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. Lord let us runne

Meane waies, and call them stars, but not the Sunne.

PARADOXES AND PROBLEMS

Paradox 1: That All Things Kill Themselves

To affect, yea to effect their own deaths, all living are importuned. Not by nature only, which perfects them, but by art and education which perfects her. Plants, quickened and inhabited by the most unworthy soul, which therefore neither will nor work, affect an end, a perfection, a death. This they spend their spirits to attain; this attained, they languish and wither. And by how much more they are by man’s industry warmed and cherished and pampered, so much the more early they climb to this perfection, this death. And if, between men, not to defend be to kill, what a heinous self-murder is it not to defend the self. This defence because beasts neglect, they kill themselves: because they exceed us in number, strength, and lawless liberty. Yea, of horses, and so of other beasts, they which inherit most courage by being bred of gallantest parents, and by artificial nursing are bettered, will run to their own deaths, neither solicited by spurs, which they need not, nor by honour, which they apprehend not. If then the valiant kill himself, who can excuse the coward? Or how shall man be free from this, since the first man taught us this – except we cannot kill ourselves because he killed us all? Yet lest something should repair this common ruin, we kill daily our bodies with surfeits, and our minds with anguishes. Of our powers, remembering kills our memory. Of affections, lusting our lust. Of virtues, giving kills liberality. And if these things kill themselves, they do it in their best and supreme perfection, for after perfection immediately follows excess, which changes the natures and the names, and makes them not the same things. If then the best things kill themselves soonest (for no perfection endures) and all things labour to this perfection, all travail to their own death. Yea the frame of the whole world (if it were possible for God to be idle) yet because it begun must die. Then in this idleness imagined in God, what could kill the world but itself, since out of it nothing is?

Paradox 6: That the Gifts of the Body are Better than those of the Mind, or of Fortune

I say again that the body makes the mind. Not that it created it a mind, but forms it a good or bad mind. And this mind may be confounded with soul, without any violence or injustice to reason or philosophy. Then our soul (me seems) is enabled by our body, not this by that.