoyes;

So faſt, ſo even wrought, as one would thinke,

No accident could threaten any linke;

Shee, ſhee embrac'd a ſickneſſe, gave it meat,

The pureſt blood, and breath, that e'r it eate;

And hath taught us, that though a good man hath

Title to heaven, and plead it by his Faith,

And though he may pretend a conqueſt, ſince

Heaven was content to ſuffer violence,

Yea though hee plead a long poſſeſſion too,

(For they're in heaven on earth who heavens workes do)

Though hee had right and power and place, before,

Yet death muſt uſher, and unlocke the doore.

Thinke further on thy ſelfe, my Soule, and thinke

How thou at firſt waſt made but in a ſinke;

Thinke that it argued ſome infirmitie,

That thoſe two ſoules, which then thou foundſt in me,

Thou fedſt upon, and drewſt into thee both

My ſecond ſoule of ſenſe, and firſt of growth.

Thinke but how poore thou waſt, how obnoxious;

Whom a ſmall lumpe of fleſh could poyſon thus.

This curded milke, this poore unlittered whelpe

My body, could, beyond eſcape or helpe,

Infect thee with Originall ſinne, and thou

Couldſt neither then refuſe, nor leave it now.

[Page] Thinke that no ſtubborne ſullen Anchorit,

Which fixt to a pillar, or a grave, doth ſit

Bedded, and bath'd in all his ordures, dwels

So fowly as our Soules in their firſt built Cels.

Thinke in how poore a priſon thou didſt lie

After, enabled but to ſuck, and crie.

Thinke, when 'twas growne to moſt, 'twas a poore Inne,

A Province pack'd up in two yards of skinne,

And that uſurp'd or threatned with a rage

Of ſickneſſes, or their true mother, Age.

But thinke that death hath now enfranchis'd thee,

Her liberty by death.

Thou haſt thy'expanſion now, and libertie;

Thinke that a ruſtie Peece diſcharg'd is flowne

In peeces, and the bullet is his owne,

And freely flies: this to thy Soule allow,

Thinke thy ſhell broke, thinke thy Soule hatch'd but now.

And think this ſlow-pac'd ſoule which late did cleave

To'a body, and went but by the bodies leave,

Twenty perchance or thirty mile a day,

Diſpatches in a minute all the way

Twixt heaven, and earth; ſhe ſtayes not in the ayre,

To looke what Meteors there themſelves prepare;

She carries no deſire to know, nor ſenſe,

Whether th'ayres middle region be intenſe;

For th'Element of fire, ſhe doth not know,

Whether ſhe paſt by ſuch a place or no;

She baits not at the Moone, nor cares to trie

Whether in that new world, men live, and die.

Venus retards her not, to'enquire, how ſhee

Can, (being one ſtarre) Heſper, and Veſper bee;

[Page] Hee that charm'd Argus eyes, ſweet Mercury,

Workes not on her, who now is growne all eye;

Who if ſhe meet the body of the Sunne,

Goes through, not ſtaying till his courſe be runne;

Who findes in Mars his Campe no corps of Guard;

Nor is by Iove, nor by his father bard;

Bee ere ſhe can conſider how ſhe went,

At once is at, and through the Firmament.

And as theſe ſtarres were but ſo many beads

Strung on one ſtring, ſpeed undiſtinguiſh'd leads

Her through thoſe Spheares, as through the beads, a ſtring,

Whoſe quick ſucceſſiō makes it ſtill one thing:

As doth the pith, which, leſt our bodies ſlacke,

Strings faſt the little bones of necke, and backe;

So by the Soule doth death ſtring Heaven and Earth;

For when our Soule enjoyes this her third birth,

(Creation gave her one, a ſecond, grace,)

Heaven is as neare, and preſent to her face,

As colours are, and objects, in a roome

Where darkneſſe was before, when Tapers come.

This muſt, my Soule, thy long-ſhort Progreſſe bee,

To'advance theſe thoughts; Remember then that ſhe,

She, whoſe faire body no ſuch priſon was,

But that a Soule might well be pleas'd to paſſe

An age in her; ſhe whoſe rich beauty lent

Mintage to other beauties, for they went

But for ſo much as they were like to her;

Shee, in whoſe body (if we dare preferre

This low world, to ſo high a marke as ſhee,)

The Weſterne treaſure, Eaſterne ſpicetie,

[Page] Europe, and Afrique, and the unknowne reſt

Were eaſily found, or what in them was beſt;

And when w'have made this large diſcoverie

Of all, in her ſome one part then will bee

Twenty ſuch parts, whoſe plenty and riches is

Enough to make twenty ſuch worlds as this;

Shee, whom had they knowne who did firſt betroth

The Tutelar Angels, and aſſigned one, both

To Nations, Cities, and to Companies,

To Functions, Offices, and dignities,

And to each ſeverall man, to him, and him,

They would have given her one for every limbe;

She, of whoſe ſoule, if wee may ſay, 'twas gold,

Her body was th'Electrum, and did hold

Many degrees of that; wee underſtood

Her by her ſight; her pure, and eloquent blood

Spoke in her cheekes, and ſo diſtinctly wrought,

That one might almoſt ſay, her body thought;

Shee, ſhee, thus richly and largely hous'd, is gone:

And chides us ſlow-pac'd ſnailes who crawle upon

Our priſons priſon, earth, nor thinke us well,

Longer, then whil'ſt wee beare our brittle ſhell.

But 'twere but little to have chang'd our roome,

If, as we were in this our living Tombe

Oppreſs'd with ignorance, wee ſtill were ſo.

Poore ſoule, in this thy fleſh what doſt thou know?

Thou know'ſt thy ſelfe ſo little, as thou know'ſt not,

How thou didſt die, nor how thou waſt begot.

Thou neither know'ſt, how thou at firſt cam'ſt in,

Nor how thou took'ſt the poyſon of mans ſinne.

[Page] Nor doſt thou, (though thou know'ſt, that thou art ſo)

By what way thou art made immortall, know.

Thou art too narrow, wretch, to comprehend

Even thy ſelfe. yea though thou wouldſt but bend

To know thy body. Have not all ſoules thought

For many ages, that our body, is wrought

Of aire, and fire, and other Elements?

And now they thinke of new ingredients.

And one Soule thinkes one, and another way

Another thinkes, and 'tis an even lay.

Knowſt thou but how the ſtone doth enter in

The bladders cave, and never brake the skinne?

Know'ſt thou how blood, which to the heart doth flow,

Doth from one ventricle to th'other goe?

And for the putrid ſtuffe, which thou doſt ſpit,

Know'ſt thou how thy lungs have attracted it?

There are no paſſages, ſo that there is

(For ought thou know'ſt) piercing of ſubſtances.

And of thoſe many opinions which men raiſe

Of Nailes and Haires, doſt thou know which to praiſe?

What hope have wee to know our ſelves, when wee

Know not the leaſt things, which for our uſe be?

Wee ſee in Authors, too ſtiffe to recant,

A hundred controverſies of an Ant;

And yet one watches, ſtarves, freeſes, and ſweats,

To know but Catechiſmes and Alphabets

Of unconcerning things, matters of fact;

How others on our ſtage their parts did Act;

What Caeſar did, yea, and what Cicero ſaid,

Why graſſe is greene, or why our blood is red,

[Page] Are myſteries which none have reach'd unto

In this low forme, poore ſoule, what wilt thou doe?

When wilt thou ſhake off this Pedantery,

Of being taught by ſenſe, and Fantaſie?

Thou look'ſt through ſpectacles; ſmall things ſeeme great

Below; But up unto the watch-towre get,

And ſee all things deſpoyl'd of fallacies:

Thou ſhalt not peepe through lattices of eyes,

Nor heare through Labyrinths of eares, nor learne

By circuit, or collections to diſcerne.

In heaven thou ſtraight know'ſt all, concerning it,

And what concernes it not, ſhalt ſtraight forget.

There thou (but in no other ſchoole) maiſt bee

Perchance, as learned; and as full, as ſhee,

Shee who all libraries had throughly read

At home in her owne thoughts, and practiſed

So much good as would make as many more:

Shee whoſe example they muſt all implore,

Who would or doe, or thinke well, and confeſſe

That all the vertuous Actions they expreſſe,

Are but a new, and worſe edition

Of her ſome one thought, or one action:

She who in th'art of knowing Heaven, was growne

Here upon earth, to ſuch perfection,

That ſhe hath, ever ſince to Heaven ſhe came,

(In a far fairer point,) but read the ſame:

Shee, ſhee not ſatisfied with all this waight,

(For ſo much knowledge, as would over-fraight

Another, did but ballaſt her) is gone

As well t'enjoy, as get perfection.

[Page] And cals us after her, in that ſhee tooke,

(Taking her ſelfe) our beſt, and worthieſt booke.

Of our company in this life, and in the next.

Returne not, my Soule, from this extaſie,

And meditation of what thou ſhalt bee,

To earthly thoughts, till it to thee appeare,

With whom thy converſation muſt be there,

With whom wilt thou converſe? what ſtation

Canſt thou choſe out, free from infection,

That will not give thee theirs, nor drinke in thine?

Shalt thou not finde a ſpungie ſlacke Divine,

Drinke and ſucke in th'inſtructions of great men,

And for the word of God, vent them agen?

Are there not ſome Courts (and then, no things bee

So like as Courts) which, in this let us ſee,

That wits, and tongues of Libellers are weake,

Becauſe they do more ill, then theſe can ſpeake?

The poyſon's gone through all, poyſons affect

Chiefly the chiefeſt parts, but ſome, effect

In nailes, and haires, yea excrements, will ſhow;

So lyes the poyſon of ſinne in the moſt low.

Up, up, my drowſie Soule, where thy new eare

Shall in the Angels ſongs no diſcord heare;

Where thou ſhalt ſee the bleſſed Mother-maid

Joy in not being that, which men have ſaid.

Where ſhe is exalted more for being good,

Then for her intereſt of Mother-hood.

Up to thoſe Patriarchs, which did longer ſit

Expecting Chriſt, then they'have enjoy'd him yet.

Up to thoſe Prophets, which now gladly ſee

Their Propheſies growne to be Hiſtorie.

[Page] Up to th'Apoſtles, who did bravely runne

All the Suns courſe, with more light then the Sunne.

Up to thoſe Martyrs, who did calmly bleed

Oyle to th'Apoſtles Lamps, dew to their ſeed.

Up to thoſe Virgins, who thought, that almoſt

They made joyntenants with the Holy Ghoſt,

If they to any ſhould his Temple give.

Up, up, for in that ſquadron there doth live

She, who hath carried thither new degrees

(As to their number) to their dignities.

Shee, who being to her ſelfe a State, injoy'd

All royalties which any State employ'd;

For ſhee made warres, and triumph'd; reaſon ſtill

Did not o'rthrow, but rectifie her will:

And ſhe made peace, for no peace is like this,

That beauty, and chaſtity together kiſſe:

She did high juſtice, for ſhe crucified

Every firſt motion of rebellious pride:

And ſhe gave pardons, and was liberall,

For, onely her ſelfe except, ſhe pardon'd all:

Shee coy'nd, in this, that her impreſſion gave

To all our actions all the worth they have:

She gave protections; the thoughts of her breſt

Satans rude Officers could ne'r arreſt.

As theſe prerogatives being met in one,

Made her a ſoveraigne State; religion

Made her a Church; and theſe two made her all.

She who was all this All, and could not fall

To worſe, by company, (for ſhe was ſtill

More Antidote, then all the world was ill,

[Page] Shee, ſhee doth leave it, and by Death, ſurvive

All this, in Heaven; whether who doth not ſtrive

The more, becauſe ſhees there, he doth not know

That accidentall joyes in Heaven doe grow.

But pauſe, my ſoule; And ſtudy ere thou fall

Of eſſentiall joy in this life and in the next.

On accidentall joyes, th'eſſentiall.

Still before Acceſſories doe abide

A triall, muſt the principall be tride.

And what eſſentiall joy can'ſt thou expect

Here upon earth? what permanent effect

Of tranſitory cauſes? Doſt thou love

Beauty? (And beauty worthy'ſt is to move)

Poore couſened couſenor, that ſhe, and that thou,

Which did begin to love, are neither now;

You are both fluid, chang'd ſince yeſterday;

Next day repaires, (but ill) laſt dayes decay.

Nor are, (although the river keepe the name)

Yeſterdaies waters, and to daies the ſame.

So flowes her face, and thine eyes; neither now

That Saint nor Pilgrime, which your loving vow

Concern'd, remaines; but whil'ſt you thinke you bee

Conſtant, you'are hourely in inconſtancie.

Honour may have pretence unto our love,

Becauſe that God did live ſo long above

Without this Honour, and then lov'd it ſo,

That he at laſt made creatures to beſtow

Honour on him; not that he needed it,

But that, to his hands, man might grow more fit.

But ſince all Honours from inferiours flow,

(For they doe give it; Princes doe but ſhew

Whom they would have ſo honor'd) and that this

On ſuch opinions, and capacities

Is built, as riſe and fall, to more and leſſe:

Alas, 'tis but a caſuall happineſſe.

Hath ever any man to'himſelfe aſſign'd

[Page] This or that happineſſe to'arreſt his minde,

But that another man which takes a worſe,

Thinks him a foole for having tane that courſe?

They who did labour Babels tower to'erect,

Might have conſidered, that for that effect,

All this whole ſolid Earth could not allow

Nor furniſh forth materialls enough;

And that his Center, to raiſe ſuch a place

Was farre too little, to have beene the Baſe;

No more affords this world, foundation

To erect true joy, were all the meanes in one.

But as the Heathen made them ſeverall gods,

Of all Gods benefits, and all his rods,

(For as the Wine, and Corne, and Onions are

Gods unto them, ſo Agues bee, and warre)

And as by changing that whole precious Gold

To ſuch ſmall Copper coynes, they loſt the old,

And loſt their only God, who ever muſt

Be ſought alone, and not in ſuch a thruſt:

So much, mankinde true happineſſe miſtakes;

No Joy enjoyes that man, that many makes.

Then, Soule, to thy firſt pitch worke up againe;

Know that all lines which circles doe containe,

For once that they the Center touch, doe touch

Twice the circumference; and be thou ſuch;

Double on heaven thy thoughts on earth emploid;

All will not ſerve; Only who have enjoy'd

The ſight of God, in fulneſſe, can thinke it;

For it is both the object, and the wit.

This is eſſentiall joy, where neither hee

Can ſuffer diminution, nor wee;

[Page] 'Tis ſuch a full, and ſuch a filling good;

Had th'Angels once look'd on him, they had ſtood.

To fill the place of one of them, or more,

Shee whom wee celebrate, is gone before.

She, who had here ſo much eſſentiall joy,

As no chance could diſtract, much leſſe deſtroy;

Who with Gods preſence was acquainted ſo,

(Hearing, and ſpeaking to him) as to know

His face in any naturall Stone, or Tree,

Better then when in Images they bee:

Who kept by diligent devotion,

Gods Image, in ſuch reparation,

Within her heart, that what decay was growne,

Was her firſt Parents fault, and not her owne:

Who being ſolicited to any act,

Still heard God pleading his ſafe precontract;

Who by a faithfull confidence, was here

Betroth'd to God, and now is married there;

Whoſe twilights were more cleare, then our mid-day;

Who dreamt devoutlier, then moſt uſe to pray;

Who being here fil'd with grace, yet ſtrove to bee,

Both where more grace, and more capacitie

At once is given: ſhe to Heaven is gone,

Who made this world in ſome proportion

A heaven, and here, became unto us all,

Joy, (as our joyes admit) eſſentiall.

Of accidentall joyes in both places.

But could this low world joyes eſſentiall touch,

Heavens accidentall joyes would paſſe them much.

How poore and lame, muſt then our caſuall bee?

If thy Prince will his ſubjects to call thee

My Lord, and this doe ſwell thee, thou art than,

[Page] By being greater, growne to bee leſſe Man.

When no Phyſitian of redreſſe can ſpeake,

A joyfull caſuall violence may breake

A dangerous Apoſtem in thy breaſt;

And whil'ſt thou joyeſt in this, the dangerous reſt,

The bag may riſe up, and ſo ſtrangle thee.

What e'r was caſuall, may ever bee.

What ſhould the nature change? Or make the ſame

Certaine, which was but caſuall, when it came?

All caſuall joy doth loud and plainly ſay,

Only by comming, that it can away.

Only in Heaven joyes ſtrength is never ſpent;

And accidentall things are permanent.

Joy of a ſoules arrivall ne'r decaies;

For that ſoule ever joyes and ever ſtaies.

Joy that their laſt great Conſummation

Approaches in the reſurrection;

When earthly bodies more celeſtiall

Shall be, then Angels were, for they could fall;

This kinde of joy doth every day admit

Degrees of growth, but none of loſing it.

In this freſh joy, 'tis no ſmall part, that ſhee,

Shee, in whoſe goodneſſe, he that names degree,

Doth injure her; ('Tis loſſe to be cal'd beſt,

There where the ſtuffe is not ſuch as the reſt)

Shee, who left ſuch a bodie, as even ſhee

Only in Heaven could learne, how it can bee

Made better; for ſhee rather was two ſoules,

Or like to full on both ſides written Rols,

Where eyes might reade upon the outward skin,

As ſtrong Records for God, as mindes within,

[Page] Shee, who by making full perfection grow,

Peeces a Circle, and ſtill keepes it ſo,

Long'd for, and longing for it, to heaven is gone,

Where ſhee receives, and gives addition.

Concluſion.

Here in a place, where miſ-devotion frames

A thouſand Prayers to Saints, whoſe very names

The anciēt Church knew not, Heaven knows not yet:

And where, what lawes of Poetry admit,

Lawes of Religion have at leaſt the ſame,

Immortall Maide, I might invoke thy name.

Could any Saint provoke that appetite,

Thou here ſhould'ſt make me a french convertite.

But thou would'ſt not; nor would'ſt thou be content,

To take this, for my ſecond yeares true Rent.

Did this Coine beare any other ſtampe, then his,

That gave thee power to doe, me, to ſay this.

Since his will is, that to poſteritie,

Thou ſhould'ſt for life, and death, a patterne bee,

And that the world ſhould notice have of this,

The purpoſe, and th'authoritie is his;

Thou art the Proclamation; and I am

The Trumpet, at whoſe voyce the people came.

The Extaſie.

WHere, like a pillow on a bed,

A Pregnant banke ſwel'd up, to reſt

The violets reclining head,

Sat we two, one anothers beſt;

Our hands were firmely cimented

With a faſt balme, which thence did ſpring,

[Page] Our eye-beames twiſted, and did thred

Our eyes, upon one double ſtring,

So to'entergraft our hands, as yet

Was all the meanes to make us one,

And pictures in our eyes to get

Was all our propagation.

As 'twixt two equall Armies, Fate

Suſpends uncertaine victorie,

Our ſoules, (which to advance their ſtate,

Were gone out,) hung 'twixt her, and mee.

And whil'ſt our ſoules negotiate there,

Wee like ſepulchrall ſtatues lay,

All day, the ſame our poſtures were,

And wee ſaid nothing, all the day.

If any, ſo by love refin'd,

That he ſoules language underſtood,

And by good love were growen all minde,

Within convenient diſtance ſtood,

He (though he knowes not which ſoule ſpake,

Becauſe both meant, both ſpake the ſame)

Might thence a new concoction take,

And part farre purer then he came.

This Extaſie doth unperplex

(We ſaid) and tell us what we love,

Wee ſee by this, it was not ſexe

Wee ſee, we ſaw not what did move:

But as all ſeverall ſoules containe

Mixture of things, they know not what,

Love, theſe mixt ſoules, doth mixe againe,

And makes both one, each this and that.

A ſingle violet tranſplant,

[Page] The ſtrength, the colour, and the ſize,

(All which before was poore, and ſcant,)

Redoubles ſtill, and multiplies.

When love, with one another ſo

Interanimates two ſoules,

That abler ſoule, which thence doth flow,

Defects of lonelineſſe controules.

Wee then, who are this new ſoule, know,

Of what we are compos'd, and made,

For, th'Atomies of which we grow,

Are ſoules, whom no change can invade.

But O alas, ſo long, ſo farre

Our bodies why doe wee forbeare?

They are ours, though not wee, Wee are

The intelligences, they the ſpheares.

We owe them thankes, becauſe they thus,

Did us, to us, at firſt convay,

Yeelded their ſenſes force to us,

Nor are droſſe to us, but allay.

On man heavens influence workes not ſo,

But that it firſt imprints the ayre,

For ſoule into the ſoule may flow,

Though it to body firſt repaire.

As our blood labours to beget

Spirits, as like ſoules as it can,

Becauſe ſuch fingers need to knit

That ſubtile knot, which makes us man:

So muſt pure lovers ſoules deſcend

T'affections, and to faculties,

Which ſenſe may reach and apprehend,

Elſe a great Prince in priſon lies.

[Page] To'our bodies turne wee then, that ſo

Weake men on love reveal'd may looke;

Loves myſteries in ſoules doe grow,

But yet the body is his booke.

And if ſome lover, ſuch as wee,

Have heard this dialogue of one,

Let him ſtill marke us, he ſhall ſee

Small change, when we'are to bodies gone.

Loves Deitie.

I Long to talke with ſome old lovers ghoſt,

Who dyed before the god of Love was borne:

I cannot thinke that hee, who then lov'd moſt,

Sunke ſo low, as to love one which did ſcorne.

But ſince this god produc'd a deſtinie,

And that vice-nature, cuſtome, lets it be;

I muſt love her, that loves not mee.

Sure, they which made him god, meant not ſo much:

Nor he, in his young god head practis'd it.

But when an even flame two hearts did touch,

His office was indulgently to fit

Actives to paſſives. Correſpondencie

Only his ſubject was; It cannot bee

Love, till I love her, that loves mee.

But every moderne god will now extend

His vaſt prerogative, as far as Jove.

To rage, to luſt, to [...], to commend,

[Page] All is the purlewe of the God of Love.

Oh were wee wak'ned by this Tyrannie

To ungod this child againe, it could not beo

I ſhould love her, who loves not mee.

Rebell and Atheiſt too, why murmure I,

As though I felt the worſt that love could doe?

Love may make me leave loving, or might trie

A deeper plague, to make her love mee too,

Which ſince ſhe loves before, I'am loth to ſee;

Falſhood is worſe then hate; and that muſt bee,

If ſhee whom I love, ſhould love mee.

Loves diet.

TO what a comberſome unwieldineſſe

And burdenous corpulence my love had growne,

But that I did, to make it leſſe,

And keepe it in proportion,

Give it a diet, made it feed upon

That which love worſt endures, diſcretion.

Above one ſigh a day I'allow'd him not,

Of which my fortune, and my faults had part;

And if ſometimes by ſtealth he got

A ſhe ſigh from my miſtreſſe heart,

And thought to feaſt on that, I let him ſee

'Twas neither very ſound, nor meant to mee;

[Page]

If he wroung from mee'a teare, I brin'd it ſo

With ſcorne or ſhame, that him it nouriſh'd not;

If he ſuck'd hers, I let him know

'Twas not a teare, which hee had got,

His drinke was counterfeit, as was his meat;

For, eyes which rowle towards all, weepe not, but ſweat.

What ever he would dictate, I writ that,

But burnt my letters; When ſhe writ to me,

And that that favour made him fat,

I ſaid, if any title bee

Convey'd by this, Ah, what doth it availe,

To be the fortieth name in an entaile?

Thus I redeem'd my buzard love, to flye

At what, and when, and how, and where I chuſe;

Now negligent of ſports I lye,

And now as other Fawkners uſe,

I ſpring a miſtreſſe, ſweare, write, ſigh and weepe:

And the game kill'd, or loſt, goe talke, and ſleepe.

The Will.

[Page]

BEfore I ſigh my laſt gaſpe, let me breath,

Great love, ſome Legacies; Here I bequeath

Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can ſee,

If they be blinde, then Love, I give them thee;

My tongue to Fame; to'Embaſſadours mine eares;

To women or the ſea, my teares;

Thou, Love, haſt taught mee heretofore

By making mee ſerve her who'had twenty more,

That I ſhould give to none, but ſuch, as had too much before.

My conſtancie I to the planets give,

My truth to them, who at the Court doe live;

Mine ingenuity and openneſſe,

To Jeſuites; to Buffones my penſiveneſſe;

My ſilence to'any, who abroad hath beene;

My mony to a Capuchin.

Thou Love taught'ſt me, by appointing mee

To love there, where no love receiv'd can be,

Onely to give to ſuch as have an incapacitie.

My faith I give to Roman Catholiques;

All my good works unto the Schiſmaticks

Of Amſterdam; my beſt civility

And Courtſhip, to an Univerſitie;

My modeſty I give to ſouldiers bare;

My patience let gameſters ſhare.

[Page] Thou Love taughtſt mee, by making mee

Love her that holds my love diſparity,

Onely to give to thoſe that count my gifts indignity.

I give my reputation to thoſe

Which were my friends; Mine induſtrie to foes;

To Schoolemen I bequeath my doubtfulneſſe;

My ſickneſſe to Phyſitians, or exceſſe;

To Nature, all that I in Ryme have writ;

And to my company my wit;

Thou love, by making mee adore

Her, who begot this love in mee before,

Taughtſt me to make, as though I gave, when I did but reſtore.

To him for whom the paſſing bell next tolls,

I give my phyſick bookes; my writen rowles

Of Morall counſels, I to Bedlam give;

My brazen medals, unto them which live

In want of bread; to them which paſſe among

All forrainers, mine Engliſh tongue.

Thou, Love, by making mee love one

Who thinkes her friendſhip a fit portion

For yonger lovers, doſt my gifts thus diſproportion.

Therefore I'll give no more; But I'll undoe

The world by dying; becauſe love dies too.

Then all your beauties will bee no more worth

Then gold in Mines, where none doth draw it forth.

And all your graces no more uſe ſhall have

Then a Sun dyall in a grave,

[Page] Thou Love taughtſt mee, by making mee

Love her, who doth neglect both mee and thee,

To'invent, and practiſe this one way, to'annihilate all three.

The Funerall.

WHo ever comes to ſhroud me, do not harme

Nor queſtion much

That ſubtile wreath of haire, which crowne, my arme;

The myſtery, the ſigne you muſt not touch,

For'tis my outward Soule

Viceroy to that, which unto heaven being gone,

Will leave this to controule,

And keepe theſe limbes, her Provinces, from diſſolution.

For if the ſinewie thread my braine lets fall

Through every part,

Can tye thoſe parts, and make mee one of all;

Thoſe haires which upward grew, and ſtrength and art

Have from a better braine,

Can better do'it; except ſhe meant that I

By this ſhould know my pain,

As priſoners then are manacled, when they'are condem'nd to die.

What ere ſhee meant by'it, bury it by me,

For ſince I am

Loves martyr, it might breed idolatrie,

If into others hands theſe reliques came;

[Page] As 'twas humility

To afford to it all that a Soule can doe,

So, 'tis ſome bravery,

That ſince you would have none of mee, I bury ſome of you.

The Bloſsome.

LIttle think'ſt thou, poore flower,

Whom I have watch'd ſixe or ſeaven dayes,

And ſeene thy birth, and ſeene what every houre

Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raiſe,

And now doſt laugh and triumph on this bough,

Little think'ſt thou

That it will freeze anon, and that I ſhall

To morrow finde thee falne, or not at all.

Little think'ſt thou poore heart

That labours yet to neſtle thee,

And think'ſt by hovering here to get a part

In a forbidden or forbidding tree,

And hop'ſt her ſtiffeneſſe by long ſiege to bow:

Little think'ſt thou,

That thou to morrow, ere that Sunne doth wake,

Muſt with this Sunne, and mee a journey take.

But thou which lov'ſt to bee

Subtile to plague thy ſelfe, wilt ſay,

[Page] Alas, if you muſt goe, what's that to mee?

Here lyes my buſineſſe, and here I will ſtay:

You goe to friends, whoſe love and meanes preſent

Various content

To your eyes, eares, and taſt, and every part.

If then your body goe, what need your heart?

Well then, ſtay here; but know,

When thou haſt ſtayd and done thy moſt;

A naked thinking heart, that makes no ſhow,

Is to a woman, but a kinde of Ghoſt;

How ſhall ſhee know my heart; or having none,

Know thee for one?

Practiſe may make her know ſome other part,

But take my word, ſhee doth not know a Heart.

Meet mee at London, then,

Twenty dayes hence, and thou ſhalt ſee

Mee freſher, and more fat, by being with men,

Then if I had ſtaid ſtill with her and thee.

For Gods ſake, if you can, be you ſo too:

I will give you

There, to another friend, whom wee ſhall finde

As glad to have my body, as my minde.

The Primroſe.

[Page]

VPon this Primroſe hill,

Where, it Heav'n would diſtill

A ſhoure of raine, each ſeverall drop might goe

To his owne primroſe, and grow Manna ſo;

And where their forme, and their infinitie

Make a terreſtriall Galaxie,

As the ſmall ſtarres doe in the skie:

I walke to finde a true Love; and I ſee

That 'tis not a mere woman, that is ſhee,

But muſt, or more, or leſſe then woman bee.

Yet know I not, which flower

I wiſh; a ſixe, or foure;

For ſhould my true-Love leſſe then woman bee,

She were ſcarce any thing; and then ſhould ſhee

Be more then woman, ſhee would get above

All thought of ſexe, and thinke to move

My heart to ſtudy her, and not to love;

Both theſe were monſters; Since there muſt reſide

Falſhood in woman, I could more abide,

She were by art, then Nature falſify'd.

Live Primroſe then, and thrive

With thy true number five;

And women, whom this flower doth repreſent,

With this myſterious number be content;

[Page] Ten is the fartheſt number, if halfe ten

Belongs unto each woman, then

Each woman may take halfe us men,

Or if this will not ſerve their turne, Since all

Numbers are odde, or even, and they fall

Firſt into this five, women may take us all.

The Relique.

WHen my grave is broke up againe

Some ſecond gheſt to entertaine,

(For graves have learn'd that woman-head

To be to more then one a Bed)

And he that digs it, ſpies

A bracelet of bright haire about the bone,

Will he not let'us alone,

And thinke that there a loving couple lies,

Who thought that this device might be ſome way

To make their ſoules, at the laſt buſie day,

Meet at this grave, and make a little ſtay?

If this fall in a time, or land,

Where miſ-devotion doth command,

Then, he that digges us up, will bring

Us, to the Biſhop, and the King,

To make us Reliques; then

Thou ſhalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I

A ſomething elſe thereby;

[Page] All women ſhall adore us, and ſome men;

And ſince at ſuch time, miracles are ſought,

I would have that age by this paper taught

What miracles wee harmeleſſe lovers wrought.

Firſt, we lov'd well and faithfully,

Yet knew not what wee lov'd, nor why,

Difference of ſex no more wee new,

Then our Guardian Angells doe,

Comming and going, wee,

Perchance might kiſſe, but not between thoſe meales

Our hands ne'r toucht the ſeales,

Which nature, injur'd by late law, ſets free,

Theſe miracles wee did; but now alas,

All meaſure, and all language, I ſhould paſſe,

Should I tell what a miracle ſhee was.

The Dampe.

WHen I am dead, and Doctors know not why,

And my friends curioſitie

Will have me cut up to ſurvay each part,

When they ſhall finde your Picture in my heart,

You thinke a ſodaine dampe of love

Will through all their ſenſes move,

And worke on them as mee, and ſo preferre

Your murder, to the name of Maſſacre.

[Page]

Poore victories; But if you dare be brave,

And pleaſure in your conqueſt have,

Firſt kill th'enormous Gyant, your Diſdaine,

And let th'enchantreſſe Honor, next be ſlaine,

And like a Goth and Vandall rize,

Deface Records, and Hiſtories

Of your owne arts and triumphs over men,

And without ſuch advantage kill me then.

For I could muſter up as well as you

My Gyants, and my Witches too,

Which are vaſt Conſtancy, and Secretneſſe,

But theſe I neyther looke for, nor profeſſe,

Kill mee as Woman, let mee die

As a meere man; doe you but try

Your paſſive valor, and you ſhall finde than,

In that you'have odds enough of any man.

The Diſſolution.

SHee'is dead; And all which die

To their firſt Elements reſolve;

And wee were mutuall Elements to us,

And made of one another.

My body then doth hers involve,

And thoſe things whereof I conſiſt, hereby

In me abundant grow, and burdenous,

And nouriſh not, but ſmother.

[Page] My fire of Paſſion, ſighes of ayre,

Water of teares, and earthly ſad deſpaire,

Which my materialls bee,

But ne'r worne out by loves ſecuritie,

Shee, to my loſſe, doth by her death repaire,

And I might live long wretched ſo

But that my fire doth with my fuell grow.

Now as thoſe Active Kings

Whoſe foraine conqueſt treaſure brings,

Receive more, and ſpend more, and ſooneſt breake:

This (which I am amaz'd that I can ſpeake)

This death, hath with my ſtore

My uſe encreas'd.

And ſo my ſoule more earneſtly releas'd,

Will outſtrip hers; As bullets flowen before

A latter bullet may o'rtake, the pouder being more.

A Ieat King ſent

THou art not ſo black, as my heart,

Nor halfe ſo brittle, as her heart, thou art;

What would'ſt thou ſay? ſhall both our properties by thee bee ſpoke,

Nothing more endleſſe, nothing ſooner broke?

Marriage rings are not of this ſtuffe;

Oh, why ſhould ought leſſe precious, or leſſe tough

Figure our loves? Except in thy name thou have bid it ſay

I'am cheap, & nought but faſhion, fling me'away.

[Page]

Yet ſtay with mee ſince thou art come,

Circle this fingers top, which did'ſt her thombe.

Be juſtly proud, and gladly ſafe, that thou doſt dwell with me,

She that, Oh, broke her faith, would ſoon breake thee.

Negative love.

I Never ſtoop'd ſo low, as they

Which on an eye, cheeke, lip, can prey,

Seldome to them, which ſoare no higher

Then vertue or the minde to'admire,

For ſenſe, and underſtanding may

Know, what gives fuell to their fire:

My love, though ſilly, is more brave,

For may I miſſe, when ere I crave,

If I know yet, what I would have.

If that be ſimply perfecteſt

Which can by no way be expreſt

But Negatives, my love is ſo.

To All, which all love, I ſay no.

If any who deciphers beſt,

What we know not, our ſelves, can know,

Let him teach mee that nothing; This

As yet my eaſe, and comfort is,

Though I ſpeed not, I cannot miſſe.

The Prohibition.

[Page]

TAke heed of loving mee,

At leaſt remember, I forbade it thee;

Not that I ſhall repaire my'unthrifty waſt

Of Breath and Blood, upon thy ſighes, and teares,

By being to mee then that which thou waſt;

But, ſo great Joy, our life at once outweares,

Then, leaſt thy love, by my death, fruſtrate bee,

If thou love mee, take heed of loving mee.

Take heed of hating mee,

Or too much triumph in the Victorie.

Not that I ſhall be mine owne officer,

And hate with hate againe retaliate;

But thou wilt loſe the ſtile of conquerour,

If I, thy conqueſt, periſh by thy hate.

Then, leaſt my being nothing leſſen thee,

If thou hate mee, take heed of hating mee.

Yet, love and hate mee too,

So, theſe extreames ſhall ne'r their office doe;

Love mee, that I may die the gentler way;

Hate mee, becauſe thy love is too great for mee;

Or let theſe two, themſelves, not me decay;

So ſhall I live thy ſtay, not triumph bee;

Leſt thou thy love and hate and mee undoe

To let mee live, Oh love and hate mee too.

The Expiration.

[Page]

SO, ſo, breake off this laſt'lamenting kiſſe,

Which ſucks two ſoules, and vapors Both away,

Turne thou ghoſt that way, and let mee turne this,

And let our ſelves benight our happieſt day,

Wee aske none leave to love; nor will we owe

Any, ſo cheape a death, as ſaying, Goe;

Goe; and if that word have not quite kil'd thee,

Eaſe mee with death, by bidding mee goe too.

Oh, if it have, let my word worke on mee,

And a juſt office on a murderer doe.

Except it be too late, to kill me ſo,

Being double dead, going, and bidding, goe.

The Computation.

FOr the firſt twenty yeares, ſince yeſterday,

I ſcarce beleev'd, thou could'ſt be gone away,

For forty more, I fed on favours paſt,

And forty'on hopes, that thou would'ſt, they might laſt.

Teares drown'd one hundred, and ſighes blew out two,

A thouſand, I did neither thinke, nor doe.

Or not divide, all being one thought of you;

Or in a thouſand more, forgot that too.

Yet call not this long life; But thinke that I

Am, by being dead, Immortall; Can ghoſts die?

Elegie.

[Page]

LAnguage thou art too narrow, and too weake

To eaſe us now; great ſorrow cannot ſpeake;

If we could ſigh out accents, and weepe words,

Griefe weares, and leſſens, that tears breath affords,

Sad hearts, the leſſe they ſeeme the more they are,

(So guiltieſt men ſtand muteſt at the barre)

Not that they know not, feele not their eſtate,

But extreme ſenſe hath made them deſperate,

Sorrow, to whom we owe all that we bee;

Tyrant, in the fift and greateſt Monarchy,

Was't, that ſhe did poſſeſſe all hearts before,

Thou haſt kil'd her, to make thy Empire more?

Knew'ſt thou ſome would, that knew her not, lament,

As in a deluge periſh th'innocent?

Was't not enough to have that palace wonne,

But thou muſt raze it too, that was undone?

Had'ſt thou ſtaid there, and look'd out at her eyes,

All had ador'd thee that now from thee flies,

For they let out more light, then they tooke in,

They told not when, but did the day beginne;

She was too Saphirine, and cleare to thee;

Clay, flint, and jeat now thy fit dwellings be;

Alas, ſhee was too pure, but not too weake;

Who e'r ſaw Chriſtall Ordinance but would break?

And if wee be thy conqueſt, by her fall

Th'haſt loſt thy end, for in her periſh all;

Or if we live, we live but to rebell,

They know her better now, that knew her well;

If we ſhould vapour out, and pine, and die;

Since, ſhee firſt went, that were not miſerie;

[Page] Shee chang'd our world with hers; now ſhe is gone,

Mirth and proſperity is oppreſſion;

For of all morall vertues ſhe was all,

The Ethicks ſpeake of vertues Cardinall;

Her ſoule was Paradiſe; the Cherubin

Set to keepe it was grace, that kept out ſinne;

Shee had no more then let in death, for wee

All reape conſumption from one fruitfull tree;

God tooke her hence, leſt ſome of us ſhould love

Her, like that plant, him and his lawes above,

And when wee teares, hee mercy ſhed in this,

To raiſe our mindes to heaven where now ſhe is;

Who if her vertues would have let her ſtay

Wee'had had a Saint, have now a holiday;

Her heart was that ſtrange buſh, where, ſacred fire,

Religion, did not conſume, but'inſpire

Such piety, ſo chaſt uſe of Gods day,

That what we turne to feaſt, ſhe turn'd to pray,

And did prefigure here, in devout taſt,

The reſt of her high Sabaoth, which ſhall laſt;

Angels did hand her up, who next God dwell,

(For ſhe was of that order whence moſt fell)

Her body left with us, leſt ſome had ſaid,

Shee could not die, except they ſaw her dead;

For from leſſe vertue, and leſſe beautiouſneſſe,

The Gentiles fram'd them Gods and Goddeſſes.

The ravenous earth that now woes her to be,

Earth too, will be a Lemnia; and the tree

That wraps that chriſtall in a wooden Tombe,

Shall be tooke up ſpruce, fill'd with diamond;

[Page] And we her ſad glad friends all beare a part

Of griefe, for all would waſte a Stoicks heart.

Elegie to the Lady Bedford.

YOu that are ſhe, and you that's double ſhee,

In her dead face, halfe of your ſelfe ſhall ſee;

Shee was the other part, for ſo they doe

Which build them friendſhips, become one of two;

So two, that but themſelves no third can fit,

Which were to be ſo, when they were not yet

Twinnes, though their birth Cuſco, and Muſco take,

As divers ſtarres one Conſtellation make,

Pair'd like two eyes, have equall motion, ſo

Both but one meanes to ſee, one way to goe;

Had you dy'd firſt, a carcaſſe ſhee had beene;

And wee your rich Tombe in her face had ſeene;

She like the Soule is gone, and you here ſtay

Not a live friend; but thother halfe of clay;

And ſince you act that part, As men ſay, here

Lies ſuch a Prince, when but one part is there;

And do all honour: and devotion due;

Unto the whole, ſo wee all reverence you;

For, ſuch a friendſhip who would not adore

In you, who are all what both was before,

Not all, as if ſome periſhed by this,

But ſo, as all in you contracted is;

As of this all, though many parts decay,

[Page] The pure which elemented them ſhall ſtay;

And though diffus'd, and ſpread in infinite,

Shall recollect, and in one All unite:

So madame, as her Soule to heaven is fled,

Her fleſh reſts in the earth, as in the bed;

Her vertues do, as to their proper ſpheare,

Returne to dwell with you, of whom they were;

As perfect motions are all circular,

So they to you, their ſea, whence leſſe ſtreames are;

Shee was all ſpices, you all metalls; ſo

In you two wee did both rich Indies know;

And as no fire, nor ruſt can ſpend or waſte

One dramme of gold, but what was firſt ſhall laſt,

Though it bee forc'd in water, earth, ſalt, aire,

Expans'd in infinite, none will impaire;

So, to your ſelfe you may additions take,

But nothing can you leſſe, or changed make.

Seeke not in ſeeking new, to ſeeme to doubt,

That you can can match her, or not be without;

But let ſome faithfull booke in her roome be,

Yet but of Iudith no ſuch booke as ſhee.

Elegie.

[Page]

TO make the doubt cleare, that no woman's true,

Was it my fate to prove it ſtrong in you?

Thought I, but one had breathed pureſt aire,

And muſt ſhe needs be falſe becauſe ſhe's faire?

Is it your beauties marke, or of your youth,

Or your perfection, not to ſtudy truth?

Or thinke you heaven is deafe, or hath no eyes?

Or thoſe it hath, ſmile at your perjuries?

Are vowes ſo cheape with women, or the matter

Whereof they are made, that they are writ in water,

And blowne away with winde? Or doth their breath

(Both hot and cold) at once make life and death?

Who could have thought ſo many accents ſweet

Form'd into words, ſo many ſighs ſhould meete

As from our hearts, ſo many oathes, and teares

Sprinkled among, (all ſweeter by our feares

And the divine impreſſion of ſtolne kiſſes,

That ſeal'd the reſt) ſhould now prove empty bliſſes?

Did you draw bonds to forfet? ſigne to breake?

Or muſt we reade you quite from what you ſpeake,

And finde the truth out the wrong way? or muſt

Hee firſt deſire you falſe, would wiſh you juſt?

O I prophane, though moſt of women be

This kinde of beaſt, my thought ſhall except thee;

My deareſt Love, though froward jealouſie,

With circumſtance might urge thy'inconſtancie,

[Page] Sooner I'll thinke the Sunne will ceaſe to cheare

The teeming earth, and that forget to beare,

Sooner that rivers will runne back, or Thames

With ribs of Ice in June would bind his ſtreames;

Or Nature, by whoſe ſtrength the world endures,

Would change her courſe, before you alter yours;

But O that treacherous breaſt to whom weake you

Did truſt our Counſells, and wee both may rue,

Having his falſhood found too late, 'twas hee

That made me caſt you guilty, and you me,

Whilſt he, black wrech, betray'd each ſimple word

Wee ſpake, unto the cunning of a third;

Curſt may hee be, that ſo our love hath ſlaine,

And wander on the earth, wretched as Cain,

Wretched as hee, and not deſerve leaſt pitty;

In plaguing him, let miſery be witty;

Let all eyes ſhunne him, and hee ſhunne each eye,

Till hee be noyſome as his infamie;

May he without remorſe deny God thrice,

And not be truſted more on his Soules price;

And after all ſelfe torment, when hee dyes,

May Wolves teare out his heart, Vultures his eyes,

Swine eate his bowels, and his falſer tongue

That utter'd all, be to ſome Raven flung,

And let his carrion coarſe be a longer feaſt

To the Kings dogges; then any other beaſt;

Now have I curſt, let us our love revive;

In mee the flame was never more alive;

I could beginne againe to court and praiſe,

And in that pleaſure lengthen the ſhort dayes

[Page] Of my lifes leaſe; like Painters that do take

Delight, not in made worke, but whiles they make;

I could renew thoſe times, when firſt I ſaw

Love in your eyes, that gave my tongue the law

To like what you lik'd; and at maskes and playes

Commend the ſelfe ſame Actors, the ſame wayes;

Aske how you did, and often with intent

Of being officious, be impertinent;

All which were ſuch ſoft paſtimes, as in theſe

Love was as ſubtilly catch'd, as a diſeaſe;

But being got it is a treaſure ſweet,

Which to defend is harder then to get:

And ought not be prophan'd on either part,

For though 'tis got by chance, 'tis kept by art.

§

NO Lover ſaith, I love, nor any other

Can judge a perfect Lover;

Hee thinkes that elſe none can or will agree,

That any loves but hee:

I cannot ſay I lov'd, for who can ſay

Hee was kill'd yeſterday.

Love with exceſſe of heat, more yong then old,

Death kills with too much cold;

Wee dye but once, and who lov'd laſt did die,

Hee that ſaith twice, doth lye:

For though hee ſeeme to move, and ſtirre a while,

It doth the ſenſe beguile.

[Page] Such life is like the light which bideth yet

When the lifes light is ſet,

Or like the heat, which, fire in ſolid matter

Leaves behinde, two houres after.

Once I love and dyed; and am now become

Mine Epitaph and Tombe.

Here dead men ſpeake their laſt, and ſo do I;

Love-ſlaine, loe, here I dye.

A Hymne to Chriſt, at the Authors laſt going into Germany.

[Page]

IN what torne ſhip ſoever I embarke,

That ſhip ſhall be my embleme of thy Arke;

What ſea ſoever ſwallow mee, that flood

Shall be to mee an embleme of thy blood;

Though thou with clouds of anger do diſguiſe

Thy face; yet through that maske I know thoſe eyes,

Which, though they turne away ſometimes,

They never will deſpiſe.

I ſacrifice this Iland unto thee,

And all whom I lov'd there, and who lov'd mee;

When I have put our ſeas twixt them and mee,

Put thou thy ſeas betwixt my ſinnes and thee.

As the trees ſap doth ſeeke the root below

In winter, in my winter now I goe,

Where none but thee, th'Eternall root

Of true Love I may know.

Nor thou nor thy religion doſt controule,

The amorouſneſſe of an harmonious Soule,

But thou would'ſt have that love thy ſelfe: As thou

Art jealous, Lord, ſo I am jealous now,

Thou lov'ſt not, till from loving more, thou free

My ſoule: Who ever gives, takes libertie:

[Page] O, if thou car'ſt not whom I love

Alas, thou lov'ſt not mee.

Seale then this bill of my Divorce to All,

On whom thoſe fainter beames of love did fall;

Marry thoſe loves, which in youth ſcattered bee

On Fame, Wit, Hopes (falſe miſtreſſes) to thee.

Churches are beſt for Prayer, that have leaſt light:

To ſee God only, I goe out of ſight:

And to ſcape ſtormy dayes, I chuſe

An Everlaſting night.

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

[Page]

CHAP. I.

1

HOw ſits this citie, late moſt populous,

Thus ſolitary, and like a widdow thus?

Ampleſt of Nations, Queene of Provinces

She was, who now thus tributary is?

2

Still in the night ſhee weepes, and her teares fall

Downe by her cheekes along, and none of all

Her lovers comfort her; Perfidiouſly

Her friends have dealt, and now are enemie.

3

Unto great bondage, and afflictions

Juda is captive led; Thoſe nations

With whom ſhee dwells, no place of reſt afford,

In ſtreights ſhee meets her Perſecutors ſword.

4

Emptie are the gates of Sion, and her waies

Mourne, becauſe none come to her ſolemne dayes.

Her Prieſts doe groane, her maides are comfortleſſe,

And ſhee's unto her ſelfe a bitterneſſe.

[Page]

5

Her foes are growne her head, and live at Peace,

Becauſe when her tranſgreſſions did increaſe,

The Lord ſtrooke her with ſadneſſe: Th'enemie

Doth drive her children to captivitie.

6

From Sions daughter is all beauty gone,

Like Harts, which ſeeke for Paſture, and find none,

Her Princes are, and now before the foe

Which ſtill purſues them, without ſtrength they go.

7

Now in their daies of Teares, Jeruſalem

(Her men ſlaine by the foe, none ſuccouring them)

Remembers what of old, ſhee eſteemed moſt,

Whiles her foes laugh at her, for what ſhe hath loſt.

8

Jeruſalem hath ſinn'd, therefore is ſhee

Remov'd, as women in uncleanneſſe bee;

Who honor'd, ſcorne her, for her foulneſſe they

Have ſeene, her ſelfe doth groane, and turne away.

9

Her foulneſſe in her skirts was ſeene, yet ſhe

Remembred not her end; Miraculouſly

Therefore ſhee fell, none comforting: Behold

O Lord my affliction, for the Foe growes bold.

10

Upon all things where her delight hath beene,

The foe hath ſtretch'd his hand, for ſhee hath ſeene

Heathen, whom thou command'ſt, ſhould not doe ſo,

Into her holy Sanctuary goe.

11

[Page]

And all her people groane, and ſeeke for bread;

And they have given, only to be fed,

All precious things, wherein their pleaſure lay:

How cheape I'am growne, O Lord, behold, and weigh.

12

All this concernes not you, who paſſe by mee,

O ſee, and marke if any ſorrow bee

Like to my ſorrow, which Jehova hath

Done to mee in the day of his fierce wrath?

13

That fire, which by himſelfe is governed

He hath caſt from heaven on my bones, and ſpred

A net before my feet, and mee o'rthrowne,

And made me languiſh all the day alone.

14

His hand hath of my ſinnes framed a yoake

Which wreath'd, and caſt upon my neck, hath broke

My ſtrength. The Lord unto thoſe enemies

Hath given mee, from whence I cannot riſe.

15

He under foot hath troden in my ſight

My ſtrong men; He did company invite

To breake my young men, he the winepreſſe hath

Trod upon Juda's daughter in his wrath.

16

For theſe things doe I weepe, mine eye, mine eye

Caſts water out; For he which ſhould be nigh

To comfort mee, is now departed farre,

The foe prevailes, forlorne my children are.

[Page]

17

There's none, though Sion do ſtretch out her hand

To comfort her, it is the Lords command

That Iacobs foes girt him. Ieruſalem

Is as an uncleane woman amongſt them.

18

But yet the Lord is juſt, and righteous ſtill,

I have rebell'd againſt his holy will;

O heare all people, and my ſorrow ſee,

My maides, my young men in captivitie.

19

I called for my lovers then, but they

Deceiv'd mee, and my Prieſts, and Elders lay

Dead in the citie; for they ſought for meat

Which ſhould refreſh their ſoules, they could not get.

20

Becauſe I am in ſtreights, Iehova ſee

My heart return'd, my bowells muddy bee,

Becauſe I have rebell'd ſo much, as faſt

The ſword without, as death within, doth waſt.

21

Of all which heare I mourne, none comforts mee,

My foes have heard my griefe, and glad they be,

That thou haſt done it; But thy promis'd day

Will come, when, as I ſuffer, ſo ſhall they.

22

Let all their wickedneſſe appeare to thee,

Doe unto them, as thou haſt done to mee,

For all my ſinnes: The ſighs which I have had

Are very many, and my heart is ſad.

CHAP. II.

[Page]

1

HOw over Sions daughter hath God hung

His wraths thicke cloud? and from heaven hath flung,

To earth the beauty of Iſrael, and hath

Forgot his foot-ſtoole in the day of wrath?

2

The Lord unſparingly hath ſwallowed

All Jacobs dwellings, and demoliſhed

To ground the ſtrengths of Iuda, and prophan'd

The Princes of the Kingdome, and the land.

3

In heat of wrath, the horne of Iſrael hee

Hath cleane cut off, and leſt the enemie

Be hindred, his right hand he doth retire,

But is towards Iacob, All-devouring fire.

4

Like to an enemie he bent his bow,

His right hand was in poſture of a foe,

To kill what Sions daughter did deſire,

'Gainſt whom his wrath, he poured forth, like fire.

5

For like an enemie Iehova is,

Devouring Iſrael, and his Palaces,

Deſtroying holds, giving additions

To Iuda's daughters lamentations.

[Page]

6

Like to a garden hedge he hath caſt downe

The place where was his congregation,

And Sions feaſts and ſabbaths are forgot;

Her King, her Prieſt, his wrath regardeth not.

7

The Lord forſakes his Altar, and deteſts

His Sanctuary, and in the foes hands reſts

Palace, and the walls, in which their cries

Are heard, as in the true ſolemnities.

8

The Lord hath caſt a line, ſo to confound

And levell Sions walls unto the ground,

He drawes not back his hand; which doth oreturne

The wall, and Rampart, which together mourne.

9

Their gates are ſunke into the ground, and hee

Hath broke the barre; their King and Princes bee

Amongſt the heathen, without law, nor there

Unto their Prophets doth the Lord appeare.

10

There Sions Elders on the ground are plac'd,

And ſilence keepe; Duſt on their heads they caſt,

In ſack cloth have they girt themſelves, and low

The Virgins towards ground, their heads do throw.

11

My bowells are growne muddy, and mine eyes

Are faint with weeping: and my liver lies

Pour'd out upon the ground, for miſerie

That ſucking children in the ſtreets doe die.

[Page]

12

When they had cryed unto their Mothers, where

Shall we have bread, and drinke? they fainted there

And in the ſtreet like wounded perſons lay

Till 'twixt their mothers breaſts they went away.

13

Daughter Ieruſalem, Oh what may bee

A witneſſe, or compariſon for thee?

Sion, to caſe thee, what ſhall I name like thee?

Thy breach is like the ſea, what help can bee?

14

For, the vaine fooliſh things thy Prophets ſought,

Thee, thine iniquities they have not taught,

Which might diſturne thy bondage: but for thee

Falſe burthens, and falſe cauſes they would ſee.

15

The paſſengers doe clap their hands, and hiſſe

And wag their head at thee, and ſay, Is this

That citie, which ſo many men did call

Joy of the earth, and perfecteſt of all?

16

Thy foes doe gape upon thee, and they hiſſe,

And gnaſh their teeth, and ſay, Devoure wee this,

For this is certainly the day which wee

Expected, and which now we finde, and ſee.

17

The Lord hath done that which he purpoſed,

Fulfill'd his word of old determined;

He hath throwne downe, and not ſpar'd, and thy foe

Made glad above thee, and advanc'd him ſo.

[Page]

18

But now, their hearts againſt the Lord do call,

Therefore, O walls of Sion, let teares fall

Downe like a river, day and night; take thee

No reſt, but let thine eye inceſſant be.

19

Ariſe, cry in the night, poure, for thy ſinnes,

Thy heart, like water, when the watch begins;

Lift up thy hands to God, leſt children dye,

Which, faint for hunger, in the ſtreets doe lye.

20

Behold O Lord, conſider unto whom

Thou haſt done this; what, ſhall the women come

To eate their children of a ſpanne? ſhall thy

Prophet and Prieſt be ſlaine in Sanctuary?

21

On ground in ſtreets, the yong and old do lye,

My virgins and yong men by ſword do dye;

Them in the day of thy wrath thou haſt ſlaine,

Nothing did thee from killing them containe.

22

As to a ſolemne feaſt, all whom I fear'd

Thou call'ſt about mee; when his wrath appear'd.

None did remaine or ſcape, for thoſe which I

Brought up, did periſh by mine enemie.

Chap. III.

[Page]

1 I Am the man which have affliction ſeene,

Under the rod of Gods wrath having beene,

2 He hath led mee to darkneſſe, not to light,

3 And againſt mee all day, his hand doth fight.

4 Hee hath broke my bones, worne out my fleſh and skinne,

5 Built up againſt mee; and hath girt mee in

With hemlocke, and with labour; 6. and ſet mee

In darke, as they who dead for ever bee.

7 Hee hath hedg'd me leſt I ſcape, and added more

To my ſteele fetters, heavier then before,

When I crie out, he out ſhuts my prayer: 9 And hath

Stop'd with hewn ſtone my way, & turn'd my path.

10 And like a Lion hid in ſecrecie,

Or Beare which lyes in wait, he was to mee,

11 He ſtops my way, teares me, made deſolate,

12 And hee makes mee the marke he ſhooteth at.

13 Hee made the children of his quiver paſſe

Into my reines, 14 I with my people was

All the day long, a ſong and mockery.

15 Hee hath fill'd mee with bitterneſſe, and he

[Page]

Hath made me drunke with wormewood. 16 He hath burſt

My teeth with ſtones, and covered mee with duſt;

17 And thus my Soule farre off from peace was ſet,

And my proſperity I did forget.

18 My ſtrength, my hope (unto my ſelfe Iſaid)

Which from the Lord ſhould come, is periſhed.

19 But when my mournings I do thinke upon,

My wormwood, hemlocke, and affliction,

20 My Soule is humbled in remembring this;

21 My heart conſiders, therefore, hope there is,

22 'Tis Gods great mercy we'are not utterly

Conſum'd, for his compaſſions do not die;

23 For every morning they renewed bee,

For great, O Lord, is thy fidelity.

24 The Lord is, ſaith my Soule, my portion,

And therefore in him will I hope alone.

25 The Lord is good to them, who on him relie,

And to the Soule that ſeeks him earneſtly.

26 It is both good to truſt, and to attend

(The Lords ſalvation) unto the end:

27'Tis good for one his yoake in youth to beare;

28 He ſits alone, and doth all ſpeech forbeare,

Becauſe he hath borne it. 29 And his mouth he layes

Deepe in the duſt, yet then in hope he ſtayes.

[Page]

30 He gives his cheekes to whoſoever will

Strike him, and ſo he is reproched ſtill.

31 For, not for ever doth the Lord forſake,

32 But when he'hath ſtrucke with ſadnes, hee doth take

Compaſſion, as his mercy' is infinite;

33 Nor is it with his heart, that he doth ſmite,

34 That underfoot the priſoners ſtamped bee,

35 That a mans right the Judge himſelfe doth ſee

To be wrong from him. 36 That he ſubverted is

In his juſt cauſe; the Lord allowes not this:

37 Who then will ſay, that ought doth come to paſſe,

But that which by the Lord commanded was?

38 Both good and evill from his mouth proceeds;

39 Why then grieves any man for his miſdeeds?

40 Turne wee to God, by trying out our wayes;

41 To him in heaven, our hands with hearts upraiſe.

42 Wee have rebell'd, and falne away from thee,

Thou pardon'ſt not. 43 Uſeſt no clemencie;

Purſueſt us, kill'ſt us, covereſt us with wrath,

44 Cover'ſt thy ſelfe with clouds, that our prayer hath

No power to paſſe. 45 And thou haſt made us fall

As refuſe, and off-ſcouring to them all.

46 All our foes gape at us. 47, Feare and a ſnare

With ruine, and with waſte, upon us are.

[Page]

48 With water rivers doth mine eye oreflow

For ruine of my peoples daughters ſo;

49 Mine eye doth drop downe teares inceſſantly,

50 Untill the Lord looke downe from heaven to ſee.

51 And for my city daughters ſake, mine eye

Doth breake mine heart. 52 Cauſles mine enemy;

Like a bird chac'd me. 53 In a dungeon

They have ſhut my life, and caſt me on a ſtone.

54 Waters flow'd o'r my head, then thought I, I am

Deſtroy'd; 55 I called Lord, upon thy name

Out of the pit. 56 And thou my voice didſt heare;

Oh from my ſigh, and crye, ſtop not thine eare.

57 Then when I call'd upon thee, thou drew'ſt nere

Unto mee, and ſaid'ſt unto mee, do not feare.

58 Thou Lord my Soules cauſe handled haſt, and thou

Reſcueſt my life. 59 O Lord do thou judge now,

Thou heardſt my wrong. 60 Their vengeance all they have wrought;

61 How they reproach'd, thou haſt heard, and what they thought,

62 What their lips uttered, which againſt me roſe,

And what was ever whiſper'd by my foes.

63 I am their ſong, whether they riſe or ſit,

64 Give them rewards Lord, for their working fit,

65 Sorrow of heart, thy curſe. 66 And with thy might

Follow, and from under heaven deſtroy them quite.

CAP. IV.

[Page]

1 HOw is the gold become ſo dimme? How is

Pureſt and fineſt gold thus chang'd to this?

The ſtones which were ſtones of the Sanctuary,

Scattered in corners of each ſtreet do lye.

2 The pretious ſonnes of Sion, which ſhould bee

Valued at pureſt gold, how do wee ſee

Low rated now, as earthen Pitchers, ſtand,

Which are the worke of a poore Potters hand.

3 Even the Sea-calfes draw their breſts, and give

Sucke to their young; my peoples daughters live

By reaſon of the foes great cruelneſſe,

As do the Owles in the vaſt Wilderneſſe.

4 And when the ſucking child doth ſtrive to draw,

His tongue for thirſt cleaves to his upper jaw.

And when for bread the little children crye,

There is no man that doth them ſatisfie.

5 They which before were delicately fed,

Now in the ſtreets forlorne have periſhed,

And they which ever were in ſcarlet cloath'd,

Sit and embrace the dunghills which they loath'd.

[Page]

6 The daughrers of my people have ſinned more,

Then did the towne of Sodome ſinne before;

Which being at once deſtroy'd, there did remaine

No hands amongſt them, to vexe them againe.

7 But heretofore purer her Nazarite

Was then the ſnow, and milke was not ſo white;

As carbuncles did their pure bodies ſhine,

And all their poliſh'dneſſe was Seraphine.

8 They are darker now then blacknes, none can know

Them by the face, as through the ſtreet they goe,

For now their skin doth cleave unto their bone,

And withered, is like to dry wood growne.

9 Better by ſword then famine 'tis to dye;

And better through pierc'd, then by penury,

10 Women by nature pitifull, have eate

Their children dreſt with their owne hand for meat.

11 Iehova here fully accompliſh'd hath

His indignation, and powr'd forth his wrath,

Kindled a fire in Sion, which hath power

To eate, and her foundations to devour.

12 Nor would the Kings of the earth, nor all which live

In the inhabitable world beleeve,

That any adverſary, any foe

Into Ieruſalem ſhould enter ſo;

[Page]

13 For the Prieſts ſins, and Prophets, which have ſhed

Blood in the ſtreets, and the juſt murthered:

14 Which when thoſe men, whom they made blinde, did ſtray

Thorough the ſtreets, defiled by the way

With blood, the which impoſſible it was

Their garments ſhould ſcape touching, as they paſſe,

15 Would cry aloud, depart defiled men,

Depart, depart, and touch us not, and then

They fled, and ſtrayd, and with the Gentiles were,

Yet told their friends, they ſhould not long dwell; there.

16 For this they are ſcattered by Jehovahs face

VVho never will regard them more; No grace

Unto their old men ſhall the foe afford,

Nor, that they are Prieſts, redeeme them from the ſword.

17 And wee as yet, for all theſe miſeries

Deſiring our vaine helpe, conſume our eyes:

And ſuch a nation as cannot ſave,

VVe in deſire and ſpeculation have:

18 They hunt our ſteps, that in the ſtreets wee feare

To goe: our end is now approached neere,

Our dayes accompliſh'd are, this the laſt day,

Eagles of heaven are not ſo ſwift as they

19 VVhich follow us, o'r mountaine tops they flye

At us, and for us in the deſart lye.

[Page]

20 The annointed Lord, breath of our noſtrils, hee

Of whom we ſaid, under his ſhadow, wee

Shall with more eaſe under the Heathen dwell,

Into the pit which theſe men digged, fell

21 Rejoyce O Edoms daughter, joyfull bee

Thou which inhabitſt her, for unto thee

This cup ſhall paſſe, and thou with drunkenneſſe

Shalt fill thy ſelfe, and ſhew thy nakedneſſe.

22 And then they ſinnes O Sion, ſhall be ſpent,

The Lord will not leave thee in baniſhment.

Thy ſinnes O Edoms daughter, hee will ſee,

And for them, pay thee with captivitie.

CAP. V.

1 REmember, O Lord, what is fallen on us

See, and marke how we are reproached thus,

2 For unto ſtrangers our poſſeſſion

Is turn'd, our houſes unto Aliens gone,

3 Our mothers are become as widowes, wee

As Orphans all, and without fathers be;

4 Waters which are our owne, wee drunke, and pay,

And upon our owne wood a price they lay,

[Page]

5 Our perſecutors on our necks do ſit,

They make us travaile, and not intermit,

6 We ſtretch our hands unto th'Egyptians

To get us bread; and to the Aſſyrians.

7 Our Fathers did theſe ſinnes, and are no more,

But wee do beare the ſinnes they did before.

8 They are but ſervants, which do rule us thus,

Yet from their hands none would deliver us.

9 With danger of our life our bread wee gat;

For in the wilderneſſe, the ſword did wait.

10 The tempeſts of this famine wee liv'd in,

Black as an Ocean colour'd had our kinne:

11 In Iudaes cities they the maids abus'd

By force, and ſo women in Sion us'd.

12 The Princes with their hands they hung; no grace

Nor honour gave they to the Elders face.

13 Unto the mill our yong men carried are,

And children fell under the wood they bare.

14 Elders, the gates; youth did their ſongs forbeare,

Gone was our joy; our dancings, mournings were.

15 Now is the crowne falne from our head; and woe

Be unto us, becauſe we'have ſinned ſo.

16 For this our hearts do languiſh, and for this

Over our eyes a cloudy dimneſſe is.

[Page]

17 Becauſe mount Sion deſolate doth lye,

And foxes there do goe at libertie:

18 But thou O Lord art ever, and thy throne

From generation, to generation.

19 Why ſhould'ſt thou forget us eternally?

Or leave us thus long in this miſery?

20 Reſtore us Lord to thee, that ſo we may

Returne, and as of old, renew our day.

21 For oughteſt thou, O Lord, deſpiſe us thus

22 And to be utterly enrag'd at us?

SATYRES.

[Page]

[Page]

Satyre I.

AWay thou fondling motley humoriſt,

Leave mee, and in this ſtanding woodden cheſt,

Conſorted with theſe few bookes, let me lye

In priſon, and here be coffin'd, when I dye;

Here are Gods conduits; grave Divines, and here

Natures Secretary, the Philoſopher.

And jolly Stateſmen, which teach how to tie

The ſinewes of a cities miſtique bodie;

Here gathering Chroniclers, and by them ſtand

Giddie fantaſtique Poëts of each land.

Shall I leave all this conſtant company,

And follow headlong, wild uncertaine thee?

Firſt ſweare by thy beſt love in earneſt

(If thou which lov'ſt all, canſt love any beſt)

Thou wilt not leave mee in the middle ſtreet,

Though ſome more ſpruce companion thou doſt meet,

Not though a Captaine do come in thy way

Bright parcell gilt, with forty dead mens pay,

Not though a briske perfum'd piert Courtier

Deigne with a nod, thy courteſie to anſwer.

Nor come a velvet Juſtice with a long

Great traine of blew coats, twelve, or fourteen ſtrong,

[Page] Wilt thou grin or fawne on him, or prepare

A ſpeech to Court his beautious ſonne and heire?

For better or worſe take mee, or leave mee:

To take, and leave mee is adultery.

Oh monſtrous, ſuperſtitious puritan,

Of refin'd manners, yet ceremoniall man,

That when thou meet'ſt one, with enquiring eyes;

Doſt ſearch, and like a needy broker prize

The ſilke, and gold he weares, and to that rate

So high or low, doſt raiſe thy formall hate:

That wilt conſort none, untill thou have knowne

What lands hee hath in hope, or of his owne,

As though all thy companions ſhould make thee

Jointures, and marry thy deare company.

Why ſhould'ſt thou that doſt not onely approve,

But in ranke it chie luſt, deſire, and love

The nakedneſſe and barrenneſſe to enjoy,

of thy plumpe muddy whore, or proſtitute boy

Hate vertue, though ſhee be naked, and bare,

At birth, and death, our bodies naked are;

And till our Soules be unapparrelled

Of bodies, they from bliſſe are baniſhed.

Mans firſt bleſt ſtate was naked, when by ſinne

Hee loſt that, yet hee was cloath'd but in beaſts skin,

And in this courſe attire, which I now weare

With God, and with the Muſes I conferre.

But ſince thou like a contrite penitent,

Charitably warm'd of thy ſinnes, doſt repent

Theſe vanities, and giddineſſes, loe

I ſhut my chamber doore, and come, lets goe,

[Page] But ſooner may a cheape whore, who hath beene

Worne by as many ſeverall men in ſinne,

As are black feathers, or musk-colour hoſe,

Name her childs right true father, 'mongſt all thoſe:

Sooner may one gueſſe, who ſhall beare away

The infant of London, Heire to an India,

And ſooner may a gulling weather Spie

By drawing forth heavens Sceanes tell certainly

What faſhioned hats, or ruffes, or ſuits next yeare

Our ſubtile wittied antique youths will weare;

Then thou, when thou depart'ſt from mee, can ſhow

Whither, why, when, or with whom thou wouldſt go.

But how ſhall I be pardon'd my offence

That thus have ſinn'd againſt my conſcience.

Now we are in the ſtreet; He firſt of all

Improvidently proud, creepes to the wall,

And ſo impriſoned, and hem'd in by mee

Sells for a little ſtate high libertie,

Yet though he cannot skip forth now to greet

Every fine ſilken painted foole we meet,

He then to him with amorous ſmiles allures,

And grins, ſmacks, ſhrugs, and ſuch an itch endures,

As prentiſes, or ſchoole boyes which doe know

Of ſome gay ſport abroad, yet dare not goe.

And as fidlers ſtop loweſt, at higheſt ſound,

So to the moſt brave, ſtoopt hee nigh'ſt the ground.

But to a grave man, he doth move no more

Then the wiſe politique horſe would heretofore,

Now leaps he upright, Joggs me, & cryes, Do you ſee

Yonder well favoured youth; Which? Oh, 'tis hee

[Page] That dances ſo divinely; Oh, ſaid I,

Stand ſtill, muſt you dance here for company?

Hee droopt, wee went, till one (which did excell

Th'Indians, in drinking his Tobacco well)

Met us, they talk'd; I whiſpered, let us goe,

'T may be you ſmell him not, truely I doe;

He heares not mee, but, on the other ſide

A many-coloured Peacock having ſpide,

Leaves him and mee; I for my loſt ſheep ſtay;

He followes, overtakes, goes on the way,

Saying, him whom I laſt left, s'all repute

For his device, in hanſoming a ſute,

To judge of lace, pinke, panes, print, cut, and plight,

Of all the Court, to have the beſt conceit;

Our dull Comedians want him, let him goe;

But Oh, God ſtrengthen thee, why ſtoop'ſt thou ſo?

Why, he hath travailed long? no, but to me

Which underſtand none, he doth ſeeme to be

Perfect French, and Italian; I replyed,

So is the Poxe; He anſwered not, but ſpy'd

More men of ſort, of parts, and qualities;

At laſt his Love he in a windowe ſpies,

And like light dew exhal'd, he flings from mee

Violently raviſh'd to his liberty;

Many were there, he could command no more;

Hee quarrell'd, fought, bled; and turn'd out of dore

Directly came to mee hanging the head,

And conſtantly a while muſt keepe his bed.

Satyre II.

[Page]

SIr; though (I thanke God for it) I do hate

Perfectly all this towne, yet there's one ſtate

In all ill things ſo excellently beſt,

That hate, toward them, breeds pitty towards the reſt;

Though Poëtry indeed be ſuch a ſinne

As I thinke that brings dearth, and Spaniards in,

Though like the Peſtilence and old faſhion'd love,

Ridlingly it catch men; and doth remove

Never, till it be ſterv'd out; yet their ſtate

Is poore, diſarm'd, like Papiſts, not worth hate:

One, (like a wretch, which at Barre judg'd as dead,

Yet prompts him which ſtands next, and cannot reade,

And ſaves his life) gives ideot actors meanes

(Starving himſelfe) to live by his labor'd ſceanes.

As in ſome Organ, Puppits dance above

And bellows pant below, which thē do move.

One would move Love by rithmes; but witchchrafts charms

Bring not now their old feares, nor their old harmes.

Rammes, and ſlings now are ſeely battery,

Piſtolets are the beſt Artillerie.

And they who write to Lords, rewards to get,

Are they not like ſingers at doores for meat?

And they who write, becauſe all write, have ſtill

That excuſe for writing, and for writing ill;

But hee is worſt, who (beggarly) doth chaw

Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw

[Page] Rankly digeſted, doth thoſe things out-ſpue,

As his owne things; and they are his owne, 'tis true,

For if one eate my meate, though it be knowne

The meate was mine, th'excrement is his owne:

But theſe do mee no harme, nor they which uſe

To out-doe, and out-uſure Jewes;

To out-drinke the ſea, to out-ſweare the

Who with ſinnes of all kindes as familiar bee

As Confeſſors; and for whoſe ſinfull ſake

Schoolemen, new tenements in hell muſt make:

Whoſe ſtrange ſinnes, Canoniſts could hardly tell

In which Commandements large receit they dwell.

But theſe puniſh themſelves; the inſolence

Of Coſcus onely breeds my juſt offence,

Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches poxe,

And plodding on, muſt make a calfe an oxe)

Hath made a Lawyer; which was alas of late

But ſcarce a Poët, jollier of this ſtate,

Then are new benefic'd miniſters, he throwes

Like nets, or lime-twigs, whereſoever he goes,

His title of Barriſter, on every wench,

And wooes in language of the Pleas, and Bench:

A motion, Lady, Speake Coſcus; I have beene

In love, ever ſince triceſimo of the Queene,

Continuall claimes I have made, injunctions got

To ſtay my rivals ſuit, that hee ſhould not

Proceed, ſpare mee; In Hillary terme I went,

You ſaid If I Returne next ſize in Lent,

I ſhould be in remitter of your grace;

In th'interim my letters ſhould take place

[Page] Of affidavits: words, words, which would teare

The tender labyrinth of a ſoft maids eare.

More, more, then ten Sclavonians ſcolding, more

Then when winds in our ruin'd Abbeyes rore;

When ſicke with Poëtrie, and poſſeſt with muſe

Thou waſt, and mad, I hop'd; but men which chuſe

Law practiſe for meere gaine; bold ſoule repute

Worſe then imbrothel'd ſtrumpets proſtitute.

Now like an owlelike watchman, hee muſt walke

His hand ſtill at a bill, now he muſt talke

Idly, like priſoners, which whole months will ſweare

That onely ſuretiſhip hath brought them there,

[...]

Like a wedge in a blocke, wring to the barre,

Bearing like Aſſes, and more ſhameleſſe farre

Then carted wheres, lye, to the grave Judge; for

[...]

As theſe things do in him; by theſe he thrives.

Shortly (as the ſea) hee will compaſſe all the land;

Form Scots, to Wight; from Mount, to Dover ſtrand,

And ſpying heires melting with luxurie,

Satan will not joy at their ſinnes, as hee.

For as a thrifty wench ſcrapes kitching-ſtuffe,

And barrelling the droppings, and the ſnuffe,

Of waſting candles, which in thirty yeare

(Reliquely kept) perchance buyes wedding geare;

Peecemeale he gets lands, and ſpends as much time

Wringing each Acre, as men pulling prime.

[Page] In parchment then, large as his fields, hee drawes

Aſſurances, bigge, as gloſs'd civill lawes,

So huge, that men (in our times forwardneſſe)

Are Fathers of the Church for writing leſſe.

Theſe hee writes not; nor for theſe written payes,

Therefore ſpares no length; as in thoſe firſt dayes

When Luther was profeſt, he did deſire

Short Pater noſters, ſaying as a Fryer

Each day his beads, but having left thoſe lawes,

Addes to Chriſts prayer, the Power and glory clauſe,

But when he ſells or changes land, he'impaires

His writings, and (unwatch'd) leaves out, ſes heires

As ſlily as any Commenter goes by,

Hard words, or ſenſe; or in Divinity

As controverters, in vouch'd Texts, leave out

Shrewd words, which might againſt them cleare the doubt:

Where are thoſe ſpred woods which cloth'd hertofore

Thoſe bought lands? not built, nor burnt within dore.

Where's th'old landlords troops, & almes, great hals?

Carthuſian faſts, and fulſome Bachanalls

Equally I hate, meanes bleſſe; in rich mens homes

I bid kill ſome beaſts, but no Hecatombs,

None ſtarve, none ſurfet ſo; But (Oh) we allow,

Good workes as good, but out of faſhion now,

Like old rich wardrops; but my words none drawes

Within the vaſt reach of th'huge ſtatute lawes.

Satyre III.

[Page]

KInde pitty chokes my ſpleene; brave ſcorn forbids

Thoſe teares to iſſue which ſwell my eye-lids,

I muſt not laugh, nor weepe ſinnes, and be wiſe,

Can railing then cure theſe worne maladies?

Is not our Miſtreſſe faire Religion,

As worthy of all our Soules devotion,

As vertue was in the firſt blinded age?

Are not heavens joyes as valiant to aſſwage

Luſts, as earths honour was to them? Alas,

As wee do them in meanes, ſhall they ſurpaſſe

Us in the end, and ſhall thy fathers ſpirit

Meete blinde Philoſophers in heaven, whoſe merit

Of ſtrict life may be imputed faith, and heare

Thee, whom hee taught ſo eaſie wayes and neare

To follow, damn'd? O if thou dar'ſt, feare this.

This feare great courage, and high valour is;

Dar'ſt thou ayd mutinous-Dutch, and dar'ſt thou lay

Thee in ſhips woodden Sepulchers, a prey

To leaders rage, to ſtormes, to ſhot, to dearth?

Dar'ſt thou dive ſeas, and dungeons of the earth?

Haſt thou couragious fite to thaw the ice

Of frozen North diſcoueries, and thriſe

Colder then Salamanders? like divine

Children in th'oven, fires of Spaine, and the line;

Whoſe countries limbecks to our bodies bee,

Canſt thou for gaine beare? and muſt every hee

[Page] Which cryes not, Goddeſſe, to thy Miſtreſſe, draw,

Or eate thy poyſonous words, courage of ſtraw!

O deſperate coward, wilt thou ſeeme bold, and

To thy foes and his (who made thee to ſtand

Sentinell in his worlds garriſon) thus yeeld,

And for forbidden warres, leave th'appointed field?

Know thy foe, the foule devill h'is, whom thou

Striveſt to pleaſe: for hate, not love, would allow

Thee faine, his whole Realme to be quit; and as

The worlds all parts wither away and paſſe,

So the worlds ſelfe, thy other lov'd foe, is

In her decrepit wayne, and thou loving this,

Doſt love a withered and worne ſtrumpet; laſt,

Fleſh (it ſelfe death) and joyes which fleſh can taſte,

Thou loveſt; and thy faire goodly ſoule, which doth

Give this fleſh power to taſte joy, thou doſt loath;

Seeke true religion. O where? Mirreus

Thinking her unhous'd her, and fled from us,

Seekes her at Rome, there, becauſe hee doth know

That ſhee was there a thouſand yeares agoe,

He loves the ragges ſo, as wee here obey

The ſtatecloth where the Prince ſate yeſterday.

Crants to ſuch brave Loves will not be inthrall'd,

But loves her onely, who at Geneva is call'd

Religion, plaine, ſimple, ſullen, yong,

Contemptuous, yet unhanſome. As among

Lecherous humors, there is one that judges

No wenches wholſome, but courſe country drudges:

Graius ſtayes ſtill at home here, and becauſe

Some Preachers, vile ambitious bauds, and lawes

[Page] Still new like faſhions, bids him thinke that ſhee

Which dwels with us, is onely perfect, hee

Imbraceth her, whom his Godfathers will

Tender to him, being tender, as Wards ſtill

Take ſuch wives as their Guardians offer, or

Pay valewes. Careleſſe Phrygius doth abhorre

All, becauſe all cannot be good, as one

Knowing ſome women whores, dares marry none.

Graccus loves all as one, and thinkes that ſo

As women do in divers countries goe

In divers habits, yet are ſtill one kinde;

So doth, ſo is Religion; and this blindneſſe too much light breeds; but unmoved thou

Of force muſt one, and forc'd but one allow;

And the right; aske thy father which is ſhee,

Let him aske his; though truth and falſhood bee

Neare twins, yet truth a little elder is;

Be buſie to ſeeke her, beleeve mee this,

Hee's not of none, nor worſt, that ſeekes the beſt.

To adore, or ſcorne an image, or proteſt,

May all be bad; doubt wiſely, in ſtrange way

To ſtand inquiring right, is not to ſtray;

To ſleepe, or runne wrong, is: on a huge hill,

Cragg'd, and ſteep, Truth ſtands, and hee that will

Reach her, about muſt, and about muſt goe;

And what the hills ſuddennes reſiſts, winne ſo;

Yet ſtrive ſo, that before age, deaths twilight,

Thy Soule reſt, for none can worke in that night,

To will, implyes delay, therefore now doe

Hard deeds, the bodies paines; hard knowledge to

[Page] The mindes indeavours reach, and myſteries

Are like the Sunne, dazling, yet plaine to all eyes;

Keepe the truth which thou haſt found; men do not ſtand

In ſo ill caſe, that God hath with his hand

Sign'd Kings blanck-charters to kill whom they hate,

Nor are they Vicars, but hangmen to Fate.

Foole and wretch, wilt thou let thy Soule be tyed

To mans lawes, by which ſhe ſhall not be tryed

At the laſt day? Will it then boot thee

To ſay a Philip, or a Gregory,

A Harry, or a Martin taught thee this?

Is not this excuſe for mere contraries,

Equally ſtrong cannot both ſides ſay ſo?

That thou mayeſt rightly obey power, her bounds know;

Thoſe paſt, her nature, & name is chang'd to be,

Then humble to her is idolatrie;

As ſtreames are, Power is, thoſe bleſt flowers that dwell

At the rough ſtreames calme head, thrive and do well,

But having left their roots, and themſelves given

To the ſtreames tyrannous rage, alas are driven

Through mills, & rockes, & woods, and at laſt, almoſt

Conſum'd in going, in the ſea are loſt:

So periſh Soules, which more chuſe mens unjuſt

Power from God claym'd, then God himſelfe to truſt.

Satyre IIII.

[Page]

WEll; I may now receive, and die; My ſinne

Indeed is great, but I have beene in

A Purgatorie, ſuch as fear'd hell is

A recreation, and ſcant map of this.

My minde, neither with prides itch, nor yet hath been

Poyſon'd with love to ſee, or to bee ſeene,

I had no ſuit there, nor new ſuite to ſhew,

Yet went to Court; But as Glaze which did goe

To Maſſe in jeſt, catch'd, was faine to diſburſe

The hundred markes, which is the Statutes curſe;

Before he ſcapt, So'it pleas'd my deſtinie

(Guilty of my ſin of going,) to thinke me

As prone to all ill, and of good as forgetfull, as proud, as luſtfull, and as much in debt,

As vaine, as witleſſe, and as falſe as they

Which dwell in Court, for once going that way.

Therefore I ſuffered this; Towards me did runne

A thing more ſtrange, then on Niles ſlime, the Sunne

E'r bred, or all which into Noahs Arke came:

A thing, which would have pos'd Adam to name,

Stranger then ſeaven Antiquaries ſtudies,

Then Africks Monſters, Guianaes rarities,

Stranger then ſtrangers; One, who for a Dane,

In the Danes Maſſacre had ſure beene ſlaine,

If he had liv'd then; And without helpe dies,

When next the Prentiſes'gainſt Strangers riſe.

[Page] One, whom the watch at noone lets ſcarce goe by,

One, to whom, the examining Juſtice ſure would cry,

Sir, by your prieſthood tell me what you are.

His cloths were ſtrāge, though coarſe; & black, though bare;

Sleeveleſſe his jerkin was, and it had beene

Velvet, but 'twas now (ſo much ground was ſeene)

Become Tufftaffatie; and our children ſhall

See it plaine Raſhe awhile, then nought at all.

This thing hath travail'd, and ſaith, ſpeakes all tongues

And only knoweth what to all States belongs,

Made of th' Accents, and beſt phraſe of all theſe,

He ſpeakes one language; If ſtrange meats diſpleaſe,

Art can deceive, or hunger force my taſt,

But Pedants motley tongue, ſouldiers bumbaſt,

Mountebankes drugtongue, nor the termes of law

Are ſtrong enough preparatives, to draw

Me to beare this, yet I muſt be content

With his tongue: in his tongue, call'd complement:

In which he can win widdowes, and pay ſcores,

Make men ſpeake treaſon, coſen ſubtleſt whores,

Out-flatter favorites, or out lie either

Jovius, or Surius, or both together.

He names mee, and comes to mee; I whiſper, God!

How have I ſinn'd, that thy wraths furious rod,

This fellow chuſeth me? He ſaith, Sir,

I love your judgement; Whom doe you prefer,

For the beſt linguiſt? And I ſeelily

Said, that I thought Calepines Dictionarie;

Nay, but of men, moſt ſweet Sir. Beza then,

Some Jeſuites, and two reverend men

[Page] Of our two Academies, I named; There

He ſtopt mee, and ſaid; Nay, your Apoſtles were

Good pretty linguiſts, and ſo Panirge was;

Yet a poore gentleman; All theſe may paſſe

By travaile. Then, as if he would have ſold

His tongue, he praiſed it, and ſuch words told

That I was faine to ſay, If you'had liv'd, Sir,

Time enough to have beene Interpreter

To Babells brick layers, ſure the Tower had ſtood.

He adds, If of court life you knew the good,

You would leave lonelineſſe; I ſaid, not alone

My lonelineſſe is, but Spartanes faſhion,

To teach by painting drunkards, doth not laſt

Now; Aretines pictures have made few chaſt;

No more can Princes courts, though there be few

Better pictures of vice, teach me vertue;

He, like to a high ſtretcht lute ſtring ſqueakt, O Sir,

'Tis ſweet to talke of Kings. At Weſtminſter,

Said I, The man that keepes the Abbey tombes,

And for his price doth with who ever comes,

Of all our Harries, and our Edwards talke,

From King to King and all their kin can walke:

Your eares ſhall heare nought, but Kings; your eyes meet

Kings only; The way to it, is Kingſtreet.

He ſmack'd, and cry'd, He's baſe, Mechanique, coarſe,

So are all your Engliſhmen in their diſcourſe.

Are not your Frenchmen neate? Fine, as you ſee,

I have but one frenchman, looke, hee followes mee.

Certes they are neatly cloth'd. I, of this minde am,

Your only wearing is your Grogaram;

[Page] Not ſo Sir, I have more. Under this pitch

He would not flie; I chaff'd him; But as Itch

Scratch'd into ſmart, and as blunt iron grown'd

Into an edge, hurts worſe: So, I foole found,

Croſſing hurt mee; To fit my ſullenneſſe,

He to another key, his ſtile doth addreſſe.

And askes, what newes? I tell him of new playes.

He takes my hand, and as a Still, which ſtaies

A Sembriefe, 'twixt each drop, he nigardly,

As loth to enrich mee, ſo tells many a lie,

More then ten Hollensheads, or Halls, or Stowes,

Of triviall houſhold traſh; He knowes; He knowes

When the Queene frown'd, or ſmil'd, and he knowes

A ſubtle States-man may gather of that;

He knowes who loves; whom; and who by poyſon what

Haſts to an Offices reverſion;

He knowes who'hath ſold his land, and now doth beg

A licence, old iron, bootes, ſhooes, and egge-

ſhels to tranſport; Shortly boyes ſhall not play

At ſpan-counter, or blow-point, but ſhall pay

Toll to ſome Courtier; And wiſer then all us,

He knowes what Ladie is not painted; Thus

He with home-meats tries me; I belch, ſpue, ſpit,

Looke pale, and ſickly, like a Patient; Yet

He thruſts on more; And as if he'undertooke

To ſay Gallo-Belgicus without booke

Speakes of all States, and deeds, that hath been ſince

The Spaniards came, to the loſſe of Amyens.

Like a bigge wife, at ſight of loathed meat,

Readie to travaile: So I ſigh, and ſweat

[Page] To heare this Makeron talke in vaine: For yet,

Either my humour, or his owne to fit,

He like a priviledg'd ſpie, whom nothing can

Diſcredit, Libells now 'gainſt each great man.

He names a price for every office paid;

He ſaith, our warres thrive ill, becauſe delai'd;

That offices are entail'd, and that there are

Perpetuities of them, laſting as farre

As the laſt day; And that great officers,

Doe with the Pirates ſhare, and Dunkirkers.

Who waſts in meat, in clothes, in horſe, he notes;

Who loves Whores, who boyes, and who goats.

I more amas'd then Circes priſoners, when

They felt themſelves turne beaſts, felt my ſelfe then

Becomming Traytor, and mee thought I ſaw

One of our Giant Statutes ope his jaw

To ſucke me in, for hearing him. I found

[...]

[...]Therefore I did ſhew

All ſignes of loathing; But ſince I am in,

I muſt pay mine, and my forefathers ſinne

To the laſt farthing; Therefore to my power

Toughly and ſtubbornly I beare this croſſe; But the 'houre

Of mercy now was come; He tries to bring

Me to pay a fine to ſcape his torturing,

And ſaies, Sir, can you ſpare me; I ſaid, willingly;

Nay, Sir, can you ſpare me a crowne? Thankfully I

Gave it, as Ranſome; But as fidlers, ſtill,

Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs will

[Page] Thruſt one more jigge upon you: ſo did hee

With his long complementall thankes vexe me.

But he is gone, thankes to his needy want,

And the prerogative of my Crowne: Scant

His thankes were ended, when I, (which did ſee

All the court fill'd with more ſtrange things then hee)

Ran from thence with ſuch or more haſt, then one

Who feares more actions, doth haſt from priſon;

At home in wholeſome ſolitarineſſe

My precious ſoule began, the wretchedneſſe

Of ſuiters at court to mourne, and a trance

Like his, who dreamt he ſaw hell, did advance

It ſelfe on mee, Such men as he ſaw there,

I ſaw at court, and worſe, and more; Low feare

Becomes the guiltie, not the accuſer; Then,

Shall I, nones ſlave, of high borne, or raiſ'd men

Feare frownes? And, my Miſtreſſe Truth, betray thee

To huffing, braggart, puft Nobility.

No, no, Thou which ſince yeſterday haſt beene

Almoſt about the whole world, haſt thou ſeene,

O Sunne, in all thy journey, Vanitie,

Such as ſwells the bladder of our court? I

Thinke he which made your waxen garden, and

Tranſported it from Italy to ſtand

With us, at London, flouts our Preſence, for

Juſt ſuch gay painted things, which no ſappe, nor

Taſt have in them, ours are, And naturall

Some of the ſtocks are, their fruits, baſtard all.

'Tis ten a clock and paſt; All whom the Mues,

Baloune, Tennis, Dyet, or the ſtewes,

[Page] Had all the morning held, now the ſecond

Time made ready, that day, in flocks, are found

In the Preſence, and I, (God pardon mee.)

As freſh, and ſweet their Apparrells be, as bee

The fields they ſold to buy them; For a King

Thoſe hoſe are, cry the flatterers; And bring

Them next weeke to the Theatre to ſell;

Wants reach all ſtates; Me ſeemes they doe as well

At ſtage, as court; All are players, who e'r lookes

(For themſelves dare not goe) o'r Cheapſide books,

Shall finde their wardrops Inventory; Now,

The Ladies come; As Pirats, which doe know

That there came weak ſhips fraught with Cutchannel,

The men board them; and praiſe, as they thinke, well,

Their beauties; they the mens wits; Both are bought.

Why good wits ne'r weare ſcarlet gownes, I thought

This cauſe, Theſe men, mens wits for ſpeeches buy,

And women buy all reds which ſcarlets die.

He call'd her beauty limetwigs, her haire net.

She feares her drugs ill laid, her haire looſe ſet;

Would not Heraclitus laughto ſee Macrine,

From hat, to ſhooe, himſelfe at doore refine,

As if the Preſence were a Moſchite, and lift

His skirts and hoſe, and call his clothes to ſhrift,

Making them confeſſe not only mortall

Great ſtaines and holes in them; but veniall

Feathers and duſt, wherewith they fornicate.

And then by Durers rules ſurvay the ſtate

Of his each limbe, and with ſtrings the odds tries

Of his neck to his legge, and waſt to thighes.

[Page] So in immaculate clothes, and Symetrie

Perfect as circles, with ſuch nicetie

As a young Preacher at his firſt time goes

To preach, he enters, and a Lady which owes

Him not ſo much as good will, he arreſts,

And unto her proteſts proteſts proteſts

So much as at Rome would ſerve to have throwne

Ten Cardinalls into the Inquiſition;

And whiſperd by Jeſu, ſo often, that A

Purſevant would have raviſh'd him away

For ſaying of our Ladies pſalter; But 'tis fit

That they each other plague, they merit it.

But here comes Glorius that will plague them both,

Who, in the other extreme, only doth

Call a rough careleſſeneſſe, good faſhion;

Whoſe cloak his ſpurres teare; whom he ſpits on

He cares not, His ill words doe no harme

To him; he ruſheth in, as if arme, arme,

He meant to crie; And though his face be as ill

As theirs which in old hangings whip Chriſt, yet ſtill

He ſtrives to looke worſe, he keepes all in awe;

Jeaſts like a licenc'd foole, commands like law.

Tyr'd, now I leave this place, and but pleas'd ſo

As men from gaoles to'execution goe,

Goe through the great chamber (why is it hung

With the ſeaven deadly ſinnes) being among

Thoſe Askaparts, men big enough to throw

Charing Croſſe for a barre, men that doe know

No token of worth, but Queenes man, and fine

Living barrells of beefe, flaggons of wine.

[Page] I ſhooke like a ſpyed Sple; Preachers which are

Seas of Wits and Arts, you can, then dare,

Drowne the ſinnes of this place, for, for mee

Which am but a ſcarce brooke, it enough ſhall bee

To waſh the ſtaines away; though I yet

With Macchabees modeſtie, the knowne merit

Of my worke leſſen: yet ſome wiſe man ſhall,

I hope, eſteeme my writs Canonicall.

Satyre V.

[Page]

THou ſhalt not laugh in this leafe, Muſe, nor they

Whom any pitty warmes; He which did lay

Rules to make Courtiers, (hee being underſtood

May make good Courtiers, but who Courtiers good?)

Frees from the ſting of jeſts all who in extreme

Are wreched or wicked: of theſe two a theame

Charity and liberty give me. What is hee

Who Officers rage, and Suiters miſery

Can write, and jeſt? If all things be in all,

As I thinke, ſince all, which were, are, and ſhall

Bee, be made of the ſame elements:

Each thing, each thing employes or repreſents,

Then man is a world; in which, Officers,

Are the vaſt raviſhing ſeas; and Suiters,

Springs; now full, now ſhallow, now drye; which, to

That which drownes them, run: Theſe ſelfe reaſons do

Prove the world a man, in which, officers

Are the devouring ſtomacke, and Suiters

The excrements, which they voyd; all men are duſt,

How much worſe are Suiters, who to mens luſt

Are made preyes. O worſe then duſt, or wormes meat,

For they do eate you now, whoſe ſelves wormes ſhall eate.

They are the mills which grinde you, yet you are

[Page] The winde which drives them; and a waſtfull warre

Is fought againſt you, and you fight it; they

Adulterate lawe, and you prepare their way

Like wittals, th'iſſue your owne ruine is;

Greateſt and faireſt Empreſſe, know you this?

Alas, no more then Thames calme head doth know

Whoſe meades her armes drowne, or whoſe corne o'rflow:

You Sir, whoſe righteouſnes ſhe loves, whō I

By having leave to ſerve, am moſt richly

For ſervice paid, authorized, now beginne

To know and weed out this enormous ſinne.

O Age of ruſty iron! Some better wit

Call it ſome worſe name, if ought equall it;

The iron Age that was, when juſtice was ſold, now

Injuſtice is ſold deerer farre; allow

All demands, fees, and duties; gamſters, anon

The mony which you ſweat, and ſweare for, is gon

Into other hands: So controverted lands

Scape, like Angelica, the ſtrivers hands.

If Law be in the Judges heart, and hee

Have no heart to reſiſt letter, or fee,

Where wilt thou appeale? powre of the Courts below

Flow from the firſt maine head, and theſe can throw

Thee, if they ſucke thee in, to miſery,

To fetters, halters; But if the injury

Steele thee to dare complaine; Alas, thou goeſt

Againſt the ſtream, when upwards: when thou art moſt

Heavy and moſt faint; and in theſe labours they,

'Gainſt whom thou ſhould'ſt complaine, will in the way

[Page] Become great ſeas, o'r which, when thou ſhalt bee

Forc'd to make golden bridges, thou ſhalt ſee

That all thy gold was drown'd in them before;

All things follow their like, only, who have, may have more

Judges are Gods; he who made and ſaid them ſo,

Meant not that men ſhould be forc'd to them to goe,

By meanes of Angels; When ſupplications

We ſend to God, to Dominations,

Powers, Cherubins, and all heavens Court, if wee

Should pay fees as here, Daily bread would be

Scarce to Kings; ſo 'tis, would it not anger

A Stoicke, a coward, yea a Martyr,

To ſee a Purſivant come in, and call

All his cloathes, Copes; Bookes, Primers; and all

His Plate, Challices; and miſtake them away,

And lack a fee for comming; Oh, ne'r may

Faire lawes white reverend name be ſtrumpeted,

To warrant thefts: ſhe is eſtabliſhed

Recorder to Deſtiny, on earth, and ſhee

Speakes Fates words, and tells who muſt bee

Rich, who poore, who in chaires, who in jayles:

Shee is all faire, but yet hath foule long nailes,

With which ſhe ſcracheth Suiters; In bodies

Of men; ſo in law, nailes are extremities,

So Officers ſtretch to more then Law can doe,

As our nailes reach what no elſe part comes to.

Why bareſt thou to you Officer? Foole, Hath hee

Got thoſe goods, for which men bared to thee?

Foole, twice, thrice, thou haſt bought wrong, and now hungerly

[Page] Beg'ſt right; But that dole comes not till theſe dye.

Thou had'ſt much, & lawes Urim and Thummim trie

Thou wouldſt for more; and for all haſt paper

Enough to cloath all the great Carricks Pepper.

Sell that, and by that thou much more ſhalt leeſe,

Then Haman, when he ſold his Antiquities.

O wretch that thy fortunes ſhould moralize

Eſops fables, and make tales, propheſies.

Thou art the ſwimming dog whom ſhadows coſened,

And div'ſt, neare drowning, for what vaniſhed.

A Hymne to God the Father:

[Page]

I.

WIlt thou forgive that ſinne where I begunne,

which was my ſin, though it were done before?

Wilt thou forgive that ſinne; through which I runne,

And do run ſtill: though ſtill I do deplore?

When thou haſt done, thou haſt not done,

For, I have more.

II.

Wilt thou forgive that ſinne which I have wonne

Others to ſinne? and, made my ſinne their doore?

Wilt thou forgive that ſinne which I did ſhunne

A yeare, or two: but wallowed in, a ſcore?

When thou haſt done, thou haſt not done,

For I have more.

III.

I have a ſinne of feare, that when I have ſpunne

My laſt thred, I ſhall periſh on the ſhore;

But ſweare by thy ſelfe, that at my death thy ſonne

Shall ſhine as he ſhines now, and heretofore;

And, having done that, Thou haſte done,

I feare no more.

Letters.

[Page]

HEN. GOODEERE.

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

JO. DONNE.

To Sir. H. G.

[Page]

I Send not my Letters as tribute, nor intereſt, nor recompence, nor for commerce, nor as teſtimonialls of my love, nor provokers of yours, nor to juſtifie my cuſtome of writing, nor for a vent and utterance of my meditations; For my letters are either above or under all ſuch offices, yet I write very affectionately, and Lehide and accuſe my ſelfe of diminiſhing that affection which ſends them, when I aske my ſelfe why. Only I am ſure that I deſire that you might have in your hands letters of mine of all kindes, as conveyances and deliverers of mee to you, whether you accept me as a friend, or as a patient, or as a penitent, or as a Bedeſman, for I decline no juriſdiction, nor refuſe any tenure. I would not open any doore upon you, but looke in when you open it. Angells have not, nor affect not other knowledge of one another then they liſt to reveale to one another. It is then in this only, that friends are Angells, that they are capable and fit for ſuch revelations when they are offered. If at any time I ſeeme to ſtudy you more inquiſitively, it is for no other end but to know how to preſent you to God in my prayers, and what to aske of him for you; For even that holy exerciſe may not be done inopportunely, no nor importunely. I finde little errour in that Grecians counſell who ſayes, If thou aske any thing of God, offer no ſacrifice, nor aske elegantly, nor vehemently, [Page] but remember that thou would'ſt not give to ſuch an asker. Nor in his other countryman, who affirmes ſacrifice of blood to be ſo unproportionable to God, that perfumes, though much more ſpirituall, are too groſſe; Yea words which are our ſubtleſt and delicateſt outward creatures, being compoſed of thoughts and breath, are ſo muddy, ſo thicke, that our thoughts themſelves are ſo, becauſe (except at the firſt riſing) they are ever leavened with paſſions and affections. And, that advantage of neerer familiarity with God, which the Act of incarnation gave us, is grounded upon Gods aſſuming us, not our going to him. And, our acceſſes to his preſence are but his deſcents into us. And, when we get any thing by prayer, hee gave us before hand the thing and the petition: for, I ſcarce thinke any ineffectuall prayer free from both ſinne and the puniſhment of ſinne: Yet as God ſepoſed a ſeventh of our time for his exterior worſhip, and as his Chriſtian Church early preſented him a Type of the whole yeare in a Lent, and after impoſed the obligation of canonique houres, conſtituting therby morall Sabbaths every day, I am far frō dehorting thoſe fixed devotions: But I had rather it were beſtowed upon thanksgiving then petition, upon praiſe then prayer. Not that God is endeared by that, or wearied by this; All is one in the receiver, but not in the ſender. And thankes doth both offices. For, nothing doth ſo innocently provoke new graces, as gratitude. I would alſo rather make ſhort prayers then extend them, though God can neither bee ſurpriſed, [Page] nor beſieged: For, long prayers have more of the man, as ambition of eloquence, and a complacency in the worke, and more of the devill by often diſtractions: For, after in the beginning wee have well intreated God to hearken, we ſpeake no more to him. Even this letter is ſome example of ſuch infirmity; which being intended for a letter is extended and ſtrayed into a Homily. And whatſoever is not what it was purpoſed, is worſe. Therefore it ſhall at laſt end like a letter by aſſuring you I am &c.

To Sir H. G.

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SIR,

NAture hath made al bodies like, by mingling and kneading up the ſame elements in every one. And amōgſt mē, the other nature, cuſtōe, hath made every mind like ſome other. We are patternes or copies, we inform, or imitate. But as he hath not preſētly attain'd to write a good hand, which hath equaled one excellent maſter in his A, another in his B, much leſſe hee which hath ſought all the excellent maſters, and employed all his time to exceede in one letter, becauſe not ſo much an excellency of any nor every one, as an evenneſſe and proportion, and reſpect to one another gives the perfection; So is no man vertuous by particular example. Not he which doth all actions to the patterne of the moſt valiant, or liberall, which Hiſtories afford: Nor he which chuſes from every one their beſt actions, and therupon doth ſomething like thoſe. Perchance ſuch may bee in via perficiendorum, which Divines allow to Monaſticall life, but not Perfectorum, which, by them, is only due to prelacy; For vertue is even, and continuall, and the ſame, and can therefore breake no where, nor admit ends, nor beginnings; It is not only not broken, but not tyed together. He is not vertuous, out of whoſe actions vou can pick an excellent one. Vice and her fruits may be ſeene, becauſe [Page] they are thick bodies, but not vertue, which is all light. And vices have ſwellings and fits, and noiſe, becauſe being extremes, they dwel far aſunder, and they maintaine both a foraine warre againſt vertue, and a civill againſt one another, and affect ſoveraignty, as vertue doth ſociety. The later Phyſitians ſay, that when our naturall inborne preſervative is corrupted or waſted, and muſt be reſtored by alike extracted from other bodies, the chiefe care is, that the mummy have in it no excelling quality, but an equally digeſted temper: And ſuch is true vertue. But men who have preferred money before all, thinke they deale honourably with vertue, if they compare her with money: And think, that as mony is not called baſe, til the allay exceed the pure; So they are vertuous enough, if they have enough to make their actions currant, which is, if either they get praiſe, or (in a lower abaſing) if they incurre not infamy or penalty. But you know who ſaid Anguſta innocentia eſt ad legem bonum eſſe, which rule being given for poſitive lawes, ſevere miſtakers apply even to Gods law, and (perchance againſt his commandement) binde themſelves to his counſailes, beyond his lawes. But they are worſe, that think that becauſe ſome men formerly waſtfull, live better with halfe their rents then they did with all, being now advantaged with diſcretion and experience, therefore our times need leſſe morall vertue then the firſt, becauſe we have Chriſtianity, which is the uſe and application of all vertue. As though our religion were but an art of thrift, to make a little vertue goe far. For as [Page] plentifull ſprings are fitteſt, and beſt become large Aqueducts, ſo doth much vertue ſuch a ſteward and officer as a Chriſtian. But I muſt not give you a Homily for a letter. I ſaid a great while ſince, that cuſtome made men like; We who have beene accuſtomed to one another are like in this, that we love not buſineſſe. This therefore ſhall not be to you nor me a buſie letter. I end with a probleme, whoſe errand is, to aske for his fellowes. I pray before you ingulfe your ſelfe in the Progreſſe, leave them for mee, and ſuch other of my papers as you will lend mee till your returne. And beſides this allegoricall lending, lend me truly your counſells. And love God and me, whileſt I love him and you.

To Sir H. G.

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SIR,

THis Teuſday morning, which hath brought me to London, preſents mee with all your letters. Mee thought it was a rent day, I meane ſuch as yours, and not as mine. And yet ſuch too, when I conſidered how much I ought you for them. How good a mother, how fertile and abundant the underſtanding is, if ſhee have a good father. And how well friendſhip performes that office. For that which is denyed in other generations is done in this of yours. For hers is ſuperfaetation, child upon child, and, that which is more ſtrange, twinnes at a latter conception. If in my ſecond religion, friendſhip, I had a conſcience, either Errantem to miſtake good and bad, and indifferent, or Opinantem to be raviſhed by others opinions or examples, or Dubiam to adhere to neither part, or Scrupuloſam to encline to one, but upon reaſons light in themſelves or indiſcuſſed in mee (which are almoſt all the diſeaſes of conſcience) I might miſtake your often, long, and buſie letters, and feare you did but intreate me to have mercy upon you and ſpare you. For you know our court tooke the reſolution, that it was the beſt way to diſpatch the French Prince backe againe quickly, to receive him ſolemnely, ceremoniouſly; and expenſively, when he hoped a domeſtique and durable [Page] entertainment. I never meant to excell you in waight nor price, but in number and bulke I thought I might: Becauſe he may caſt up a greater ſumme who hath but forty ſmall moneyes, then hee with twenty Portugueſſes. The memory of friends, (I meane only for letters) neither enters ordinarily into buſied men, becauſe they are ever employed within, nor into men of pleaſure, becauſe they are never at home. For theſe wiſhes therefore which you wonne out of your pleaſure and recreation, you were as excuſable to mee if you writ ſeldome as Sir H. Wotton is under the oppreſſion of buſineſſe or the neceſſity of ſeeming ſo: Or more then hee, becauſe I hope you have both pleaſure and buſineſſe. Only to me, who have neither, this omiſſion were ſinne. For though writing be not of the precepts of friendſhip, but of the counſells: yet, as in ſome caſes to ſome men counſells become precepts, though not immediately from God, yet very roundly and quickly from his Church, (as ſelling and dividing goods in the firſt time, continence in the Romane Church, and order and decency in ours) ſo to mee who can doe nothing elſe, it ſeemes to binde my conſcience to write. And it is ſinne to doe againſt the conſcience, though that erre; Yet no mans letters might be better wanted then mine, ſince my whole letter is nothing elſe but a confeſſion that I ſhould and would write. I ought you a letter in verſe before by mine owne promiſe, & now that you thinke you have hedged in that debt by a greater by your letter in verſe I thinke it now moſt ſeaſonable and faſhionall for mee [Page] to breake. At leaſt, to write preſently were to accuſe my ſelfe of not having read yours ſo often as ſuch a letter deſerves from you to mee. To make my debt greater (for ſuch is the deſire of all, who cannot or meane not to pay) I pray reade theſe two problemes: for ſuch light flaſhes as theſe have beene my hawkings in my Surry journies. I accompany them with another ragge of verſes, worthy of that name for the ſmalneſſe, and age, for it hath long lyen among my other papers, and laughs at them that have adventured to you: for I thinke till now you ſaw it not, and neither you, nor it ſhould repent it. Sir, if I were any thing, my love to you might multiply it, and dignifie it: But infinite nothings are but one ſuch: Yet ſince even Chymeraes have ſome name, and titles, I am alſo

Yours.

To Sr. H. G.

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SIR,

IN the hiſtory or ſtile of friendſhip, which is beſt written both in deeds and words, a letter which is of a mixed nature, and hath ſomething of both is a mixt parentheſis: It may be left out, yet it contributes, though not to the beeing, yet to the verdure, and freſhneſſe thereof. Letters have truly the ſame office, as oathes. As theſe amongſt light and empty men, are but fillings, and pauſes, and interjections: but with waightier, they are ſad atteſtations: So are letters, to ſome complement, and obligation to others. For mine, as I never authorized my ſervant to lye in my behalfe (for if it were officious in him, it might be worſe in mee) ſo I allow my letters much leſſe that civill diſhoneſty, both becauſe they goe from mee more conſiderately, and becauſe they are permanent, for in them I may ſpeake to you in your chamber a yeare hence before I know not whom, and not heare my ſelfe. They ſhall therefore ever keepe the ſincerity and intemerateneſſe of the fountaine whence they are derived. And as whereſoever theſe leaves fall, the root is in my heart, ſo ſhall they, as that ſucks good affections towards you there, have ever true impreſſions thereof. Thus much information is in very leaves, that they can tell what the tree is, and theſe can tell [Page] you I am a friend and an honeſt man. Of what generall uſe, the fruit ſhould ſpeake, and I have none: and of what particular profit to you, your application and experimenting ſhould tell you, and you can make none of ſuch a nothing; Yet even of barren Sicamores, ſuch as I, there were uſe, if either any light flaſhings, or ſcorching vehemencies, or ſudden ſhowers made you need ſo ſhadowie an example or Remembrancer. But (Sir) your fortune and minde do you this happy injury, that they make all kinde of fruits uſeleſſe unto you; Therefore I have placed my love wiſely where I need communicate nothing.

All this, though perchance you reade it not till Michaelmas, was told you at Michin. 15. Aug. 1607.

To Sr H. G.

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SIR,

IT ſhould be no interruption to your pleaſures to heare mee often ſay that I love you, and that you are as much my meditation as my ſelfe: I often compare not you and mee, but the Spheare in which your reſolutions are, and my wheele; both I hope concentrique to God: for me thinkes the new Aſtronomie is thus applyable well, that wee which are a little earth ſhould rather move towards God, then that hee which is fulfilling, and can come no whither, ſhould move towards us. To your life full of variety, nothing is old, nor new to mine. And as to that life, all ſtickings and heſitations ſeeme ſtupid and ſtony, ſo to this, all fluid ſlipperineſſes and tranſitory migrations ſeeme giddy and feathery. In that life one is ever in the porch or poſterne, going in or out, never within his houſe, himſelf: It is a garment made of remnants, a life raveld out into ends, a line diſcontinued, & a number of ſmall wretched points; uſeleſſe, becauſe they concurre not: A life built of paſt & future, not propoſing any conſtant preſent. They have more pleaſures then wee, but not more pleaſure: they joy oftner, wee longer; and no man but of ſo much underſtanding as may deliver him from being a foole, would change with a mad-man, which had a better proportion of wit in his often Lucidis. You know, they which dwell fartheſt from the Sunne, if in any convenient diſtance, have longer dayes, better appetites, [Page] better digeſtion, better growth, and longer life. And all theſe advantages have their mindes who are well removed from the ſcorchings, and dazlings, and exhalings of the worlds glory; but neither of our lifes are in ſuch extremes; for you living at Court without ambition, which would burne you, or envy which would deveſt others, live in the Sunne, not in the fire; and I which live in the Country without ſtupifying, am not in darkneſſe, but in ſhadow, which is not no light, but a pallid, watriſh, and diluted one. As all ſhadowes are of one colour if you reſpect the body from which they are caſt (for our ſhadows upon clay will be dirty, and in a garden greene, and flowery,) ſo all retyrings into a ſhadowie life are alike from all cauſes, and alike ſubject to the barbarouſneſſe and inſipid dulnes of the countrie: Only the employment, and that upon which you caſt and beſtow your pleaſure, buſineſſe, or bookes, gives it the tincture, and beauty. But truly whereſoever we are, if wee can but tell our ſelves truly what & where we would be, we may make any ſtate & place ſuch: For we are ſo compoſed, that if abundance, or glory ſcorch & melt us, we have an earthly cave, our bodies to go into by conſideration, & coole our ſelves: and if we be frozen, and contracted with lower and darke fortunes, wee have within us a torch, a ſoule, lighter and warmer then any without: we are therefore our owne umbrellas, and our owne Sun [...]. Theſe Sir, are the Sallads, and Onyons of Michin, ſent to you with as wholſome affection as your other friends ſend Melons and Quelque choſes from Court and London. If I preſent you not as good dyet [Page] as they, I would yet ſay grace to theirs, and bid much good do it you. I ſend you, with this, a letter which I ſent to the Counteſſe. It is not my uſe nor duty to do ſo. But for your having of it, there were but two conſents, and I am ſure you have mine, and you are ſure you have hers: I alſo writ to her Ladiſhip for the verſes ſhee ſhewed in the garden, which I did not onely to extort them, nor onely to keepe my promiſe of writing, for that I had done in the other letter, and perchance ſhee hath forgotten the promiſe, nor onely becauſe I thinke my letters juſt good enough for a Progreſſe, but becauſe I would write apace to her, whilſt it is poſſible to expreſſe that which I yet know of her, for by this growth I ſee how ſoone ſhe will be ineffable.

To the Counteſſe of Bedford.

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Happieſt and worthyeſt Lady,

I Do not remember that ever I have ſeen a petition in verſe, I would not therefore be ſingular, nor adde theſe to your other papers. I have yet adventured ſo neare as to make a petitiō for verſe, It is for thoſe your Ladiſhip did me the honor to ſee in a Twicknam garden, except you repēt your making & having mended your judgement by thinking worſe, that is, better, becauſe juſter, of their ſubject. They muſt needs be an excellent exerciſe of your wit, which ſpeake ſo well of ſo ill. I humbly begge them of your Ladiſhip, with two ſuch promiſes, as to any other of your compoſitions were threatnings: That I will not ſhew them, & that I will not beleeve them; And nothing ſhould be ſo uſed which comes from your braine or heart. If I ſhould confeſſe a fault in the boldneſſe of asking them, or make a fault by doing it in a longer letter, your Ladiſhip might uſe your ſtile and old faſhion of the Court towards mee, and pay mee with a pardon. Here therefore I humbly kiſſe your Ladiſhips faire learned, hands and wiſh you good wiſhes and ſpeedy grants.

Your Ladiſhips ſervant JO. DONNE.

To Sr H. G.

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SIR,

BEcauſe I am in a place and ſeaſon where I ſee every thing bud forth, I muſt do ſo too, and vent ſome of my meditations to you; the rather becauſe all other buds being yet without taſte or vertue, my letters may be like them. The pleaſantnes of the ſeaſon diſpleaſes mee. Every thing refreſhes, and I wither, and I grow older and not better. My ſtrength diminiſhes, and my load growes, and being to paſſe more and more ſtormes, I finde that I have not only caſt out all my ballaſt which nature and time gives, reaſon & diſcretion, & ſo am as empty & light as vanity can make me, but I have over-fraught my ſelfe with vice, and ſo am riddingly ſubject to two contrary wrackes, ſinking and over-ſetting, and under the iniquity of ſuch a diſeaſe as enforces the patient when hee is almoſt ſtarv'd, not onely to faſt, but to purge; for I have much to take in, and much to caſt out. Sometimes I thinke it eaſier to diſcharge my ſelfe of vice then of vanity, as one may ſooner carry the fire out of a roome then the ſmoke: And then I ſee it was a new vanity to thinke ſo. And when I thinke ſometimes, that vanity, becauſe it is thinne and airy, may be expelled with vertue or buſineſſe, or ſubſtantiall vice; I finde that I give entrance thereby to new vices. Certainly as the earth & water, one ſad, the other fluid, make but one body: ſo to vice, [Page] and vanity, there is but one Centrum morbi. And that which later Phyſitiās ſay of our bodies, is fitter for our mindes; for that which they call deſtruction, which is a corruption and want of thoſe fundamentall parts whereof we conſiſt, is vice: And that Collectio Stercorum, which is but the Excrement of that corruption, is our vanity and indiſcretion. Both theſe have but one root in mee, and muſt bee pulled out at once, or never. But I am ſo far from digging to it, that I know not where it is. For it is not in mine eyes only, but in every ſenſe, nor in my concupiſcence only, but in every power and affection. Sir, I was willing to let you ſee how impotent a man you love, not to diſhearten you from doing ſo ſtill (for my vices are not infectious, nor wandring, They came not yeſterday, nor meane to goe away to day: They Inne not, but dwell in mee, and ſee themſelves ſo welcome, and finde in mee ſo good bad company of one another, that they will not change, eſpecially to one not apprehenſive, nor eaſily acceſſible) but I doe it, that your counſell might cure mee, and if you deny that, your example ſhall, for I will as much ſtrive to be like you as I will wiſh you to continue good.

To Sir H. G.

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SIR,

I Hope you are now welcome to London, and well, and well comforted in your fathers health and love, and well contented that we aske you how you doe, and tell you how we are, which yet I cannot of my ſelfe; If I knew that I were ill, I were well; For we conſiſt of three parts, a Soule, and Body, and Mind: which I call thoſe thoughts and affections and paſſions, which neither Soule nor Body hath alone, but have beene begotten by their communication, as Muſique reſults out of our breath and a Cornet. And of all theſe the diſeaſes are cures, if they be knowne. Of our Soules ſickneſſes, which are ſinnes, the knowledge is, to acknowledge, and that is her phyſick, in which wee are not dieted by drams and ſcruples, for we cannot take too much. Of our bodies infirmities, though our knowledge be partly ab extrinſeco, from the opinion of the Phyſitian, and that the ſubject and matter be flexible, and various; Yet their rules are certaine, and if the matter be rightly applyed to the rule, our knowledge thereof is alſo certaine. But of the diſeaſes of the minde, there is no Cryterium, no Canon, no rule; for, our owne taſt and apprehenſion & interpretation ſhould be the judge, and that is the diſeaſe it ſelfe. Therefore ſometimes when I finde my ſelfe tranſported [Page] with jollity, and love of company, I hang leads at my heeles, and reduce to my thoughts my fortunes, my yeares, the duties of a man, of a friend, of a huſband, of a father, and all the incumbencies of a family. When ſadneſſe dejects me, either I countermine it with another ſadneſſe, or I kindly ſquibs about mee againe, and flie into ſportfulneſſe and company. And I finde ever after all, that I am like an Exorciſt, which had long laboured about one, which at laſt appeares to have the Mother, that I ſtill miſtake my diſeaſe. And I ſtill vexe my ſelfe with this, becauſe if I know it not, no body can know it. And I comfort my ſelfe becauſe I ſee diſpaſſioned men are ſubject to the like ignorances. For divers mindes out of the ſame thing often draw contrary concluſions, as Auguſtine thought devout Anthony to bee therfore full of the holy Ghoſt, becauſe, not being able to read, he could ſay the whole Bible, and interpret it. And Thyraeus the Jeſuite for the ſame reaſon doth thinke all the Anabaptiſts to be poſſeſſed. And as often out of contrary things men draw one concluſion. As, To the Romane Church, Magnificence and Splendor hath ever beene an argument of Gods favour, and Poverty and Affliction, to the Greeke. Out of this variety of mindes it proceeds, that though all our Soules would goe to one end, Heaven, and all our bodies muſt goe to one end, the Earth: Yet our third part, the minde, which is our naturall Guide here, chuſes to every man a ſeverall way. Scarce any man likes what another doth, nor, adviſedly, that which himſelfe. But, Sir, I am beyond my [Page] purpoſe; I meant to write a letter, and I am fallen into a diſcourſe, and I doe not only take you from ſome buſineſſe, but I make you a new buſineſſe by drawing you into theſe meditations. In which yet let my opennes be an argument of ſuch love as I would fain expreſſe in ſome worthier faſhion.

Elegies upon the Author.

TO THE MEMORIE OF MY EVER DESIRED FRIEND Dr. DONNE:

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TO have liv'd eminent, in a degree

Beyond our lofty'ſt flights, that is, like Thee,

Or t'have had too much merit, is not ſafe;

For, ſuch exceſſes finde no Epitaph.

At common graves we have Poetique eyes

Can melt themſelves in eaſie Elegies,

Each quill can drop his tributary verſe,

And pin it, like the Hatchments, to the Hearſe:

But at Thine, Poeme, or Inſcription

(Rich ſoule of wit, and language) we have none.

Indeed a ſilence does that tombe befit,

Where is no Herald left to blazon it.

Widow'd invention juſtly doth forbeare

To come abroad, knowing Thou art not here,

Late her great Patron; Whoſe Prerogative

Maintain'd, and cloth'd her ſo, as none alive

Muſt now preſume, to keepe her at thy rate,

Though he the Indies for her dowre eſtate.

[Page] Or elſe that awfull fire, which once did burne

In thy cleare Braine, now falne into thy Urne

Lives there, to fright rude Empiricks from thence,

Which might prophane thee by their Ignorance.

Who ever writes of Thee, and in a ſtile

Unworthy ſuch a Theme, does but revile

Thy precious Duſt, and wake a learned Spirit

Which may revenge his Rapes upon thy Merit.

For, all a low pitch't phanſie can deviſe,

Will prove, at beſt, but Hallow'd Injuries.

Thou, like the dying Swanne, didſt lately ſing

Thy Mournfull Dirge, in audience of the King;

When pale lookes, and faint accents of thy breath,

Preſented ſo, to life, that peece of death,

That it was fear'd, and propheſi'd by all,

Thou thither cam'ſt to preach thy Funerall.

O! had'ſt Thou in an Elegiacke Knell

Rung out unto the world thine owne farewell,

And in thy High Victorious Numbers beate

The ſolemne meaſure of thy griev'd Retreat;

Thou might'ſt the Poets ſervice now have miſt

As well, as then thou did'ſt prevent the Prieſt;

And never to the world beholding bee

So much, as for an Epitaph for thee.

I doe not like the office. Nor is 't fit

Thou, who did'ſt lend our Age ſuch ſummes of wit,

Should'ſt now re-borrow from her bankrupt Mine,

That Ore to Bury Thee, which once was Thine.

Rather ſtill leave us in thy debt; And know

(Exalted Soule) more glory 't is to owe

[Page] Unto thy Hearſe, what we can never pay,

Then, with embaſed Coine thoſe Rites defray.

Commit we then Thee to Thy ſelfe: Nor blame

Our drooping loves, which thus to thy owne Fame

Leave Thee Executour. Since, but thine owne,

No pen could doe Thee Juſtice, nor Bayes Crowne

Thy vaſt deſert; Save that, wee nothing can

Depute, to be thy Aſhes Guardian.

So Jewellers no Art, or Metall truſt

To forme the Diamond, but the Diamonds duſt,

H. K.

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

[Page]

WHen thy Looſe raptures, Donne, ſhall meet with Thoſe

That doe confine

Tuning, unto the Duller line,

And ſing not, but in Sanctified Proſe;

How will they, with ſharper eyes,

The Fore-skinne of thy phanſie circumciſe?

And feare, thy wantonneſſe ſhould now, begin

Example, that hath ceaſed to be Sin?

And that Feare fannes their Heat; whilſt knowing eyes

Will not admire

At this Strange Fire,

That here is mingled with thy Sacrifice:

But dare reade even thy Wanton Story,

As thy Confeſsion, not thy Glory.

And will ſo envie Both to future times,

That they would buy thy Goodneſſe, with thy Crimes.

Tho: Browne

On the death of Dr DONNE.

[Page]

I Cannot blame thoſe men, that knew thee well,

Yet dare not helpe the world, to ring thy knell

In tunefull Elegies; there's not language knowne

Fit for thy mention, but 'twas firſt thy owne;

The Epitaphs thou writſt, have ſo bereft

Our tongue of wit, there is not phanſie left

Enough to weepe thee; what henceforth we ſee

Of Art or Nature, muſt reſult from thee.

There may perchance ſome buſie gathering friend

Steale from thy owne workes, and that, varied, lend,

Which thou beſtow'ſt on others, to thy Hearſe,

And ſo thou ſhalt live ſtill in thine owne verſe;

Hee that ſhall venture farther, may commit

A pitied errour, ſhew his zeale, not wit.

Fate hath done mankinde wrong; vertue may aime

Reward of conſcience, never can, of fame,

Since her great trumpet's broke, could onely give

Faith to the world, command it to beleeve;

Hee then muſt write, that world define thy parts:

Here lyes the beſt Divinitie, All the Arts.

Edw. Hyde.

On Doctor Donne, By Dr C. B. of O.

[Page]

HEe that would write an Epitaph for thee,

And do it well, muſt firſt beginne to be

Such as thou wert; for, none can truly know

Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath liv'd ſo;

He muſt have wit to ſpare and to hurle downe:

Enough, to keepe the gallants of the towne.

He muſt have learning plenty; both the Lawes,

Civill, and Common, to judge any cauſe;

Divinity great ſtore, above the reſt;

Not of the laſt Edition, but the beſt.

Hee muſt have language, travaile, all the Arts;

Judgement to uſe; or elſe he wants thy parts.

He muſt have friends the higheſt, able to do;

Such as Mecoenas, and Auguſtus too.

He muſt have ſuch a ſickneſſe, ſuch a death;

Or elſe his vaine deſcriptions come beneath;

Who then ſhall write an Epitaph for thee▪

He muſt be dead firſt, let'it alone for mee.

An Elegie upon the incomparable Dr DONNE.

[Page]

ALl is not well when ſuch a one as I

Dare peepe abroad, and write an Elegie;

When ſmaller Starres appeare, and give their light,

Phoebus is gone to bed: Were it not night,

And the world witleſſe now that DONNE is dead,

You ſooner ſhould have broke, then ſeene my head.

Dead did I ſay? Forgive this Injury

I doe him, and his worthes Infinity,

To ſay he is but dead; I dare averre

It better may be term'd a Maſſacre,

Then Sleepe or Death; See how the Muſes mourne

Upon their oaten Reeds, and from his Vrne

Threaten the World with this Calamity,

They ſhall have Ballads, but no Poetry.

Language lyes ſpeechleſſe; and Divinity,

Loſt ſuch a Trump as even to Extaſie

Could charme the Soule, and had an Influence

To teach beſt judgements, and pleaſe dulleſt Senſe.

The Court, the Church, the Vniverſitie,

Loſt Chaplaine, Deane, and Doctor, All theſe, Three.

[Page] It was his Merit, that his Funerall

Could cauſe a loſſe ſo great and generall.

If there be any Spirit can anſwer give

Of ſuch as hence depart, to ſuch as live:

Speake, Doth his body there vermiculate,

Crumble to duſt, and feele the lawes of Fate?

Me thinkes, Corruption, Wormes, what elſe is foule

Should ſpare the Temple of ſo faire a Soule.

I could beleeve they doe; but that I know

What inconvenience might hereafter grow:

Succeeding ages would Idolatrize,

And as his Numbers, ſo his Reliques prize.

If that Philoſopher, which did avow

The world to be but Mores, was living now:

He would affirme that th'Atomes of his mould

Were they in ſeverall bodies blended, would

Produce new worlds of Travellers, Divines,

Of Linguiſts, Poets: ſith theſe ſeverall Lines

In him concentred were, and flowing thence

Might fill againe the worlds Circumference.

I could beleeve this too; and yet my faith

Not want a Preſident: The Phoenix hath

(And ſuch was He) a power to animate

Her aſhes, and herſelfe perpetuate.

But, buſie Soule, thou doſt not well to pry

Into theſe Secrets; Griefe, and Iealouſie,

The more they know, the further ſtill advance,

[Page] And finde no way ſo ſafe as Ignorance.

Let this ſuffice thee, that his Soule which flew

A pitch of all admir'd, known but of few,

(Save thoſe of purer mould) is now tranſlated

From Earth to Heavên, and there Conſtellated.

For, if each Prieſt of God ſhine as a Starre,

His Glory is as his Gifts, 'bove others farre.

HEN. VALENTINE.

An Elegie upon Dr Donne.

[Page]

IS Donne, great Donne deceas'd? then England ſay

Thou'haſt loſt a man where language choſe to ſtay

And ſhew it's gracefull power. I would not praiſe

That and his vaſt wit (which in theſe vaine dayes

Make many proud) but as they ſerv'd to unlock

That Cabinet, his minde: where ſuch a ſtock

Of knoweledge was repos'd, as all lament

(Or ſhould) this generall cauſe of diſcontent.

And I rejoyce I am not ſo ſevere,

But (as I write a line) to weepe a teare

For his deceaſe; Such ſad extremities

May make ſuch men as I write Elegies.

And wonder not; for, when a generall loſſe

Falls on a nation, and they ſlight the croſſe,

God hath rais'd Prophets to awaken them

From ſtupifaction; witneſſe my milde pen,

Not us'd to upbraid the world, though now it muſt

Freely and boldly, for, the cauſe is juſt.

Dull age, Oh I would ſpare thee, but th'art worſe,

Thou art not onely dull, but haſt a curſe

Of black ingratitude; if not, couldſt thou

Part with miraculous Donne, and make no vow

For thee and thine, ſucceſſively to pay

A ſad remembrance to his dying day?

Did his youth ſcatter Poetrie, wherein

Was all Philoſophie? Was every ſinne,

[Page] Character'd in his Satyres? made ſo foule

That ſome have fear'd their ſhapes, & kept their ſoule

Freer by reading verſe? Did he give dayes

Paſt marble monuments, to thoſe, whoſe praiſe

He would perpetuate? Did hee (I feare

The dull will doubt:) theſe at his twentieth yeare?

But, more matur'd: Did his full ſoule conceive,

And in harmonious-holy-numbers weave

A Crowme of ſacred ſonets,

La Corona.

fit to adorne

A dying Martyrs brow: or, to be worne

On that bleſt head of Mary Magdalen:

After ſhe wip'd Chriſts feet, but not till then?

Did hee (fit for ſuch penitents as ſhee

And hee to uſe) leave us a Litany?

Which all devout men love, and ſure, it ſhall,

As times grow better, grow more claſſicall.

Did he write Hymnes, for piety and wit

Equall to thoſe great grave Prudentius writ?

Spake he all Languages? knew he all Lawes?

The grounds and uſe of Phyſicke; but becauſe

'Twas mercenary wav'd it? Went to ſee

That bleſſed place of Chriſts nativity?

Did he returne and preach him? preach him ſo

As none but hee did, or could do? They know

(Such as were bleſt to heare him know) 'tis truth.

Did he confirme thy age? convert thy youth?

Did he theſe wonders? And is this deare loſſe

Mourn'd by ſo few? (few for ſo great a croſſe.)

But ſure the ſilent are ambitious all

To be Cloſe Mourners at his Funerall;

[Page] If not; In common pitty they forbare

By repetitions to renew our care;

Or, knowing, griefe conceiv'd, conceal'd, conſumes

Man irreparably, (as poyſon'd fumes

Do waſte the braine) make ſilence a fafe way

To'inlarge the Soule from theſe walls, mud and clay,

(Materialls of this body) to remaine

With Donne in heaven, where no promiſcuous paine

Leſſens the joy wee have, for, with him, all

Are ſatisfyed with joyes eſſentiall.

My thoughts, Dwell on this Ioy, and do not call

Griefe backe, by thinking of his Funerall;

Forget he lov'd mee; Waſte not my ſad yeares;

(Which haſte to Davids ſeventy) fill'd with feares

And ſorrow for his death;) Forget his parts,

Which finde a living grave in good mens hearts;

And, (for, my firſt is daily paid for ſinne)

Forget to pay my ſecond ſigh for him:

Forget his powerfull preaching; and forget

I am his Convert. Oh my frailtie! let

My fleſh be no more heard, it will obtrude

This lethargie: ſo ſhould my gratitude,

My vowes of gratitude ſhould ſo be broke;

Which can no more be, then Donnes vertues ſpoke

By any but himſelfe; for which cauſe, I

Write no Encomium, but an Elegie.

IZ. WA.

An Elegie upon the death of the Deane of Pauls, Dr. Iohn Donne: By Mr. Tho: Carie.

[Page]

CAn we not force from widdowed Poetry,

Now thou art dead (Great DONNE) one Elegie

To crowne thy Hearſe? Why yet dare we not truſt

Though with unkneaded dowe-bak't proſe thy duſt,

Such as the unciſor'd Churchman from the flower

Of fading Rhetorique, ſhort liv'd as his houre,

Dry as the ſand that meaſures it, ſhould lay

Upon thy Aſhes, on the funerall day?

Have we no voice, no tune? Did'ſt thou diſpenſe

Through all our language, both the words and ſenſe?

'Tis a ſad truth; The Pulpit may her plaine,

And ſober Chriſtian precepts ſtill retaine,

Doctrines it may, and wholeſome Uſes frame,

Grave Homilies, and Lectures, But the flame

Of thy brave Soule, that ſhot ſuch heat and light,

As burnt our earth, and made our darkneſſe bright,

Committed holy Rapes upon our Will,

Did through the eye the melting heart diſtill;

And the deepe knowledge of darke truths ſo teach,

As ſenſe might judge, what phanſie could not reach;

[Page] Muſt be deſir'd for ever. So the fire,

That fills with ſpirit and heat the Delphique quire,

Which kindled firſt by thy Promethean breath,

Glow'd here a while, lies quench't now in thy death;

The Muſes garden with Pedantique weedes

O'rſpred, was purg'd by thee; The lazie ſeeds

Of ſervile imitation throwne away;

And freſh invention planted, Thou didſt pay

The debts of our penurious bankrupt age;

Licentious thefts, that make poëtique rage

A Mimique fury, when our ſoules muſt bee

Poſſeſt, or with Anacreons Extaſie,

Or Pindars, not their owne; The ſubtle cheat

Of ſlie Exchanges, and the jugling feat

Of two-edg'd words, or whatſoever wrong

By ours was done the Greeke, or Latine tongue,

Thou haſt redeem'd, and open'd Us a Mine

Of rich and pregnant phanſie, drawne a line

Of maſculine expreſſion, which had good

Old Orpheus ſeene, Or all the ancient Brood

Our ſuperſtitious fooles admire, and hold

Their lead more precious, then thy burniſh't Gold,

Thou hadſt beene their Exchequer, and no more

They each in others duſt, had rak'd for Ore.

Thou ſhalt yield no precedence, but of time,

And the blinde fate of language, whoſe tun'd chime

More charmes the outward ſenſe; Yet thou maiſt claime

From ſo great diſadvantage greater fame,

Since to the awe of thy imperious wit

Our ſtubborne language bends, made only fit

[Page] With her tough-thick-rib'd hoopes to gird about

Thy Giant phanſie, which had prov'd too ſtout

For their ſoft melting Phraſes. As in time

They had the ſtart, ſo did they cull the prime

Buds of invention many a hundred yeare,

And left the rifled fields, beſides the feare

To touch their Harveſt, yet from thoſe bare lands

Of what is purely thine, thy only hands

(And that thy ſmalleſt worke) have gleaned more

Then all thoſe times, and tongues could reape before;

But thou art gone, and thy ſtrict lawes will be

Too hard for Libertines in Poetrie.

They will repeale the goodly exil'd traine

Of gods and goddeſſes, which in thy juſt raigne

Were baniſh'd nobler Poems, now, with theſe

The ſilenc'd tales o'th'Metamorphoſes

Shall ſtuffe their lines, and ſwell the windy Page,

Till Verſe refin'd by thee, in this laſt Age,

Turne ballad rime, Or thoſe old Idolls bee

Ador'd againe, with new apoſtaſie;

Oh, pardon mee, that breake with untun'd verſe

The reverend ſilence that attends thy herſe,

Whoſe awfull ſolemne murmures were to thee

More then theſe faint lines, A loud Elegie,

That did proclaime in a dumbe eloquence

The death of all the Arts, whoſe influence

Growne feeble, in theſe panting numbers lies

Gaſping ſhort winded Accents, and ſo dies:

So doth the ſwiftly turning wheele not ſtand

In th'inſtant we withdraw the moving hand,

[Page] But ſome ſmall time maintaine a faint weake courſe

By vertue of the firſt impulſive force:

And ſo whil'ſt I caſt on thy funerall pile

Thy crowne of Bayes, Oh, let it crack a while,

And ſpit diſdaine, till the devouring flaſhes

Suck all the moyſture up, then turne to aſhes.

I will not draw the envy to engroſſe

All thy perfections, or weepe all our loſſe;

Thoſe are too numerous for an Elegie,

And this too great, to be expreſs'd by mee.

Though every pen ſhould ſhare a diſtinct part,

Yet art thou Theme enough to tyre all Art;

Let others carve the reſt, it ſhall ſuffice

I on thy Tombe this Epitaph inciſe.

Here lies a King, that rul'd as hee thought fit

The univerſall Monarchy of wit;

Here lie two Flamens, and both thoſe, the beſt,

Apollo's firſt, at laſt, the true Gods Prieſt.

An Elegie on Dr. DONNE: By Sir Lucius Carie.

[Page]

POets attend, the Elegie I ſing

Both of a doubly-named Prieſt, and King:

In ſtead of Coates, and Pennons, bring your Verſe,

For you muſt bee chiefe mourners at his Hearſe,

A Tombe your Muſe muſt to his Fame ſupply,

No other Monuments can never die;

And as he was a two-fold Prieſt; in youth,

Apollo's; afterwards, the voice of Truth,

Gods Conduit-pipe for grace, who choſe him for

His extraordinary Embaſſador,

So let his Liegiers with the Poets joyne,

Both having ſhares, both muſt in griefe combine:

Whil'ſt Johnſon forceth with his Elegie

Teares from a griefe-unknowing Scythians eye,

(Like Moſes at whoſe ſtroke the waters guſht

From forth the Rock, and like a Torrent ruſht.)

Let Lawd his funerall Sermon preach, and ſhew

Thoſe vertues, dull eyes were not apt to know,

Nor leave that Piercing Theme, till it appeares

To be good friday, by the Churches Teares;

Yet make not griefe too long oppreſſe our Powers,

Leaſt that his funerall Sermon ſhould prove ours.

Nor yet forget that heavenly Eloquence,

With which he did the bread of life diſpenſe,

[Page] Preacher and Orator diſcharg'd both parts

With pleaſure for our ſenſe, health for our hearts,

And the firſt ſuch (Though a long ſtudied Art

Tell us our ſoule is all in every part,)

None was ſo marble, but whil'ſt him he heares,

His Soule ſo long dwelt only in his eares.

And from thence (with the fierceneſſe of a flood

Bearing downe vice) victual'd with that bleſt food

Their hearts; His ſeed in none could faile to grow,

Fertile he found them all, or made them ſo:

No Druggiſt of the Soule beſtow'd on all

So Catholiquely a curing Cordiall.

Nor only in the Pulpit dwelt his ſtore,

His words work'd much, but his example more,

That preach't on worky dayes, His Poetrie

It ſelfe was oftentimes divinity,

Thoſe Anthemes (almoſt ſecond Pſalmes) he writ

To make us know the Croſſe, and value it,

(Although we owe that reverence to that name

Wee ſhould not need warmth from an under flame.)

Creates a fire in us, ſo neare extreme

That we would die, for, and upon this theme.

Next, his ſo pious Litany, which none can

But count Divine, except a Puritan,

And that but for the name, nor this, nor thoſe

Want any thing of Sermons, but the proſe.

Experience makes us ſee, that many a one

Owes to his Countrey his Religion;

And in another, would as ſtrongly grow,

Had but his Nurſe and Mother taught him ſo,

[Page] Not hee the ballaſt on his Judgement hung;

Nor did his preconceit doe either wrong;

He labour'd to exclude what ever ſinne

By time or careleſſeneſſe had entred in;

Winnow'd the chaffe from wheat, but yet was loath

A too hot zeale ſhould force him, burne them both;

Nor would allow of that ſo ignorant gall,

Which to ſave blotting often would blot all;

Nor did thoſe barbarous opinions owne,

To thinke the Organs ſinne, and faction, none;

Nor was there expectation to gaine grace

From forth his Sermons only, but his face;

So Primitive a looke, ſuch gravitie

With humbleneſſe, and both with Pietie;

So milde was Moſes countenance, when he prai'd

For them whoſe Sataniſme his power gain ſaid;

And ſuch his gravitie, when all Gods band

Receiv' his word (through him) at ſecond hand;

Which joyn'd, did flames of more devotion move

Then ever Argive Hellens could of love.

Now to conclude, I muſt my reaſon bring,

Where fore I call'd him in his title King,

That Kingdome the Philoſophers beleev'd

To excell Alexanders, nor were griev'd

By feare of loſſe (that being ſuch a Prey

No ſtronger then ones ſelfe can force away)

The Kingdome of ones ſelfe, this he enjoy'd,

And his authoritie ſo well employ'd,

That never any could before become

So Great a Monarch, in ſo ſmall a roome;

[Page] He conquer'd rebell paſſions, rul'd them ſo,

As under-ſpheares by the firſt Mover goe,

Baniſh't ſo farre their working, that we can

But know he had ſome, for we knew him man.

Then let his laſt excuſe his firſt extremes,

His age ſaw viſions, though his youth dream'd dreams.

On Dr. DONNES death: By Mr. Mayne of Chriſt-Church in Oxford.

[Page]

WHo ſhall preſume to mourn thee, Donne, unleſſe

He could his teares in thy expreſſions dreſſe,

And teach his griefe that reverence of thy Hearſe,

To weepe lines, learned, as thy Anniverſe,

A Poëme of that worth, whoſe every teare

Deſerves the title of a ſeverall yeare.

Indeed ſo farre above its Reader, good,

That wee are thought wits, when 'tis underſtood,

There that bleſt maid to die, who now ſhould grieve?

After thy ſorrow, 'twere her loſſe to live;

And her faire vertues in anothers line,

Would faintly dawn, which are made Saints in thine.

Hadſt thou beene ſhallower, and not writ ſo high,

Or left ſome new way for our pennes, or eye,

To ſhed a funerall teare, perchance thy Tombe

Had not beene ſpeechleſſe, or our Muſes dumbe;

But now wee dare not write, but muſt conceale

Thy Epitaph, leſt we be thought to ſteale,

[Page] For, who hath read thee, and diſcernes thy worth,

That will not ſay, thy careleſſe houres brought forth

Fancies beyond our ſtudies, and thy play

Was happier, then our ſerious time of day?

So learned was thy chance; thy haſte had wit,

And matter from thy pen flow'd raſhly fit,

What was thy recreation turnes our braine,

Our rack and paleneſſe, is thy weakeſt ſtraine.

And when we moſt come neere thee, 'tis our bliſſe

To imitate thee, where thou doſt amiſſe,

Here light your muſe, you that do onely thinke,

And write, and are juſt Poëts, as you drinke,

In whoſe weake fancies wit doth ebbe and flow,

Juſt as your recknings riſe, that wee may know

In your whole carriage of your worke, that here

This flaſh you wrote in Wine, and this in Beere,

This is to tap your Muſe, which running long

Writes flat, and takes our eare not halfe ſo ſtrong;

Poore Suburbe wits, who, if you want your cup,

Or if a Lord recover, are blowne up.

Could you but reach this height, you ſhould not need

To make, each meale, a project ere you feed,

Nor walke in reliques, clothes ſo old and bare,

As if left off to you from Ennius were,

Nor ſhould your love, in verſe, call Miſtreſſe, thoſe,

Who are mine hoſteſſe, or your whores in proſe;

From this Muſe learne to Court, whoſe power could move

A Cloyſtred coldneſſe, or a Veſtall love,

And would convey ſuch errands to their eare,

[Page] That Ladies knew no oddes to grant and heare;

But I do wrong thee, Donne, and this low praiſe

Is written onely for thy yonger dayes.

I am not growne up, for thy riper parts,

Then ſhould I praiſe thee, through the Tongues, and Arts,

And have that deepe Divinity, to know,

What myſteries did from thy preaching flow,

Who with thy words could charme thy audience,

That at thy ſermons, eare was all our ſenſe;

Yet have I ſeene thee in the pulpit ſtand,

Where wee might take notes, from thy looke, and hand;

And from thy ſpeaking action beare away

More Sermon, then ſome teachers uſe to ſay.

Such was thy carriage, and thy geſture ſuch,

As could divide the heart, and conſcience touch.

Thy motion did confute, and wee might ſee

An errour vanquiſh'd by delivery.

Not like our Sonnes of Zeale, who to reforme

Their hearers, fiercely at the Pulpit ſtorme,

And beate the cuſhion into worſe eſtate,

Then if they did conclude it reprobate,

Who can out pray the glaſſe, then lay about

Till all Predeſtination be runne out.

And from the point ſuch tedious uſes draw,

Their repetitions would make Goſpell, Law.

No, In ſuch temper would thy Sermons flow,

So well did Doctrine, and thy language ſhow,

And had that holy feare, as, hearing thee,

The Court would mend, and a good Chriſtian bee.

[Page] And Ladies though unhanſome, out of grace,

Would heare thee, in their unbought lookes, & face▪

More I could write, but let this crowne thine Urne,

Wee cannot hope the like, till thou returne.

Ʋpon Mr J. Donne, and his Poems.

[Page]

VVHo dares ſay thou art dead, when he doth ſee

(Unburied yet) this living part of thee?

This part that to thy beeing gives freſh flame,

And though th'art Donne, yet will preſerve thy name.

Thy fleſh (whoſe channels left their crimſen hew,

And whey-like ranne at laſt in a pale blew)

May ſhew thee mortall, a dead palſie may

Seiſe on't, and quickly turne it into clay;

Which like the Indian earth, ſhall riſe refin'd:

But this great Spirit thou haſt left behinde,

This Soule of Verſe (in it's firſt pure eſtate)

Shall live, for all the World to imitate▪

But not come neer, for in thy Fancies flight

Thou doſt not ſtoope unto the vulgar ſight,

But, hovering highly in the aire of Wit,

Hold'ſt ſuch a pitch, that few can follow it;

Admire they may. Each object that the Spring

(Or a more piercing influence) doth bring

[Page] T'adorne Earths face, thou ſweetly did'ſt contrive

To beauties elements, and thence derive

Unſpotted Lillies white; which thou did'ſt ſet

Hand in hand, with the veine-like Violet,

Making them ſoft, and warme, and by thy power,

Could'ſt give both life, and ſenſe, unto a flower.

The Cheries thou haſt made to ſpeake, will bee

Sweeter unto the taſte, then from the tree.

And (ſpight of winter ſtormes) amidſt the ſnow

Thou oft haſt made the bluſhing Roſe to grow.

The Sea-nimphs, that the watry cavernes keepe,

Have ſent their Pearles and Rubies from the deepe

To deck thy love, and plac'd by thee, they drew

More luſtre to them, then where firſt they grew.

All minerals (that Earths full wombe doth hold

Promiſcuouſly) thou couldſt convert to gold,

And with thy flaming raptures ſo refine,

That it was much more pure then in the Mine.

The lights that guild the night, if thou did'ſt ſay,

They looke like eyes, thoſe did out-ſhine the day;

For there would be more vertue in ſuch ſpells,

Then in Meridians, or croſſe Parallels:

What ever was of worth in this great Frame,

That Art could comprehend, or Wit could name,

It was thy theme for Beauty; thou didſt ſee,

Woman, was this faire Worlds Epitomie.

Thy nimble Satyres too, and every ſtraine

(With nervy ſtrength) that iſſued from thy brain,

Will loſe the glory of their owne cleare bayes,

[Page] If they admit of any others praiſe.

But thy diviner Poëms (whoſe cleare fire

Purges all droſſe away) ſhall by a Quire

Of Cherubims, with heavenly Notes be ſet

(Where fleſh and blood could ne'r attaine to yet)

There pureſt Spirits ſing ſuch ſacred Layes,

In Panegyrique Alleluiaes.

Arth. Wilſon.

In memory of Doctor Donne: By Mr R. B.

[Page]

DOnne dead? 'Tis here reported true, though I

Ne'r yet ſo much deſir'd to heare a lye,

'Tis too too true, for ſo wee finde it ſtill,

Good newes are often falſe, but ſeldome, ill:

But muſt poore fame tell us his fatall day,

And ſhall we know his death, the common way,

Mee thinkes ſome Comet bright ſhould have foretold

The death of ſuch a man, for though of old

'Tis held, that Comets Princes death foretell,

Why ſhould not his, have needed one as well?

Who was the Prince of wits, 'mongſt whom he reign'd,

High as a Prince, and as great State maintain'd?

Yet wants he not his ſigne, for wee have ſeene

A dearth, the like to which hath never beene,

Treading on harveſts heeles, which doth preſage

The death of wit and learning, which this age

Shall finde, now he is gone; for though there bee

Much graine in ſhew, none brought it forth as he,

Or men are miſers; or if true want raiſes

The dearth, then more that dearth Donnes plenty praiſes.

Of learning, languages, of eloquence,

And Poëſie, (paſt rauiſhing of ſenſe,)

He had a magazine, wherein ſuch ſtore

Was laid up, as might hundreds ſerve of poore.

[Page] But he is gone, O how will his deſire

Torture all thoſe that warm'd them by his fire?

Mee thinkes I ſee him in the pulpit ſtanding,

Not eares, or eyes, but all mens hearts commanding,

Where wee that heard him, to our ſelves did faine

Golden Chryſoſtome was alive againe;

And never were we weari'd, till we ſaw

His houre (and but an houre) to end did draw.

How did he ſhame the doctrine-men, and uſe,

With helps to boot, for men to beare th'abuſe

Of their tir'd patience, and endure th'expence

Of time, O ſpent in hearkning to non-ſenſe,

With markes alſo, enough whereby to know,

The ſpeaker is a zealous dunce, or ſo.

'Tis true, they quitted him, to their poore power,

They humm'd againſt him; And with face moſt ſowre:

Call'd him a ſtrong lin'd man, a Macaroon,

And no way fit to ſpeake to clouted ſhoone,

As fine words [truly] as you would deſire,

But [verily,] but a bad edifier.

Thus did theſe beetles ſlight in him that good,

They could not ſee, and much leſſe underſtood.

But we may ſay, when we compare the ſtuffe

Both brought; He was a candle, they the ſnuffe.

Well, Wiſedome's of her children juſtifi'd,

Let therefore theſe poore fellowes ſtand aſide;

Nor, though of learning he deſerv'd ſo highly,

Would I his booke ſhould ſave him; Rather ſlily

I ſhould adviſe his Clergie not to pray,

Though of the learn'dſt ſort; Me thinkes that they

[Page] Of the ſame trade, are Judges not ſo fit,

There's no ſuch emulation as of wit.

Of ſuch, the Envy might as much perchance

Wrong him, and more, then th'others ignorance.

It was his Fate (I know't) to be envy'd

As much by Clerkes, as lay men magnifi'd;

And why? but 'cauſe he came late in the day,

And yet his Penny earn'd, and had as they.

No more of this, leaſt ſome ſhould ſay, that I

Am ſtrai'd to Satyre, meaning Elegie.

No, no, had DONNE need to be judg'd or try'd,

A Jury I would ſummon on his ſide,

That had no ſides, nor factions, paſt the touch

Of all exceptions, freed from Paſſion, ſuch

As nor to feare nor fratter, e'r were bred,

Theſe would I bring, though called from the dead:

Southampton, Hambleton, Pēbrooke, Dorſets Earles,

Huntingdon, Bedfords Counteſſes (the Pearles

Once of each ſexe.) If theſe ſuffice not, I

Ten decem tales have of Standers by:

All which, for DONNE, would ſuch a verdict give,

As can belong to none, that now doth live.

But what doe I? A diminution 'tis

To ſpeake of him in verſe, ſo ſhort of his,

Whereof he was the maſter; All indeed

Compar'd with him, pip'd on an Oaten reed.

O that you had but one 'mongſt all your brothers

Could write for him, as he hath done for others:

(Poets I ſpeake to) When I ſee't, I'll ſay,

My eye-ſight betters, as my yeares decay,

[Page] Meane time a quarrell I ſhall ever have

Againſt theſe doughty keepers from the grave,

Who uſe, it ſeemes their old Authoritie,

When (Verſes men immortall make) they cry:

Which had it been a Recipe true tri'd,

Probatum eſſet, DONNE had never dy'd.

For mee, if e'r I had leaſt ſparke at all

Of that which they Poetique fire doe call,

Here I confeſſe it fetched from his hearth,

Which is gone out, now he is gone to earth.

This only a poore flaſh, a lightning is

Before my Muſes death, as after his.

Farewell (faire ſoule) and deigne receive from mee

This Type of that devotion I owe thee,

From whom (while living) as by voice and penne

I learned more, then from a thouſand men:

So by thy death, am of one doubt releas'd,

And now beleeve that miracles are ceas'd.

Epitaph.

HEere lies Deane Donne; Enough; Thoſe words

Shew him as fully, as if all the ſtone

His Church of Pauls contains, were through inſcrib'd alone

Or all the walkers there, to ſpeake him, brib'd.

None can miſtake him, for one ſuch as Hee

DONNE, Deane, or Man, more none ſhall ever ſee.

[Page] Not man? No, though unto a Sunne each eye

Were turn'd, the whole earth ſo to overſpie,

A bold brave word; Yet ſuch brave Spirits as knew

His Spirit, will ſay, it is leſſe bold then true.

Epitaph upon Dr. DONNE, By Endy: Porter.

[Page]

THis decent Urne a ſad inſcription weares,

Of Donnes departure from us, to the ſpheares;

And the dumbe ſtone with ſilence ſeemes to tell

The changes of this life, wherein is well

Expreſt, A cauſe to make all joy to ceaſe,

And never let our ſorrowes more take eaſe;

For now it is impoſſible to finde

One fraught with vertues, to inrich a minde;

But why ſhould death, with a promiſcuous hand

At one rude ſtroke impoveriſh a land?

Thou ſtrict Attorney, unto ſtricter Fate,

Didſt thou confiſcate his life out of hate

To his rare Parts? Or didſt thou throw thy dart,

With envious hand, at ſome Plebeyan heart;

And he with pious vertue ſtept betweene

To ſave that ſtroke, and ſo was kill'd unſeene

By thee? O 'twas his goodneſſe ſo to doe,

Which humane kindneſſe never reacht unto.

Thus the hard lawes of death were ſatisfi'd,

And he left us like Orphan friends, and di'de.

Now from the Pulpit to the peoples eares,

Whoſe ſpeech ſhall ſend repentant ſighes, and teares?

Or tell mee, if a purer Virgin die,

Who ſhall hereafter write her Elegie?

[Page] Poets be ſilent, let your numbers ſleepe,

For he is gone that did all phanſie keepe;

Time hath no Soule, but his exalted verſe;

Which with amazements, we may now reherſe.

FINIS

Information about this book

Title statement

Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

Donne, John, 1572-1631.

Edition statement

1633

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A69225

ID [STC]

STC 7045

ID [STC]

ESTC S121864

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

99857025

ID [PROQUEST]

99857025

ID [VID]

22691

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Series

Early English books online.

Notes

(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A69225)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 22691)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1475-1640 ; 881:25, 922:22)

Source

— Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death, Donne, John, 1572-1631..

Extent

[12], 406, [2] p.

Printed by M[iles] F[lesher] for Iohn Marriot, and are to be sold at his shop in St Dunstans Church-yard in Fleet-street,. London :: 1633.. (J.D. = John Donne.) (Printer's name from STC.) (The first leaf and the last leaf are blank.) (The position of ² A² ("The printer to the understanders") varies, but most commonly falls after ¹A2. It is sometimes missing, being apparently a slightly later addition.) (2N1 is a cancel, lacking running title on recto. Variant: 2N1 is cancellandum, with running titles but with text omitted.) (Identified as STC 7045a on UMI microfilm reel 922.) (Reproductions of the originals in Harvard University. Library and the Folger Shakespeare Library.) (Appears at reel 881 (Harvard University. Library copy) and at reel 922 (Folger Shakespeare Library copy).)

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