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 write to, to commend,

    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 bee

    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 than hate; and that must bee

    If shee whom I love, should love mee.

THE MESSAGE

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

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

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

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.

THE BAITE

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 than 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, than 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, with 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, sleavesilke flies

Bewitch poore fishes wandring eyes.

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 than I.

A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING

As virtuous men passe mildly away,

    And whisper to their soules, to goe,

Whilst some of their sad friends doe say,

    The breath goes now, and some say, no.

So let us melt, and make no noise,

    No teare-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,

T’were prophanation of our joyes

    To tell the layetie our love.

Moving of th’earth brings harmes and feares,

    Men reckon what it did and meant,

But trepidation of the spheares,

    Though greater farre, is innocent.

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.

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.

               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 hastes the others death.

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,

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 soul 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,

    The strength, the colour, and the size,

(All which before was poore, and scant,)

    Redoubles still, and multiplies.

When love, with one another so

    Interinanimates two soules,

That abler soule, which thence doth flow,

    Defects of loneliness 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.

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.

THE WILL

               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 goods 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.

               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 be 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,

               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 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 than I,

What I will say, I will not tell thee now,

Lest that preserve thee’; and since my love is spent,

I’had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,

Then by my threatnings rest still innocent.

A LECTURE UPON THE SHADOW

Stand still, and I will read to thee

A Lecture, Love, in loves philosophy.

               These three houres that we have spent,

               Walking here, Two shadowes went

Along with us, which we our selves produc’d;

But, now the Sunne is just above our head,

               We doe those shadowes tread;

               And to brave clearnesse all things are reduc’d.

    So whilst our infant loves did grow,

    Disguises did, and shadowes, flow,

    From us, and our cares; but, now ’tis not so.

That love hath not attain’d the high’st degree,

Which is still diligent lest others see.

Except our loves at this noone stay,

We shall new shadowes make the other way.

               As the first were made to blinde

               Others; these which come behinde

Will worke upon our selves, and blind our eyes.

If our loves faint, and westwardly decline;

               To me thou, falsly, thine,

               And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.

    The morning shadowes weare away,

    But these grow longer all the day,

    But oh, loves day is short, if love decay.

Love is a growing, or full constant light;

And his first minute, after noone, is night.

THE RELIQUE

               When my grave is broke up againe

               Some second guest 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;

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 harmlesse lovers wrought.

               First, we lov’d well and faithfully,

               Yet knew not what wee lov’d, nor why,

               Difference of sex no more wee knew,

               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 LEGACIE

When 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.

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.

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.

    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 breaker

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.

THE PARADOX

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.

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 lov’d 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.

THE EXPIRATION

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,

We 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.

ELEGIES

ELEGIE XVI
On his Mistris

By our first strange and fatall interview,

By all desires which thereof did ensue,

By our long starving hopes, by that remorse

Which my words masculine perswasive force

Begot in thee, and by the memory

Of hurts, which spies and rivals threatned me,

I calmly beg. But by thy fathers wrath,

By all paines, which want and divorcement hath,

I conjure thee, and all the oathes which I

And thou have sworne to seale joynt constancy,

Here I unsweare, and overswear them thus,

Thou shalt not love by wayes so dangerous.

Temper, ô faire Love, loves impetuous rage,

Be my true Mistris still, not my faign’d Page;

I’ll goe, and, by thy kinde leave, leave behinde

Thee, onely worthy to nurse in my minde,

Thirst to come backe; ô if thou die before,

My soule from other lands to thee shall soare.

Thy (else Almighty) beautie cannot move

Rage from the Seas, nor thy love teach them love,

Nor tame wilde Boreas harshnesse; Thou has reade

How roughly hee in peeces shivered

Faire Orithea, whom he swore he lov’d.

Fall ill or good, ’tis madnesse to have prov’d

Dangers unurg’d; Feed on this flattery,

That absent Lovers one in th’other be.

Dissemble nothing, not a boy, nor change

Thy bodies habite, nor mindes; bee not strange

To thy selfe onely. All will spie in thy face

A blushing womanly discovering grace;

Richly cloath’d Apes, are call’d Apes, and as soone

Ecclips’d as bright we call the Moone the Moone.

Men of France, changeable Camelions,

Spittles of diseases, shops of fashions,

Loves fuellers, and the rightest company

Of Players, which upon the worlds stage be,

Will quickly know thee, and no lesse, alas!

Th’indifferent Italian, as we passe

His warme land, well content to thinke thee Page,

Will hunt thee with such lust, and hideous rage,

As Lots faire guests were vext. But none of these

Nor spungy hydroptique Dutch shall thee displease,

If thou stay here. O stay here, for, for thee

England is onely a worthy Gallerie,

To walke in expectation, till from thence

Our greatest King call thee to his presence.

When I am gone, dreame me some happinesse,

Nor let thy lookes our long hid love confesse,

Nor praise, nor dispraise me, nor blesse nor curse

Openly loves force, nor in bed fright thy Nurse

With midnights startings, crying out, oh, oh

Nurse, ô my love is slaine, I saw him goe

Or the white Alpes alone; I saw him I,

Assail’d, fight, taken, stabb’d, bleed, fall, and die.

Augure me better chance, except dread Jove

Thinke it enough for me to’have had thy love.

ELEGIE XIX
To his Mistress Going to Bed

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defie,

Until I labour, I in labour lie.

The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,

Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.

Off with that girdle, like heavens Zone glittering,

But a far fairer world incompassing.

Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,

That th’eyes of busie fooles may be stopt there.

Unlace your self, for that harmonious chyme,

Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.

Off with that happy busk, which I envie,

That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.

Your gown going off, such beautious state reveals,

As when from flowry meads th’hills shadowe steales.

Off with that wyerie Coronet and shew

The haiery Diademe which on you doth grow:

Now off with those shooes, and then softly tread

In this loves hallow’d temple, this soft bed.

In such white robes, heaven’s Angels us’d to be

Receavd by men: thou Angel bringst with thee

A heaven like Mahomets Paradice, and though

Ill spirits walk in white, we easly know,

By this these Angels from an evil sprite,

Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.

    Licence my roaving hands, and let them go,

Before, behind, between, above, below.

O my America! my new-found-land,

My kingdome, safeliest when with one man man’d,

My Myne of precious stones: My Emperie,

How blest am I in this discovering thee!

To enter in these bonds, is to be free;

Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.

    Full nakedness! All joyes are due to thee,

As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be,

To taste whole joyes. Jems which you women use

Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in mens views,

That when a fools eye lighteth on a Jem,

His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them:

Like pictures, or like books gay coverings made

For lay-men, are all women thus array’d.

Themselves are mystick books, which only wee

(Whom their imputed grace will dignifie)

Must see reveal’d. Then since that I may know;

As liberally, as to a Midwife shew

Thy self: cast all, yea, this white lynnen hence,

There is no pennance, much less innocence:

    To teach thee, I am naked first; why then

What needst thou have more covering then a man.

ELEGIE XVII

The heavens rejoyce in motion, why should I

Abjure my so much lov’d variety,

And not with many youth and love divide?

Pleasure is none, if not diversifi’d:

The sun that sitting in the chaire of light

Sheds flame into what else soever doth seem bright,

Is not contented at one Signe to Inne,

But ends his year and with a new beginnes.

All things doe willingly in change delight,

The fruitfull mother of our appetite:

Rivers the clearer and more pleasing are,

Where their fair spreading streames run wide and farr;

And a dead lake that no strange bark doth greet,

Corrupts it self and what doth live in it.

Let no man tell me such a one is faire,

And worthy all alone my love to share.

Nature in her hath done the liberall part

Of a kinde Mistresse, and imploy’d her art

To make her loveable, and I aver

Him not humane that would turn back from her:

I love her well, and would, if need were, dye

To doe her service. But followes it that I

Must serve her onely, when I may have choice?

The law is hard, and shall not have my voice.

The last I saw in all extreames is faire,

And holds me in the Sun-beames of her haire;

Her nymph-like features such agreements have

That I could venture with her to the grave:

Another’s brown, I like her not the worse,

Her tongue is soft and takes me with discourse:

Others, for that they well descended are,

Do in my love obtain as large a share;

And though they be not fair, ’tis much with mee

To win their love onely for their degree.

And though I faile of my required ends,

The attempt is glorious and it selfe commends.

How happy were our Syres in ancient times

Who held plurality of loves no crime!

With them it was accounted charity

To stirre up race of all indifferently;

Kindreds were not exempted from the bands:

Which with the Persian still in usage stands.

Women were then no sooner asked then won,

And what they did was honest and well done.

But since this title honour hath been us’d,

Our weake credulity hath been abus’d;

The golden laws of nature are repeald,

Which our first Fathers in such reverence held;

Our liberty revers’d and Charter’s gone,

And we made servants to opinion,

A monster in no certain shape attir’d,

And whose originall is much desir’d,

Formlesse at first, but growing on it fashions,

And doth prescribe manners and laws to nations.

Here love receiv’d immedicable harmes,

And was dispoiled of his daring armes.

A greater want then is his daring eyes,

He lost those awfull wings with which he flies;

His sinewy bow, and those immortall darts

Wherewith he’is wont to bruise resisting hearts;

Onely some few strong in themselves and free

Retain the seeds of antient liberty,

Following that part of love although deprest,

And make a throne for him within their brest,

In spight of modern censures him avowing

Their Soveraigne, all service him allowing.

Amongst which troop although I am the least,

Yet equall in perfection with the best,

I glory in subjection of his hand,

Nor ever did decline his least command:

For in whatever forme the message came

My heart did open and receive the same.

But time will in his course a point discry

When I this loved service must deny.

For our allegiance temporary is,

With firmer age returnes our liberties.

What time in years and judgement we repos’d,

Shall not so easily be to change dispos’d

Nor to the art of severall eyes obeying,

But beauty with true worth securely weighing,

Which being found assembled in some one

Wee’l leave her ever, and love her alone.

SATIRES

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,

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 hat:

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 itchie lust, desire, and love

The nakednesse and barenesse 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 warn’d of thy sinnes, dost repent

These vanities, and giddinesse, loe

I shut my chamber doore, and come, lets goe.

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 Scheme tell certainly

What fashioned hats, or ruffes, or suits next yeare

Our subtile-witted antique youths will weare;

Then thou, when thou depart’st from mee, canst 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 his libertie,

Yet though he cannot skip forth now to greet

Every fine silken painted foole we meet,

He them 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, stoops hee nigh’st the ground.

But to a grave man, he doth move no more

Then the wise politique horse would heretofore,

Or thou O Elephant or Ape wilt doe,

When any names the King of Spaine to you.

Now leaps he upright, Joggs me, and cryes, Do you see

Yonder well favoured youth? Which? Oh, ’tis hee

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, 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 travayld. 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 lechery.

Many were there, he could command no more;

Hee quarreird, 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

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 dearths, 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 them do move.

One would move Love by rithmes; but witchcrafts 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

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 Dildoes, and out-usure Jewes;

To out-drinke the sea, to out-sweare the Letanie;

Who with sinnes 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 a scarce 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 return’d next size in Lent,

I should be in remitter of your grace;

In th’interim my letters should take place

Of affidavits: words, words, which would 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;

Which 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,

And to every suitor lye in every thing,

Like a Kings favourite, yea like a King;

Like a wedge in a blocke, wring to the barre,

Bearing like Asses, and more shamelesse farre

Then carted whores, lye, to the grave Judge; for

Bastardy abounds not in Kings titles, nor

Symonie and Sodomy in Churchmens lives,

As these things do in him; by these he thrives.

Shortly (as the sea) hee will compasse all the land,

From 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

(Relique-like kept) perchance buyes wedding geare;

Peecemeale he gets lands, and spends as much time

Wringing each Acre, as men pulling prime.

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 Commentator 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, and almes? In 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

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 to 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 fire to thaw the ice

Of frozen North discoveries? 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

Which cryes not, Goddesse, to thy Mistresse, draw,

Or eat 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 the 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 selfes 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 here, and fled from us,

Seekes her at Rome, there, because hee doth know

That shee was there a thousand yeares agoe,

He loves her 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

Still new like fashions, bid 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 blind-

nesse 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 falsehood 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 too

The mindes indeavours reach, and mysteries

Are like the Sunne, dazzling, yet plaine to all eyes;

Keepe the truth which thou hast found; men do not stand

In so ill case here, 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, and 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, and rockes, and 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 IV

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’a 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 forget-

full, as proud, as lustfull, and as much in debt,

As vaine, as witlesse, and as false as they

Which dwell at 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.

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 strange, though coarse; and black, though bare;

Sleeveless 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 outlie 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

Of our two Academies, I named; There

He stopt mee, and said; Nay, your Apostles were

Good pretty linguists, and so Panurge 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 wonders told

That I was faine to say, If you’had liv’d, Sir,

Time enough to have beene Interpreter

To Babells bricklayers, sure the Tower had stood.

He adds, If of court life you knew the good,

You would leave lonenesse; I said, not alone

My lonenesse 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 strecht 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? Mine? 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.

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 ground

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 what

A subtle States-man may gather of that;

He knowes who loves; whom; and who by poyson

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 they 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 have 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

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

That as burnt venome Leachers do grow sound

By giving others their soares, I might growe

Guilty, and he free: 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

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 haste, then one

Who feares more actions, doth haste 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 th’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,

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 laugh to 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 trye

Of his neck to his legge, and wast to thighes.

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 whispered 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, 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 which 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;

I shooke like a spyed Spie; 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

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 implyes 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

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 righteousness she loves, whom 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 dearer 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 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

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 Courts, 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 aske 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 but tells us 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 th’extremities,

So Officers stretch to more then Law can doe,

As our nailes reach what no else part comes to.

Why barest thou to yon Officer? Foole, Hath hee

Got those goods, for which erst men bared to thee?

Foole, twice, thrice, thou hast bought wrong, and now hungerly

Beg’st right; But that dole comes not till these dye.

Thou had’st much, and 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.

LETTERS TO THE COUNTESS OF BEDFORD

REASON IS OUR SOULES LEFT HAND

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.

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’implicate faith I fall,

And rest on what the Catholique voice 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.

Since you are then Gods masterpeece, and so

His Factor for our loves; do as you doe,

Make your returne home gracious; and bestow

This 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.

YOU HAVE REFIN’D MEE

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 ne’re 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.

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.

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’en tangling 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 thinge still; you cannot two.

But these (as nice thinne Schoole divinity

Serves heresie to furder or represse)

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.

T’HAVE WRITTEN THEN

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 debt I seem’d loath to confesse,

    In that, I seem’d to shunne beholdingnesse.

But ’tis not soe, nothings, 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 Joves, there Paul hath Dian’s Fane.

So whether my hymnes you admit or chuse,

    In me you’have hallowed a Pagan Muse,

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 It; You.

I have been 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, is some of it.

But since to you, your praises discords bee,

    Stoop, others ills to meditate with mee.

Oh! to confesse wee know not what we should,

    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,

Doth but one halfe, that’s none; He which said, Plough

    And looke not back, to looke up doth allow.

Good seed degenerates, and oft obeys

    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 forraine 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 vice 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 you, vertues best paradise,

    Vertue hath some, but wise degrees of vice.

Too many vertues, or too much of one

    Begets in you unjust suspition.

And ignorance of vice, makes vertue lesse,

    Quenching compassion of our wretchednesse.

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.

THIS TWILIGHT OF TWO YEARES
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.

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 times 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 spirits: 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.

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 praiser 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,

    Which 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.

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

    Joy, 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.

HONOUR IS SO SUBLIME PERFECTION

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.

Care not then, Madame,’how low your praysers 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 your 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.

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 poor types of God (round circles) so

Religious tipes, the peecelesse 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.

THOUGH I BE DEAD

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 begot

    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’impertinence, 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 cætera.

THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY

AN ANATOMY OF THE WORLD

When that rich soule which to her Heaven is gone,

Whom all they celebrate, who know they have one,

(For who is sure he hath a soule, unlesse

It see, and Judge, and follow worthinesse,

And by Deedes praise it? He who doth not this,

May lodge an In-mate soule, but tis not his.)

When that Queene ended here her progresse time,

And, as t’her standing house, to heaven did clymbe,

Where, loth to make the Saints attend her long,

Shee’s now a part both of the Quire, and Song,

This world, in that great earth-quake 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 loose or gaine in this,

(Because since now no other way there is

But goodnes, 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 physicke 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 Letargee.

Her death did wound, and tame thee than, and than

Thou mightst have better spar’d the Sunne, or Man;

That wound was deepe, but ’tis more misery,

That thou hast lost thy sense and memory.

T’was heavy then to heare thy voyce of mone,

But this is worse, that thou are speechlesse growne.

Thou hast forgot thy name, thou hadst; thou wast

Nothing but she, and her thou hast o’rpast.

For as a child kept from the Font, untill

A Prince, expected long, come to fulfill

The Ceremonies, thou unnam’d hadst laid,

Had not her comming, thee her Palace made:

Her name defin’d thee, gave thee forme and frame,

And thou forgetst to celebrate thy name.

Some moneths she hath beene dead (but being dead,

Measures of times are all determined)

But long shee’ath beene away, long, long, yet none

Offers to tell us who it is that’s gone.

But as in states doubtfull of future heyres,

When sickenes without remedy, empayres

The present Prince, they’re loth it should be said,

The Prince doth languish, or the Prince is dead:

So mankind 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 weakenes 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’ntrinsique Balme, and thy preservative,

Can never be renew’d, thou never live,

I (since no man can make thee live) will trie,

What we 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 dissectione;

For there’s a kind of world remaining still,

Though shee which did inanimate and fill

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 twi-light of her memory doth stay;

Which, from the carcasse of the old world, free,

Creates a new world; and new creatures be

Produc’d: The matter and the stuffe of this,

Her vertue, and the forme our practice is.

And though to be thus Elemented, arme

These Creatures, from hom-borne intrinsique harme,

(For all assum’d unto this Dignitee,

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 dangers and diseases of the old:

For with due temper men do then forgoe,

Or covet things, when they their true worth know.

There is no health; Physitians say that we

At best, enjoy, but a neutralitee.

And can there be worse sicknesse, then to know

That we are never well, nor can be so?

We are borne ruinous: poore mothers crie,

That children come not right, nor orderly,

Except they headlong come, and fall upon

An ominous precipitation.

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 mariage 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,

We kill our selves, to propagate our kinde.

And yet we doe 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,

(Joynt tenants of the world) who should survive.

When Stag, and Raven, and the long-liv’d tree,

Compar’d with man, dy’de in minoritee.

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 mankind now? who lives to age,

Fit to be made Methusalem his page?

Alas, we scarse live long enough to trie

Whether a new made clocke runne right, or lie.

Old Grandsires talke of yesterday with sorrow,

And for our children we reserve to morrow.

So short is life, that every peasant strives,

In a torne house, or field, to have three lives.

And as in lasting, so in length is man

Contracted to an inch, who was a span.

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 Fayries, and the Pigmies well may passe

As credible; mankind decayes so soone,

We’re scarse our Fathers shadowes cast at noone.

Onely death addes t’our length: nor are we 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 we chang’d to gold

Their silver; or dispos’d into lesse glas,

Spirits of vertue, which then scattred was.

But ’tis not so: w’are not retir’d, but dampt;

And as our bodies, so our mindes are cramp’t:

’Tis shrinking, not close-weaving, that hath thus,

In minde and body both bedwarfed us.

We seeme ambitious, Gods whole worke t’undoe;

Of nothing he made us, and we strive too,

To bring our selves to nothing backe; and we

Do what we can, to do’t so soone as hee.

With new diseases on our selves we warre,

And with new phisicke, a worse Engin farre.

Thus man, this worlds Vice-Emperor, 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, he lost his hart.

She, of whom th’Auncients seem’d to prophesie,

When they call’d vertues by the name of shee;

She in whom vertue was so much refin’d,

That for Allay unto so pure a minde

Shee tooke the weaker Sex, she that could drive

The poysonous tincture, and the stayne of Eve,

Out of her thoughts, and deeds; and purifie

All, by a true religious Alchimy;

Shee, shee 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 Anatomee,

The heart being perish’d, no part can be free.

And that except thou feed (not banquet) on

The supernaturall food, Religion,

Thy better Grouth 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 all the rest,

Corruption entred, and deprav’d the best:

It seis’d the Angels, 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

Both beasts and plants, curst in the curse of man.

So did the world from the first houre decay,

The evening was beginning of the day,

And now the Springs and Sommers which we see,

Like sonnes of women after fifty bee.

And new Philosophy cals 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 Atomis.

’Tis all in pieces, all cohærence 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 Phœnix, and that there can bee

None of that kinde, of which he is, but hee.

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;

Shee that was best, and first originall

Of all faire copies; and the generall

Steward to Fate; shee whose rich eyes, and brest,

Guilt the West Indies, and perfum’d the East;

Whose having breath’d in this world, did bestow

Spice on those Isles, 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 knowst this,

Thou knowst how lame a cripple this world is.

And learnst thus much by our Anatomy,

That this worlds generall sickenesse doth not lie

In any humour, or one certaine part;

But, as thou sawest it rotten at the hart,

Thou seest a Hectique fever 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.

For the worlds beauty is decayd, or gone,

Beauty, that’s colour, and proportion.

We thinke the heavens enjoy their Spherical

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 fortie sheeres,

And in those constellations there arise

New starres, and old do vanish from our eyes:

As though heav’n suffred earth-quakes, peace or war,

When new Townes rise, and olde demolish’d are.

They have empayld within a Zodiake

The free-borne Sunne, and keepe twelve signes awake

To watch his steps; the Goat and Crabbe controule,

And fright him backe, who els to eyther 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 inche direct; but where he rose to day

He comes no more, but with a cousening 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 stares which boast that they do runne

In Circle still, none ends where he begunne.

All their proportion’s lame, it sinks, it swels.

For of Meridians, and Parallels,

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 labor thus

To goe to heaven, we make heaven come to us.

We spur, we raine the stars, and in their race

They’re diversly content t’obey our pace.

But keepes the earth her round proportion still?

Doth not a Tenarif, or higher Hill

Rise so high like a Rocke, that one might thinke

The floating Moone would shipwracke there, and sink?

Seas are so deepe, that Whales being strooke to day,

Perchance to morrow, scarse at middle way

Of their wish’d journeys end, the bottom, dye.

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 be,

(Which sure is spacious, except that we

Invent another torment, that there must

Millions into a strait hote roome be thrust)

Then solidnes, and roundnes have no place.

Are these but warts, and pock-holes in the face

Of th’earth? Thinke so: But yet confesse, in this

The worlds proportion disfigured is,

That those two legges whereon it doth relie,

Reward and punishment are bent awrie.

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.

Shee by whose lines proportion should bee

Examin’d, measure of all Symmetree,

Whom had that Ancient seen, who thought soules made

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 go,

As to our eyes, the formes from objects flow:

Shee, who if those great Doctors truely said

That th’Arke to mans proportions was made,

Had beene 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 warre to cease.

Shee, after whom, what forme soe’re we see,

Is discord, and rude incongruitee,

Shee, shee is dead; she’s dead; when thou knowst this,

Thou knowst how ugly a monster this world is:

And learnst thus much by our Anatomee,

That here is nothing to enamor thee:

And that, not onely faults in inward parts,

Corruptions in our braines, or in our harts,

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 Deformitee.

For good, and well, must in our actions meete:

Wicked is not much worse then indiscreet.

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 fals 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 seemd to like,

That she should sport herselfe sometimes, and play,

To mingle and vary colours every day.

And then, as though she could not make inow,

Himselfe his various Rainbow did allow.

Sight is the noblest sense of any one,

Yet sight hath onely color to feed on,

And color is decayd: summers robe growes

Duskie, and like an oft dyed garment showes.

Our blushing redde, which us’d in cheekes to spred,

Is inward sunke, and onely our soules are redde.

Perchance the world might have recovered,

If she whom we lament had not beene dead:

But shee, in whom all white, and redde, and blue

(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 thicke grosse bodies were,

And liveliest stones but drowsie, and pale to her,)

Shee, shee is dead; shee’s dead: when thou knowst this,

Thou knowst how wan a Ghost this our world is:

And learnst thus much by our Anatomee,

That it should more affright, then pleasure thee.

And that, since all faire colour then did sinke,

Tis now but wicked vanity to thinke,

To color vitious 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 clouds 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 toombes;

And false-conceptions fill the general wombs.

Th’Ayre showes such Meteors, as none can see,

Not onely what they meane, but what they bee.

Earth such new wormes, as would have troubled much,

Th’Egyptian 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

Imprisond in an Herbe, or Charme, or Tree,

And doe by touch, all which those starres could do?

The art is lost, and correspondence too.

For heaven gives little, and the earth takes lesse,

And man least knowes their trade, and purposes.

If this commerce twixt heaven and earth were not

Embarr’d, and all this trafique quite forgot,

Shee, 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 prayse, 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; she working more then it.

But she, in whom, to such maturity,

Vertue was growne, past growth, that it must die,

She from whose influence all Impressions 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 Counsaylors some purpose to advance

The common profite; and some people have

Some stay, no more then Kings should give, to crave;

Some women have some taciturnity;

Some Nunneries, some graines of chastity.

She that did thus much, and much more could doe,

But that our age was Iron, and rusty too,

Shee, shee is dead; shee’s dead: when thou knowst this,

Thou knowst how drie a Cinder this world is.

And learnst thus much by our Anatomy,

That ’tis in vaine to dew, or mollifie

It with thy Teares, or Sweat, or Bloud: no thing

Is worth our travaile, griefe, or perishing,

But those rich joyes, which did possesse her hart,

Of which shee’s now partaker, and a part.

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 they’re wel.

Here therefore be the end: And, blessed maid,

Of whom is meant what ever hath beene 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 widow’d 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, doe thinke it due,

That no one should her prayses thus reherse,

As matter fit for Chronicle, not verse,

Vouchsafe to call to minde, that God did make

A last, and lasting 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

Me, from thus trying to emprison her.

Which when I saw that a strict grave could do,

I saw not why verse might not doe so too.

Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keepes soules,

The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enroules.

HOLY SONNETS

HOLY SONNETS
[Divine Meditations]

Thou hast made me, And shall thy worke decay?

Repaire me now, for now mine end doth haste,

I runne to death, and death meets me as fast,

And all my pleasures are like yesterday,

I dare not move my dimme eyes any way,

Despaire behind, and death before doth cast

Such terrour, and my feeble flesh doth waste

By sinne in it, which it t’wards hell doth weigh;

Onely thou art above, and when towards thee

By thy leave I can looke, I rise againe;

But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,

That not one houre my selfe I can sustaine,

Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art,

And thou like Adamant draw mine iron heart.

I am a little world made cunningly

Of Elements, and an Angelike spright,

But black sinne hath betraid to endless night

My worlds both parts, and (oh) both parts must die.

You which beyond that heaven which was most high

Have found new sphears, and of new lands can write,

Powre new seas in mine eyes, that so I might

Drowne my world with my weeping earnestly,

Or wash it if it must be drown’d no more:

But oh it must be burnt; alas the fire

Of lust and envie have burnt it heretofore,

And made it fouler; Let their flames retire,

And burne me ô Lord, with a fiery zeale

Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heale.

ANNUNCIATION

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.

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

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’effect 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.

O might those sighes and teares returne againe

Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent,

That I might in this holy discontent

Mourne with some fruit, as I have mourn’d in vaine;

In mine Idolatry what showres of raine

Mine eyes did waste? what griefs my heart did rent?

That sufferance was my sinne I now repent,

’Cause I did suffer I must suffer paine.

Th’hydroptique drunkard, and night-scouting thiefe,

The itchy Lecher, and selfe tickling proud

Have the remembrance of past joyes, for reliefe

Of comming ills. To (poore) me is allow’d

No ease; for, long, yet vehement griefe hath beene

Th’effect and cause, the punishment and sinne.

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 soule, and I shall sleepe a space,

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

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.

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, dearth, 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.

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 and 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.

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,

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.

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’enthrall mee, never shall be free,

Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

Since she whom I lov’d hath payd her last debt

To Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,

And her Soule early into heaven ravished,

Wholly on heavenly things my mind is sett.

Here the admyring her my mind did whett

To seeke thee God; so streames do shew their head;

But thou I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed,

A holy thirsty dropsy melts mee yett.

But why should I begg more Love, when as thou

Dost wooe my soule for hers; offring all thine:

And dost not only feare least I allow

My Love to Saints and Angels things divine,

But in thy tender jealosy dost doubt

Least the World, Fleshe, yea Devill putt thee out.

Show me deare Christ, thy Spouse, so bright and clear.

What! is it she, which on the other shore

Goes richly painted? or which rob’d and tore

Laments and mournes in Germany and here?

Sleepes she a thousand, then peepes up one yeare?

Is she selfe truth and errs? now new, now outwore?

Doth she, and did she, and shall she evermore

On one, on seaven, or on no hill appeare?

Dwells she with us, or like adventuring knights

First travaile we to seeke and then make Love?

Betray kind husband thy spouse to our sights,

And let myne amorous soule court thy mild Dove,

Who is most trew, and pleasing to thee, then

When she’is embrac’d and open to most men.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou are 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,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

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

And dost 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.

DIVINE POEMS

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

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 cætera.

GOODFRIDAY, 1613. RIDING WESTWARD

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, when my Soules forme bends towards 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 pierc’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,

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; and 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.

A HYMNE TO CHRIST, AT THE AUTHORS LAST GOING TO GERMANY

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 bloode;

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 Hand 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 sea 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:

    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.

HYMNE TO GOD MY GOD, IN MY SICKNESSE

Since I am comming to that Holy roome,

    Where, with thy Quire of Saints for evermore,

I shall be made thy Musique; As I come

    I tune the Instrument here at the dore,

    And what I must doe then, thinke here before.

Whilst my Physitians by their love are growne

    Cosmographers, and I their Mapp, who lie

Flat on this bed, that by them may be showne

    That this is my South-west discoverie

    Per fretum febris, by these streights to die,

I joy, that in these straits, I see my West;

    For, those theire currants yeeld returne to none,

What shall my West hurt me? As West and East

    In all flatt Maps (and I am one) are one,

    So death doth touch the Resurrection.

Is the Pacifique Sea my home? Or are

    The Easterne riches? Is Jerusalem?

Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltare,

    All streights, and none but streights are wayes to them,

    Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Sem.

We thinke that Paradise and Calvarie,

    Christs Crosse, and Adams tree, stood in one place;

Looke Lord, and finde both Adams met in me;

    As the first Adams sweat surrounds my face,

    May the last Adams blood my soule embrace.

So, in his purple wrapp’d receive mee Lord,

    By these his thornes give me his other Crowne;

And as to others soules I preach’d thy word,

    Be this my Text, my Sermon to mine owne,

    Therfore that he may raise the Lord throws down.

A HYMNE TO GOD THE FATHER

  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 hast done,

                         I feare no more.

THE LITANIE

  I.

     The FATHER

    Father of Heaven, and him, by whom

It, and us for it, and all else, for us

    Thou madest, and 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’m 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.

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.

  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 title 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.

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.

 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 could’st 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.

 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.

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.