The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations

¶ A Dialogue-Antheme. Christian.Death. Chr.Alas, poore Death, where is thy glorie? Where is thy famous force, thy ancient sting? Dea.Alas poore mortall, void of storie, Go spell and reade how I have kill'd thy King. Chr.Poore death! and who was hurt thereby? Thy curse being laid on him, makes thee accurst. Dea.Let losers talk: yet thou shalt die; These arms shall crush thee. Chr. Spare not, do thy worst. I shall be one day better then before: Thou so much worse, that thou shalt be no more.

¶ A Parodie. Souls joy, when thou art gone, And I alone, Which cannot be, Because thou dost abide with me, And I depend on thee; Yet when thou dost suppresse The cheerfulnesse Of thy abode, And in my powers not stirre abroad, But leave me to my load: O what a damp and shade Doth me invade! No stormie night Can so afflict or so affright, As thy eclipsed light. Ah Lord! do not withdraw, Lest want of aw Make Sinne appeare; And when thou dost but shine lesse cleare, Say, that thou art not here. And then what life I have, While Sinne doth rave, And falsly boast, That I may seek, but thou art lost; Thou and alone thou know'st. O what a deadly cold Doth me infold! I half beleeve That Sinne sayes true: but while I grieve, Thou com'st and dost relieve.

¶ A Wreath. A Wreathed garland of deserved praise, Of praise deserved, unto thee I give, I give to thee, who knowest all my wayes, My crooked winding wayes, wherein I live, Wherein I die, not live: for life is straight, Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee, To thee, who art more farre above deceit, Then deceit seems above simplicitie. Give me simplicitie, that I may live, So live and like, that I may know thy wayes, Know them and practise them: then shall I give For this poore wreath, give thee a crown of praise.

¶ A true Hymne. My joy, my life, my crown! My heart was meaning all the day, Somewhat it fain would say: And still it runneth mutt'ring up and down With onely this, My joy, my life, my crown! Yet slight not these few words: If truly said, they may take part Among the best in art. The finenesse which a hymne or psalme affords, Is, when the soul unto the lines accords. He who craves all the minde, And all the soul, and strength, and time, If the words onely ryme, Justly complains, that somewhat is behinde To make his verse, or write a hymne in kinde. Whereas if th' heart be moved, Although the verse be somewhat scant, God doth supplie the want. As when th'heart sayes (sighing to be approved) O, could I love! and stops: God writeth, Loved.

¶ Aaron. Holinesse on the head, Light and perfections on the breast, Harmonious bells below, raising the dead To leade them unto life and rest; Thus are true Aarons drest. Profanenesse in my head, Defects and darknesse in my breast, A noise of passions ringing me for dead Unto a place where is no rest: Poore priest thus am I drest. Onely another head I have, another heart and breast, Another musick, making live not dead, Without whom I could have no rest: In him I am well drest. Christ is my onely head, My alone onely heart and breast, My onely musick, striking me ev'n dead; That to the old man I may rest, And be in him new drest. So holy in my head, Perfect and light in my deare breast, My doctrine tun'd by Christ, (who is not dead, But lives in me while I do rest) Come people; Aaron's drest.

¶ Affliction. WHen first thou didst entice to thee my heart, I thought the service brave: So many joyes I writ down for my part, Besides what I might have Out of my stock of naturall delights, Augmented with thy gracious benefits. I looked on thy furniture so fine, And made it fine to me: Thy glorious houshold-stuffe did me entwine, And 'tice me unto thee. Such starres I counted mine: both heav'n and earth Payd me my wages in a world of mirth. What pleasures could I want, whose King I served, Where joyes my fellows were? Thus argu'd into hopes, my thoughts reserved No place for grief or fear. Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place, And made her youth and fiercenesse seek thy face: At first thou gav'st me milk and sweetnesses; I had my wish and way: My dayes were straw'd with flow'rs and happinesse; There was no moneth but May. But with my yeares sorrow did twist and grow, And made a partie unawares for wo. My flesh began unto my soul in pain, Sicknesses cleave my bones; Consuming agues dwell in ev'ry vein, And tune my breath to grones. Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce beleeved, Till grief did tell me roundly, that I lived.

When I got health, thou took'st away my life, And more; for my friends die: My mirth and edge was lost; a blunted knife Was of more use then I. Thus thinne and lean without a fence or friend, I was blown through with ev'ry storm and winde. Whereas my birth and spirit rather took The way that takes the town; Thou didst betray me to a lingring book, And wrap me in a gown. I was entangled in the world of strife, Before I had the power to change my life. Yet, for I threatned oft the siege to raise, Not simpring all mine age, Thou often didst with Academick praise Melt and dissolve my rage. I took thy sweetned pill, till I came neare; I could not go away, nor persevere. Yet left perchance I should too happie be In my unhappinesse, Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me Into more sicknesses. Thus doth thy power crosse-bias me, not making Thine own gift good, yet me from my wayes taking.

Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me None of my books will show I reade, and sigh, and wish I were a tree; For sure then I should grow To fruit or shade: at least some bird would trust Her houshold to me, and I should be just. Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek; In weaknesse must be stout. Well, I will change the service, and go seek Some other master out. Ah my deare God! though I am clean forgot, Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.

¶ Affliction. KIll me not ev'ry day, Thou Lord of life; since thy one death for me Is more then all my deaths can be, Though I in broken pay Die over each houre of Methusalems stay. If all mens tears were let Into one common sewer, sea, and brine; What were they all, compar'd to thine? Wherein if they were set, They would discolour thy most bloudie sweat. Thou art my grief alone, Thou Lord conceal it not: and as thou art All my delight, so all my smart: Thy crosse took up in one, By way of imprest, all my future mone.

¶ Affliction. MY heart did heave, and there came forth, O God! By that I knew that thou wast in the grief, To guide and govern it to my relief, Making a scepter of the rod: Hadst thou not had thy part, Sure the unruly sigh had broke my heart. But since thy breath gave me both life and shape, Thou knowst my tallies; and when there's assign'd So much breath to a sigh, what's then behinde? Or if some yeares with it escape, The sigh then onely is A gale to bring me sooner to my blisse. Thy life on earth was grief, and thou art still Constant unto it, making it to be A point of honour, now to grieve in me, And in thy members suffer ill. They who lament one crosse, Thou dying daily, praise thee to thy losse.

¶ Affliction. BRoken in pieces all asunder, Lord, hunt me not, A thing forgot, Once a poore creature, now a wonder; A wonder tortur'd in the space Betwixt this world and that of grace. My thoughts are all a case of knives, Wounding my heart With scatter'd smart, As watring pots give flowers their lives. Nothing their furie can controll, While they do wound and prick my soul. All my attendants are at strife, Quitting their place Unto my face: Nothing performs the task of life: The elements are let loose to fight, And while I live, trie out their right. Oh help, my God! let not their plot Kill them and me, And also thee, Who art my life: dissolve the knot, As the sunne scatters by his light All the rebellions of the night. Then shall those powers, which work for grief, Enter thy pay, And day by day Labour thy praise, and my relief; With care and courage building me, Till I reach heav'n, and much more thee.

¶ Affliction. MY God, I read this day, That planted Paradise was not so firm, As was and is thy floting Ark; whose stay And anchor thou art onely, to confirm And strengthen it in ev'ry age, When waves do rise, and tempests rage. At first we liv'd in pleasure; Thine own delights thou didst to us impart: When we grew wanton, thou didst use displeasure To make us thine: yet that we might not part, As we at first did board with thee, Now thou wouldst taste our miserie. There is but joy and grief; If either will convert us, we are thine: Some Angels us'd the first; if our relief Take up the second, then thy double line And sev'rall baits in either kinde Furnish thy table to thy minde. Affliction then is ours; We are the trees, whom shaking fastens more, While blustring windes destroy the wanton bowres, And ruffle all their curious knots and store. My God, so temper joy and wo, That thy bright beams may tame thy bow.

¶ An Offering. Come, bring thy gift. If blessings were as slow As mens returns, what would become of fools? What hast thou there? a heart? but is it pure? Search well and see; for hearts have many holes. Yet one pure heart is nothing to bestow: In Christ two natures met to be thy cure. O that within us hearts had propagation, Since many gifts do challenge many hearts! Yet one, if good, may title to a number; And single things grow fruitfull by deserts. In publick judgements one may be a nation, And fence a plague, while others sleep and slumber. But all I fear is lest thy heart displease, As neither good, nor one: so oft divisions Thy lusts have made, and not thy lusts alone; Thy passions also have their set partitions. These parcell out thy heart: recover these, And thou mayst offer many gifts in one. There is a balsome, or indeed a bloud, Dropping from heav'n, which doth both cleanse and close All sorts of wounds; of such strange force it is. Seek out this All-heal, and seek no repose, Untill thou finde and use it to thy good: Then bring thy gift, and let thy hymne be this;

Since my sadnesse Into gladnesse Lord thou dost convert, O accept What thou hast kept, As thy due desert. Had I many, Had I any, (For this heart is none) All were thine And none of mine; Surely thine alone. Yet thy favour May give savour To this poore oblation; And it raise To be thy praise, And be my salvation.

Ana {   Mary   } gram. Army HOw well her name an Army doth present, In whom the Lord of hosts did pitch his tent!

¶ Antiphon. Cho.LEt all the world in ev'ry corner sing, My God and King. Vers. The heav'ns are not too high, His praise may thither flie: The earth is not too low, His praises there may grow. Cho. Let all the world in ev'ry corner sing, My God and King. Vers. The church with psalms must shout, No doore can keep them out: But above all, the heart Must bear the longest part. Cho. Let all the world in ev'ry corner sing, My God and King.

¶ Antiphon. Chor.PRaised be the God of love, Men. Here below, Angels. And here above: Cho. Who hath dealt his mercies so, Ang. To his friend, Men. And to his foe; Cho. That both grace and glorie tend Ang. Us of old, Men. And us in th'end. Cho. The great shepherd of the fold Ang. Us did make, Men. For us was sold. Cho. He our foes in pieces brake: Ang. Him we touch; Men. And him we take. Cho. Wherefore since that he is such, Ang. We adore, Men. And we do crouch.# Cho. Lord, thy praises should be more. Men. We have none, Ang. And we no store. Cho. Praised be the God alone, Who hath made of two folds one.

¶ Artillerie. AS I one ev'ning sat before my cell, Me thoughts a starre did shoot into my lap. I rose, and shook my clothes, as knowing well, That from small fires comes oft no small mishap: When suddenly I heard one say, Do as thou usest, disobey, Expell good motions from thy breast, Which have the face of fire, but end in rest. I, who had heard of musick in the spheres, But not of speech in starres, began to muse: But turning to my God, whose ministers The starres and all things are; If I refuse, Dread Lord, said I, so oft my good; Then I refuse not ev’n with bloud To wash away my stubborn thought: For I will do, or suffer what I ought. But I have also starres and shooters too, Born where thy servants both artilleries use. My tears and prayers night and day do wooe, And work up to thee; yet thou dost refuse. Not, but I am (I must say still) Much more oblig’d to do thy will, Then thou to grant mine: but because Thy promise now hath ev’n set thee thy laws.

Then we are shooters both, and thou dost deigne To enter combate with us, and contest With thine own clay. But I would parley fain: Shunne not my arrows, and behold my breast. Yet if thou shunnest, I am thine: I must be so, if I am mine. There is no articling with thee: I am but finite, yet thine infinitely.

§ Assurance. O spitefull bitter thought! Bitterly spitefull thought! Couldst thou invent So high a torture? Is such poyson bought? Doubtlesse, but in the way of punishment, When wit contrives to meet with thee, No such rank poyson can there be. Thou said'st but even now, That all was not so fair, as I conceiv'd, Betwixt my God and me; that I allow And coin large hopes; but, that I was deceiv'd: Either the league was broke, or neare it; And, that I had great cause to fear it. And what to this? what more Could poyson, if it had a tongue, expresse? What is thy aim? wouldst thou unlock the doore To cold despairs, and gnawing pensivenesse? Wouldst thou raise devils? I see, I know, I writ thy purpose long ago. But I will to my Father, Who heard thee say it. O most gracious Lord, If all hope and comfort that I gather, Were from my self, I had not half a word, Not half a letter to oppose What is objected by my foes.

But thou art my desert: And in this league, which now my foes invade, Thou art not onely to perform thy part, But also mine; as when the league was made, Thou didst at once thy self indite, And hold my hand, while I did write. Wherefore if thou canst fail, Then can thy truth and I: but while rocks stand, And rivers stirre, thou canst not shrink or quail: Yea, when both rocks and all things shall disband, Then shalt thou be my rock and tower, And make their ruine praise thy power. Now foolish thought go on, Spin out thy thread, and make thereof a coat To hide thy shame: for thou hast cast a bone Which bounds on thee, and will not down thy throat. What for it self love once began, Now love and truth will end in man.

¶ Avarice. MOney, thou bane of blisse, & sourse of wo,  Whence com'st thou, that thou art so fresh and fine? I know thy parentage is base and low: Man found thee poore and dirtie in a mine. Surely thou didst so little contribute  To this great kingdome, which thou now hast got,  That he was fain, when thou wert destitute, To digge thee out of thy dark cave and grot: Then forcing thee, by fire he made thee bright:  Nay, thou hast got the face of man; for we  Have with our stamp and seal transferr'd our right: Thou art the man, and man but drosse to thee. Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich;  And while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch.

¶ Bitter-sweet. Ah my deare angrie Lord! Since thou dost love, yet strike; Cast down, yet help afford; Sure I will do the like. I will complain, yet praise; I will bewail, approve: And all my sowre-sweet dayes I will lament, and love.

¶ Businesse. CAnst be idle? canst thou play, Foolish soul who sinn’d to day? Rivers run, and springs each one Know their home, and get them gone: Hast thou tears, or hast thou none? If, poore soul, thou hast no tears, Would thou hadst no faults or fears! Who hath these, those ill forbears. Windes still work: it is their plot, Be the season cold, or hot: Hast thou sighs, or hast thou not? If thou hast no sighs or grones, Would thou hadst no flesh and bones! Lesser pains scape greater ones. But if yet thou idle be, Foolish soul, Who di'd for thee? Who did leave his Fathers throne, To assume thy flesh and bone, Had he life, or had he none? If he had not liv'd for thee, Thou hadst di'd most wretchedly; And two deaths had been thy fee. He so farre thy good did plot, That his own self he forgot. Did he die, or did he not? If he had not di'd for thee, Thou hadst liv'd in miserie. Two lives worse then ten deaths be. And hath any space of breath 'Twixt his sinnes and Saviours death? He that loseth gold, though drosse, Tells to all he meets, his crosse: He that sinnes, hath he no losse?

He that findes a silver vein, Thinks on it, and thinks again: Brings thy Saviours death no gain? Who in heart not ever kneels, Neither sinne nor Saviour feels.

¶ Charms and Knots. WHo reade a chapter when they rise,  Shall ne're be troubled with ill eyes. A poore mans rod, when thou dost ride, Is both a weapon and a guide. Who shuts his hand, hath lost his gold: Who opens it, hath it twice told. Who goes to bed and doth not pray, Maketh two nights to ev'ry day. Who by aspersions throw a stone At th' head of others, hit their own. Who looks on ground with humble eyes, Findes himself there and seeks to rise. When th' hair is sweet through pride or lust, The powder doth forget the dust. Take one from ten, and what remains? Ten still, if sermons go for gains. In shallow waters heav'n doth show; But who drinks on, to hell may go.

¶ Christmas. All after pleasures as I rid one day,  My horse and I, both tir'd, bodie and minde, With full crie of affections, quite astray; I took up in the next inne I could finde. There when I came, whom found I but my deare, My dearest Lord, expecting till the grief Of pleasures brought me to him, readie there To be all passengers most sweet relief? O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light, Wrapt in nights mantle, stole into a manger; Since my dark soul and brutish is thy right, To Man of all beasts be not thou a stranger. Furnish & deck my soul, that thou mayst have A better lodging then a rack or grave.

THe shepherds sing; and shall I silent be? My God, no hymne for thee? My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds Of thoughts, and words, and deeds. The pasture is thy word; the streams, thy grace Enriching all the place. Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers Out-sing the day-light houres. Then we will chide the sunne for letting night Take up his place and right: We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should Himself the candle hold. I will go searching, till I finde a sunne Shall stay, till we have done; A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly, As frost-nipt sunnes look sadly. Then we will sing, and shine all our own day, And one another pay: His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine, Till ev'n his beams sing, and my musick shine.

¶ Church-lock and key. I Know it is my sinne, which locks thine eares, And bindes thy hands, Out-crying my requests, drowning my tears; Or else the chilnesse of my faint demands. But as cold hands are angrie with the fire, And mend it still; So I do lay the want of my desire, Not on my sinnes, or coldnesse, but thy will. Yet heare, O God, onely for his blouds sake Which pleads for me: For though sinnes plead too, yet like stones they make His blouds sweet current much more loud to be.

¶ Church-monuments. WHile that my soul repairs to her devotion, Here I intombe my flesh, that it betimes May take acquaintance of this heap of dust; To which the blast of deaths incessant motion, Fed with the exhalation of our crimes, Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust My bodie to this school, that it may learn To spell his elements, and finde his birth Written in dustie heraldrie and lines; Which dissolution sure doth best discern, Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth. These laugh at Jeat, and Marble put for signes, To sever the good fellowship of dust, And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them, When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat To kisse those heaps, which now they have in trust? Deare flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stemme And true descent; that when thou shalt grow fat, And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know, That flesh is but the glasse, which holds the dust That measures all our time; which also shall Be crumbled into dust. Mark here below How tame these ashes are, how free from lust, That thou mayst fit thy self against thy fall.

¶ Church-musick. SWeetest of sweets, I thank you: when displeasure Did through my bodie wound my minde, You took me thence, and in your house of pleasure A daintie lodging me assign'd. Now I in you without a bodie move, Rising and falling with your wings: We both together sweetly live and love, Yet say sometimes, God help poore Kings. Comfort, 'Ile die; for if you poste from me, Sure I shall do so, and much more: But if I travell in your companie, You know the way to heavens doore.

¶ Church-rents and schismes. BRave rose, (alas!) where art thou? in the chair Where thou didst lately so triumph and shine, A worm doth sit, whose many feet and hair Are the more foul, the more thou wert divine. This, this hath done it, this did bite the root And bottome of the leaves: which when the winde Did once perceive, it blew them under foot, Where rude unhallow'd steps do crush and grinde Their beauteous glories. Onely shreds of thee, And those all bitten, in thy chair I see. Why doth my Mother blush? is she the rose, And shows it so? Indeed Christs precious bloud Gave you a colour once; which when your foes Thought to let out, the bleeding did you good, And made you look much fresher then before. But when debates and fretting jealousies Did worm and work within you more and more, Your colour faded, and calamities Turned your ruddie into pale and bleak: Your health and beautie both began to break.

Then did your sev'rall parts unloose and start: Which when your neighbours saw, like a north-winde, They rushed in, and cast them in the dirt Where Pagans tread. O Mother deare and kinde, Where shall I get me eyes enough to weep, As many eyes as starres? Since it is night, And much of Asia and Europe fast asleep, And ev'n all Africk; would at least I might With these two poore ones lick up all the dew, Which falls by night, and poure it out for you!

¶ Clasping of hands. Lord, thou art mine, and I am thine, If mine I am: and thine much more, Then I or ought, or can be mine. Yet to be thine, doth me restore; So that again I now am mine, And with advantage mine the more: Since this being mine, brings with it thine, And thou with me dost thee restore. If I without thee would be mine, I neither should be mine nor thine. Lord, I am thine, and thou art mine: So mine thou art, that something more I may presume thee mine, then thine. For thou didst suffer to restore Not thee, but me, and to be mine: And with advantage mine the more, Since thou in death wast none of thine, Yet then as mine didst me restore. O be mine still! still make me thine! Or rather make no Thine and Mine!

Coloss. 3. 3. Our life is hid with Christ in God. MY words & thoughts do both expresse this notiō That LIFE hath with the sun a double motion. The first IS straight, and our diurnall friend; The other HID, and doth obliquely bend. One life is wrapt IN flesh, and tends to earth; The other winds towards HIM, whose happie birth Taught me to live here so, THAT still one eye Should aim and shoot at that which IS on high: Quitting with daily labour all MY pleasure, To gain at harvest an eternall TREAsure.

¶ Complaining. Do not beguile my heart, Because thou art My power and wisdome. Put me not to shame, Because I am Thy clay that weeps, thy dust that calls. Thou art the Lord of glorie; The deed and storie Are both thy due: but I a silly flie, That live or die According as the weather falls. Art thou all justice, Lord? Shows not thy word More attributes? Am I all throat or eye, To weep or crie? Have I no parts but those of grief? Let not thy wrathfull power Afflict my houre, My inch of life: or let thy gracious power Contract my houre, That I may climbe and finde relief.

¶ Confession. O What a cunning guest Is this same grief! within my heart I made Closets, and in them many a chest; And, like a master in my trade, In those chests, boxes; in each box, a till: Yet grief knows all, and enters when he will. No scrue, no piercer can Into a piece of timber work and winde, As Gods afflictions into man, When he a torture hath design'd. They are too subtill for the subt'llest hearts; And fall, like rheumes, upon the tendrest parts. We are the earth; and they, Like moles within us, heave, and cast about: And till they foot and clutch their prey, They never cool, much lesse give out. No smith can make such locks but they have keyes: Closets are halls to them; and hearts, high-wayes. Onely an open breast Doth shut them out, so that they cannot enter; Or, if they enter, cannot rest, But quickly seek some new adventure. Smooth open hearts no fastning have; but fiction Doth give a hold and handle to affliction. Wherefore my faults and sinnes, Lord, I acknowledge; take thy plagues away: For since confession pardon winnes, I challenge here the brightest day, The clearest diamond: let them do their best, They shall be thick and cloudie to my breast.

¶ Conscience. PEace pratler, do not lowre: Not a fair look, but thou dost call it foul: Not a sweet dish, but thou dost call it sowre: Musick to thee doth howl. By listning to thy chatting fears I have both lost mine eyes and eares. Pratler, no more, I say: My thoughts must work, but like a noiselesse sphere Harmonious peace must rock them all the day: No room for pratlers there. If thou persistest, I will tell thee, That I have physick to expell thee. And the receit shall be My Saviours bloud: when ever at his board I do but taste it, straight it cleanseth me, And leaves thee not a word; No, not a tooth or nail to scratch, And at my actions carp, or catch. Yet if thou talkest still, Besides my physick, know there's some for thee: Some wood and nails to make a staffe or bill For those that trouble me: The bloudie crosse of my deare Lord Is both my physick and my sword.

¶ Constancie. WHo is the honest man? He that doth still and strongly good pursue, To God, his neighbour, and himself most true: Whom neither force nor fawning can Unpinne, or wrench from giving all their due. Whose honestie is not So loose or easie, that a ruffling winde Can blow away, or glittering look it blinde: Who rides his sure and even trot, While the world now rides by, now lags behinde. Who, when great trialls come, Nor seeks, nor shunnes them; but doth calmly stay, Till he the thing and the example weigh: All being brought into a summe, What place or person calls for, he doth pay. Whom none can work or wooe To use in any thing a trick or sleight; For above all things he abhorres deceit: His words and works and fashion too All of a piece, and all are cleare and straight. Who never melts or thaws At close tentations: when the day is done, His goodnesse sets not, but in dark can runne: The sunne to others writeth laws, And is their vertue; Vertue is his Sunne.

Who, when he is to treat With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway, Allows for that, and keeps his constant way: Whom others faults do not defeat; But though men fail him, yet his part doth play. Whom nothing can procure, When the wide world runnes bias, from his will To writhe his limbes, and share, not mend the ill. This is the Mark-man, safe and sure, Who still is right, and prayes to be so still.

¶ Content. PEace mutt'ring thoughts, and do not grudge to keep Within the walls of your own breast. Who cannot on his own bed sweetly sleep, Can on anothers hardly rest. Gad not abroad at ev'ry quest and call Of an untrained hope or passion. To court each place or fortune that doth fall, Is wantonnesse in contemplation. Mark how the fire in flints doth quiet lie, Content and warm t' it self alone: But when it would appeare to others eye, Without a knock it never shone. Give me the pliant minde, whose gentle measure Complies and suits with all estates; Which can let loose to a crown, and yet with pleasure Take up within a cloisters gates. This soul doth span the world, and hang content From either pole unto the centre: Where in each room of the well-furnisht tent He lies warm, and without adventure. The brags of life are but a nine dayes wonder; And after death the fumes that spring From private bodies, make as big a thunder, As those which rise from a huge King. Onely thy Chronicle is lost: and yet Better by worms be all once spent, Then to have hellish moths still gnaw and fret Thy name in books, which may not rent:

When all thy deeds, whose brunt thou feel'st alone, Are chaw'd by others pens and tongue; And as their wit is, their digestion, Thy nourisht fame is weak or strong. Then cease discoursing soul, till thine own ground, Do not thy self or friends importune. He that by seeking hath himself once found, Hath ever found a happie fortune.

¶ Death. Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing, Nothing but bones, The sad effect of sadder grones: Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing. For we consider'd thee as at some six Or ten yeares hence, After the losse of life and sense, Flesh being turn'd to dust, and bones to sticks. We lookt on this side of thee, shooting short; Where we did finde The shells of fledge souls left behinde, Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort. But since our Saviours death did put some bloud Into thy face, Thou art grown fair and full of grace, Much in request, much sought for, as a good. For we do now behold thee gay and glad, As at dooms-day; When souls shall wear their new aray, And all thy bones with beautie shall be clad. Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust Half that we have Unto an honest faithfull grave; Making our pillows either down, or dust.

¶ Decay. SWeet were the dayes, when thou didst lodge with Lot, Struggle with Jacob, sit with Gideon, Advise with Abraham, when thy power could not Encounter Moses strong complaints and mone: Thy words were then, Let me alone. One might have sought and found thee presently At some fair oak, or bush, or cave, or well: Is my God this way? No, they would reply: He is to Sinai gone, as we heard tell: List, ye may heare great Aarons bell. But now thou dost thy self immure and close In some one corner of a feeble heart: Where yet both Sinne and Satan, thy old foes, Do pinch and straiten thee, and use much art To gain thy thirds and little part. I see the world grows old, when as the heat Of thy great love once spread, as in an urn Doth closet up it self, and still retreat, Cold sinne still forcing it, till it return, And calling Justice, all things burn.

¶ Deniall. WHen my devotions could not pierce Thy silent eares; Then was my heart broken, as was my verse: My breast was full of fears And disorder: My bent thoughts, like a brittle bow, Did flie asunder: Each took his way; some would to pleasures go, Some to the warres and thunder Of alarms. As good go any where, they say, As to benumme Both knees and heart, in crying night and day, Come, come, my God, O come! But no hearing. O that thou shouldst give dust a tongue To crie to thee, And then not heare it crying! all day long My heart was in my knee, But no hearing. Therefore my soul lay out of sight, Untun'd, unstrung: My feeble spirit, unable to look right, Like a nipt blossome, hung Discontented. O cheer and tune my heartlesse breast, Deferre no time; That so thy favours granting my request, They and my minde may chime, And mend my ryme.

¶ Dialogue. SWeetest Saviour, if my soul Were but worth the having, Quickly should I then controll Any thought of waving. But when all my care and pains Cannot give the name of gains To thy wretch so full of stains; What delight or hope remains? What (childe) is the ballance thine, Thine the poise and measure? If I say, Thou shalt be mine, Finger not my treasure. What the gains in having thee Do amount to, onely he, Who for man was sold, can see, That transferr'd th'accounts to me. But as I can see no merit, Leading to this favour; So the way to fit me for it, Is beyond my savour. As the reason then is thine; So the way is none of mine: I disclaim the whole designe: Sinne disclaims and I resigne. That is all, if that I could Get without repining; And my clay my creature would Follow my resigning. That as I did freely part With my glorie and desert, Left all joyes to feel all smart——— Ah! no more: thou break'st my heart.

¶ Discipline. Throw away thy rod, Throw away thy wrath: O my God, Take the gentle path. For my hearts desire Unto thine is bent: I aspire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own, But by book, And thy book alone. Though I fail, I weep: Though I halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace. Then let wrath remove; Love will do the deed: For with love Stonie hearts will bleed. Love is swift of foot; Love's a man of warre, And can shoot, And can hit from farre. Who can scape his bow? That which wrought on thee, Brought thee low, Needs must work on me. Throw away thy rod; Though man frailties hath, Thou art God: Throw away thy wrath.

¶ Divinitie. AS men, for fear the starres should sleep and nod, And trip at night, have spheres suppli'd; As if a starre were duller then a clod, Which knows his way without a guide: Just so the other heav'n they also serve, Divinities transcendent skie: Which with the edge of wit they cut and carve. Reason triumphs, and Faith lies by. Could not that wisdome which first broacht the wine, Have thicken'd it with definitions? And jagg'd his seamlesse coat, had that been fine, With curious questions and divisions? But all the doctrine, which he taught and gave, Was cleare as heav'n, from whence it came. At least those beams of truth, which onely save, Surpasse in brightnesse any flame. Love God, and love your neighbour. Watch and pray. Do as ye would be done unto. O dark instructions; ev'n as dark as day! Who can these Gordian knots undo? But he doth bid us take his bloud for wine. Bid what he please; yet I am sure, To take and taste what he doth there designe, Is all that saves, and not obscure. Then burn thy Epicycles, foolish man; Break all thy spheres, and save thy head. Faith needs no staffe of flesh, but stoutly can To heav'n alone both go, and leade.

¶ Dooms-day. Come away, Make no delay. Summon all the dust to rise, Till it stirre, and rubbe the eyes; While this member jogs the other, Each one whispring, Live you brother? Come away, Make this the day. Dust, alas, no musick feels, But thy trumpet: then it kneels, As peculiar notes and strains Cure Tarantulaes raging pains. Come away, O make no stay! Let the graves make their confession, Lest at length they plead possession: Fleshes stubbornnesse may have Read that lesson to the grave. Come away, Thy flock doth stray. Some to windes their bodie lend, And in them may drown a friend: Some in noisome vapours grow To a plague and publick wo. Come away, Help our decay. Man is out of order hurl'd, Parcel'd out to all the world. Lord, thy broken consort raise, And the musick shall be praise.

¶ Dotage. FAlse glozing pleasures, casks of happinesse, Foolish night-fires, womens and childrens wishes, Chases in Arras, guilded emptinesse, Shadows well mounted, dreams in a career, Embroider'd lyes, nothing between two dishes; These are the pleasures here. True earnest sorrows, rooted miseries, Anguish in grain, vexations ripe and blown, Sure-footed griefs, solid calamities, Plain demonstrations, evident and cleare, Fetching their proofs ev'n from the very bone; These are the sorrows here. But oh the folly of distracted men, Who griefs in earnest, joyes in jest pursue; Preferring, like brute beasts, a lothsome den Before a court, ev'n that above so cleare, Where are no sorrows, but delights more true, Then miseries are here!

¶ Dulnesse. WHy do I languish thus, drooping and dull, As if I were all earth? O give me quicknesse, that I may with mirth Praise thee brim-full! The wanton lover in a curious strain Can praise his fairest fair; And with quaint metaphors her curled hair Curl o're again. Thou art my lovelinesse, my life, my light, Beautie alone to me: Thy bloudy death and undeserv'd, makes thee Pure red and white. When all perfections as but one appeare, That those thy form doth show, The very dust, where thou dost tread and go, Makes beauties here. Where are my lines then? my approaches? views? Where are my window-songs? Lovers are still pretending, & ev'n wrongs Sharpen their Muse. But I am lost in flesh, whose sugred lyes Still mock me, and grow bold: Sure thou didst put a minde there, if I could Finde where it lies. Lord, cleare thy gift, that with a constant wit I may but look towards thee: Look onely; for to love thee, who can be, What angel fit?

¶ Easter. RIse heart; thy Lord is risen. Sing his praise Without delayes, Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise With him mayst rise: That, as his death calcined thee to dust, His life may make thee gold, and much more just. Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part With all thy art. The crosse taught all wood to resound his name, Who bore the same. His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key Is best to celebrate this most high day. Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song Pleasant and long: Or, since all musick is but three parts vied And multiplied; O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part, And make up our defects with his sweet art. I got me flowers to straw thy way; I got me boughs off many a tree: But thou wast up by break of day, And brought'st thy sweets along with thee. The Sunne arising in the East, Though he give light, and th' East perfume; If they should offer to contest With thy arising, they presume. Can there be any day but this, Though many sunnes to shine endeavour? We count three hundred, but we misse: There is but one, and that one ever.

¶ Easter-wings. Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, Though foolishly he lost the same, Decaying more and more, Till he became Most poore: With thee O let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall further the flight in me. My tender age in sorrow did beginne: And still with sicknesses and shame Thou didst so punish sinne, That I became Most thinne. With thee Let me combine, And feel this day thy victorie: For, if I imp my wing on thine, Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

¶ Employment. IF as a flowre doth spread and die, Thou wouldst extend me to some good, Before I were by frosts extremitie Nipt in the bud; The sweetnesse and the praise were thine:  But the extension and the room, Which in thy garland I should fill, were mine At thy great doom. For as thou dost impart thy grace,  The greater shall our glorie be. The measure of our joyes is in this place, The stuffe with thee. Let me not languish then, and spend  A life as barren to thy praise, As is the dust, to which that life doth tend, But with delaies. All things are busie; onely I  Neither bring hony with the bees, Nor flowres to make that, nor the husbandrie To water these. I am no link of thy great chain,  But all my companie is a weed. Lord place me in thy consort; give one strain To my poore reed.

¶ Employment. HE that is weary, let him sit. My soul would stirre And trade in courtesies and wit, Quitting the furre To cold complexions needing it. Man is no starre, but a quick coal Of mortall fire: Who blows it not, nor doth controll A faint desire, Lets his own ashes choke his soul. When th' elements did for place contest With him, whose will Ordain'd the highest to be best; The earth sat still, And by the others is opprest. Life is a businesse, not good cheer; Ever in warres. The sunne still shineth there or here, Whereas the starres Watch an advantage to appeare. Oh that I were an Orenge-tree, That busie plant! Then should I ever laden be, And never want Some fruit for him that dressed me. But we are still too young or old: The man is gone, Before we do our wares unfold: So we freez on, Untill the grave increase our cold.

Ephes. 4. 30. Grieve not the Holy Spirit, &c. ANd art thou grieved, sweet and sacred Dove, When I am sowre, And crosse thy love? Grieved for me? the God of strength and power Griev'd for a worm, which when I tread, I passe away and leave it dead? Then weep mine eyes, the God of love doth grieve: Weep foolish heart, And weeping live: For death is drie as dust. Yet if ye part, End as the night, whose sable hue Your sinnes expresse; melt into dew. When sawcie mirth shall knock or call at doore, Crie out, Get hence, Or crie no more. Almightie God doth grieve, he puts on sense: I sinne not to my grief alone, But to my Gods too; he doth grone. Oh take thy lute, and tune it to a strain, Which may with thee All day complain. There can no discord but in ceasing be. Marbles can weep; and surely strings More bowels have then such hard things. Lord, I adjudge my self to tears and grief, Ev’n endlesse tears Without relief. If a cleare spring for me no time forbears, But runnes, although I be not drie; I am no Crystall, what shall I?

Yet if I wail not still, since still to wail Nature denies; And flesh would fail, If my deserts were masters of mine eyes: Lord, pardon, for thy sonne makes good My want of tears with store of bloud.

¶ Even-song. BLest be the God of love, Who gave me eyes, and light, and power this day, Both to be busie, and to play. But much more blest be God above, Who gave me sight alone, Which to himself he did denie: For when he sees my waies, I die: But I have got his sonne, and he hath none. What have I brought thee home For this thy love? have I discharg'd the debt, Which this dayes favour did beget? I ranne; but all I brought, was fome. Thy diet, care, and cost Do end in bubbles, balls of winde; Of winde to thee whom I have crost, But balls of wilde-fire to my troubled minde. Yet still thou goest on, And now with darknesse closest wearie eyes, Saying to man, It doth suffice: Henceforth repose; your work is done. Thus in thy Ebony box Thou dost inclose us, till the day Put our amendment in our way, And give new wheels to our disorder'd clocks. I muse, which shows more love, The day or night: that is the gale, this th'harbour; That is the walk, and this the arbour; Or that the garden, this the grove.

My God, thou art all love. Not one poore minute scapes thy breast, But brings a favour from above: And in this love, more then in bed, I rest.

¶ Faith. LOrd, how couldst thou so much appease Thy wrath for sinne, as when mans sight was dimme, And could see little, to regard his ease, And bring by Faith all things to him? Hungrie I was, and had no meat: I did conceit a most delicious feast; I had it straight, and did as truly eat, As ever did a welcome guest. There is a rare outlandish root, Which when I could not get, I thought it here: That apprehension cur'd so well my foot, That I can walk to heav'n well neare. I owed thousands and much more: I did beleeve that I did nothing owe, And liv'd accordingly; my creditor Beleeves so too, and lets me go. Faith makes me any thing, or all That I beleeve is in the sacred storie: And where sinne placeth me in Adams fall, Faith sets me higher in his glorie. If I go lower in the book, What can be lower then the common manger? Faith puts me there with him, who sweetly took Our flesh and frailtie, death and danger. If blisse had lien in art or strength, None but the wise or strong had gained it: Where now by Faith all arms are of a length; One size doth all conditions fit.

A peasant may beleeve as much As a great Clerk, and reach the highest stature. Thus dost thou make proud knowledge bend & crouch While grace fills up uneven nature. When creatures had no reall light Inherent in them, thou didst make the sunne, Impute a lustre, and allow them bright; And in this shew, what Christ hath done. That which before was darkned clean With bushie groves, pricking the lookers eye, Vanisht away, when Faith did change the scene: And then appear'd a glorious skie. What though my body runne to dust? Faith cleaves unto it, counting ev'ry grain With an exact and most particular trust, Reserving all for flesh again.

¶ Frailtie. LOrd, in my silence how do I despise What upon trust Is styled honour, riches, or fair eyes; But is fair dust! I surname them guilded clay, Deare earth, fine grasse or hay; In all, I think my foot doth ever tread Upon their head. But when I view abroad both Regiments; The worlds, and thine: Thine clad with simplenesse, and sad events; The other fine, Full of glorie and gay weeds, Brave language, braver deeds: That which was dust before, doth quickly rise, And prick mine eyes. O brook not this, lest if what even now My foot did tread, Affront those joyes, wherewith thou didst endow; And long since wed My poore soul, ev'n sick of love: It may a Babel prove Commodious to conquer heav'n and thee Planted in me.

¶ Giddinesse. OH what a thing is man! how farre from power, From setled peace and rest! He is some twentie sev’rall men at least Each sev’rall houre. One while he counts of heav’n, as of his treasure: But then a thought creeps in, And calls him coward, who for fear of sinne Will lose a pleasure. Now he will fight it out, and to the warres; Now eat his bread in peace, And snudge in quiet: now he scorns increase; Now all day spares. He builds a house, which quickly down must go, As if a whirlwinde blew And crusht the building; and it’s partly true, His minde is so. O what a sight were Man, if his attires Did alter with his minde; And like a Dolphins skinne, his clothes combin’d With his desires! Surely if each one saw anothers heart, There would be no commerce, No sale or bargain passe: all would disperse, And live apart. Lord, mend or rather make us: one creation Will not suffice our turn: Except thou make us dayly, we shall spurn Our own salvation.

¶ Good Friday. O My chief good, How shall I measure out thy bloud? How shall I count what thee befell, And each grief tell? Shall I thy woes Number according to thy foes? Or, since one starre show'd thy first breath, Shall all thy death? Or shall each leaf, Which falls in Autumne, score a grief? Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be signe Of the true vine? Then let each houre Of my whole life one grief devoure; That thy distresse through all may runne, And be my sunne. Or rather let My sev'rall sinnes their sorrows get; That as each beast his cure doth know, Each sinne may so. Since bloud is fittest, Lord, to write Thy sorrows in, and bloudie sight; My heart hath store; write there, where in One box doth lie both ink and sinne: That when Sinne spies so many foes, Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes, All come to lodge there, Sinne may say, No room for me, and flie away. Sinne being gone, oh fill the place, And keep possession with thy grace; Lest Sinne take courage and return, And all the writings blot or burn.

¶ Grace. MY stock lies dead, and no increase Doth my dull husbandrie improve: O let thy graces without cease Drop from above! If still the sunne should hide his face, Thy house would but a dungeon prove, Thy works nights captives: O let grace Drop from above! The dew doth ev'ry morning fall; And shall the dew out-strip thy dove? The dew, for which grasse cannot call, Drop from above. Death is still working like a mole, And digs my grave at each remove: Let grace work too, and on my soul Drop from above. Sinne is still hammering my heart Unto a hardnesse, void of love: Let suppling grace, to crosse his art, Drop from above. O come! for thou dost know the way. Or if to me thou wilt not move, Remove me, where I need not say, Drop from above.

¶ Gratefulnesse. THou that hast giv'n so much to me, Give one thing more, a gratefull heart. See how thy beggar works on thee By art. He makes thy gifts occasion more, And sayes, If he in this be crost, All thou hast giv'n him heretofore Is lost. But thou didst reckon, when at first Thy word our hearts and hands did crave, What it would come to at the worst To save: Perpetuall knockings at thy doore, Tears sullying thy transparent rooms, Gift upon gift, much would have more, And comes. This notwithstanding, thou wentst on, And didst allow us all our noise: Nay, thou hast made a sigh and grone Thy joyes. Not that thou hast not still above Much better tunes, then grones can make; But that these countrey-aires thy love Did take. Wherefore I crie, and crie again; And in no quiet canst thou be, Till I a thankfull heart obtain Of thee: Not thankfull, when it pleaseth me; As if thy blessings had spare-dayes: But such a heart, whose pulse may be Thy praise.

¶ Grief. O Who will give me tears? Come all ye springs, Dwell in my head and eyes: come clouds, & rain: My grief hath need of all the watry things, That nature hath produc'd. Let ev'ry vein Suck up a river to supply mine eyes, My weary weeping eyes too drie for me, Unlesse they get new conduits, new supplies To bear them out, and with my state agree. What are two shallow foords, two little spouts Of a lesse world? the greater is but small, A narrow cupboard for my griefs and doubts, Which want provision in the midst of all. Verses, ye are too fine a thing, too wise For my rough sorrows: cease, be dumbe and mute, Give up your feet and running to mine eyes, And keep your measures for some lovers lute, Whose grief allows him musick and a ryme: For mine excludes both measure, tune, and time. Alas, my God!

¶ H. Baptisme. AS he that sees a dark and shadie grove, Stayes not, but looks beyond it on the skie; So when I view my sinnes, mine eyes remove More backward still, and to that water flie, Which is above the heav'ns, whose spring and rent Is in my deare Redeemers pierced side. O blessed streams! either ye do prevent And stop our sinnes from growing thick and wide, Or else give tears to drown them, as they grow. In you Redemption measures all my time, And spreads the plaister equall to the crime. You taught the book of life my name, that so What ever future sinnes should me miscall, Your first acquaintance might discredit all.

¶ H. Baptisme. SInce, Lord, to thee A narrow way and little gate Is all the passage, on my infancie Thou didst lay hold, and antedate My faith in me. O let me still Write thee great God, and me a childe: Let me be soft and supple to thy will, Small to my self, to others milde, Behither ill. Although by stealth My flesh get on, yet let her sister My soul bid nothing, but preserve her wealth: The growth of flesh is but a blister; Childhood is health.

¶ Heaven. O Who will show me those delights on high? Echo.I. Thou Echo, thou art mortall, all men know. Echo.No. Wert thou not born among the trees and leaves? Echo.Leaves. And are there any leaves, that still abide? Echo.Bide. What leaves are they? impart the matter wholly. Echo.Holy. Are holy leaves the Echo then of blisse? Echo.Yes. Then tell me, what is that supreme delight? Echo.Light. Light to the minde: what shall the will enjoy? Echo.Joy. But are there eares and businesse with the pleasure? Echo.Leisure. Light, joy, and leisure; but shall they persever? Echo.Ever.

¶ Home. COme Lord, my head doth burn, my heart is sick, While thou dost ever, ever stay: Thy long deferrings wound me to the quick, My spirit gaspeth night and day. O show thy self to me, Or take me up to thee! How canst thou stay, considering the pace The bloud did make, which thou didst waste? When I behold it trickling down thy face, I never saw thing make such haste, O show thy self to me, Or take me up to thee! When man was lost, thy pitie lookt about To see what help in th' earth or skie: But there was none; at least no help without: The help did in thy bosome lie. O show thy, &c. There lay thy sonne: and must he leave that nest, That hive of sweetnesse, to remove Thraldome from those, who would not at a feast Leave one poore apple for thy love? O show thy, &c. He did, he came: O my Redeemer deare, After all this canst thou be strange? So many yeares baptiz'd, and not appeare? As if thy love could fail or change. O show thy, &c.

Yet if thou stayest still, why must I stay? My God, what is this world to me? This world of wo? hence all ye clouds, away, Away; I must get up and see. O show thy, &c. What is this weary world; this meat and drink, That chains us by the teeth so fast? What is this woman-kinde, which I can wink Into a blacknesse and distaste? O show thy, &c. With one small sigh thou gav'st me th' other day I blasted all the joyes about me: And scouling on them as they pin'd away, Now come again, said I, and flout me. O show thy self to me, Or take me up to thee! Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake, Which way so-e're I look, I see. Some may dream merrily, but when they wake, They dresse themselves and come to thee. O show thy, &c. We talk of harvests; there are no such things, But when we leave our corn and hay: There is no fruitfull yeare, but that which brings The last and lov'd, though dreadfull day. O show thy, &c. Oh loose this frame, this knot of man untie! That my free soul may use her wing, Which now is pinion'd with mortalitie, As an intangled, hamper'd thing. O show thy, &c.

What have I left, that I should stay and grone? The most of me to heav'n is fled: My thoughts and joyes are all packt up and gone, And for their old acquaintance plead. O show thy, &c. Come dearest Lord, passe not this holy season, My flesh and bones and joynts do pray: And ev'n my verse, when by the ryme and reason The word is, Stay, sayes ever, Come. O show thy self to me, Or rake me up to thee!

¶ Hope. I Gave to Hope a watch of mine: but he An anchor gave to me. Then an old prayer-book I did present: And he an optick sent. With that I have a viall full of tears: But he a few green eares: Ah Loyterer! I’le no more, no more I’le bring: I did expect a ring.

¶ Humilitie. I Saw the Vertues sitting hand in hand In sev'rall ranks upon an azure throne, Where all the beasts and fowls by their command Presented tokens of submission. Humilitie, who sat the lowest there To execute their call, When by the beasts the presents tendred were, Gave them about to all. The angrie Lion did present his paw, Which by consent was giv'n to Mansuetude. The fearfull Hare her eares, which by their law Humilitie did reach to Fortitude. The jealous Turkie brought his corall-chain; That went to Temperance. On Justice was bestow'd the Foxes brain, Kill'd in the way by chance. At length the Crow bringing the Peacocks plume, (For he would not) as they beheld the grace Of that brave gift, each one began to fume, And challenge it, as proper to his place, Till they fell out: which when the beasts espied, They leapt upon the throne; And if the Fox had liv'd to rule their side, They had depos'd each one.

Humilitie, who held the plume, at this Did weep so fast, that the tears trickling down Spoil'd all the train: then saying, Here it is For which ye wrangle, made them turn their frown Against the beasts: so joyntly bandying, They drive them soon away; And then amerc'd them, double gifts to bring At the next Session-day.

THE TITLES OF THE SEVERALL POEMS CONTAINED IN THIS BOOK. A 168 AAron 38. 53. 64. 82. 89. Affliction 29 The Agonie 18 The Altar 69 Anagram of the Virgin Marie To all Angels and Saints ibid. 163 The Answer 164 A Dialogue-Antheme 45. 85 Antiphon 132 Artillerie 149 Assurance 69 Avarice B 145 THe Bag 175 The Banquet 36 H. Baptisme 165 Bitter-sweet 102 The British Church 120 The Bunch of Grapes 105 Businesse C 150The Call 88 Charms and knots 72 Christmas 58 Church-floore 57 Church-lock and key 184 Church Militant 56 Church-monuments 57 Church-musick 1 Church-porch 134 Church-rents & schismes 59 Church-windows 151 Clasping of hands 147 The Collar 77 Coloss. 3.3. Our life, &c. 43 H. Communion 137 Complaining 165 Self-Condemnation 118 Confession 98 Conscience 63 Constancie 60 Content 158The Crosse D 104 The Dawning 180 Death 91 Decay 71 Deniall 107 Dialogue 138 The Discharge 173 Discipline 127 Divinitie 181 Dooms-day 161 Dotage 108 Dulnesse E 33 Easter 34, 35 Easter-wings 178 The Elixer 49, 70 Employment 192 L' Envoy 128 Ephes. 4.30. Grieve not, &c. 55 Evensong F 41 Faith 130 The Familie 160 The Flower 170 The Foil ibid. The Forerunners 62 Frailtie G 119 Giddinesse 166 The Glance 148 The Glimpse 30 Good-friday 52 Grace 116 Gratefulnesse 158 Grief

H 182 Heaven 137 The Holdfast 99 Home 114 Hope 61 Humilitie 162 A true Hymne I 105 Jesu 146 The Jews 174 The Invitation 48. 95 Jordan 153 Josephs coat 182 Judgement 88. 135 Justice L 78 Lent 87 Life 142 Longing 45, 46. 183 Love 109 Love-joy 121 Love unknown M 83 Man 123 Mans medley 168 S. Marie Magdalene 54 Mattens 126 The Method 92 Miserie 90 Mortification 37 Nature O 96 Obedience 169 The Odour 141An Offering P 125 Paradise 177 A Parodie 117 Peace 81 The Pearl, Matt. 13 1 Perirrhanterium 135 The Pilgrimage 177 The Posie 53.140.151 Praise 43.95 Prayer 154 The Priesthood 109 Providence 167 The 23 Psalme 153 The Pulley Q 61 The Quidditie 103 The Quip R 31 Redemption 40 Repentance 28 The Reprisall 172 The Rose S 19 The Sacrifice Saints vide Angels Schismes, vide Church-rents 50 H. Scripture 156 The Search 32 Sepulchre 75 Sighs and grones 37.55 Sinne 114 Sinnes round 30 The Sinner 99 Sion 131 The Size 162 The Sonne 65 The Starre 125 The Storm 87 Submission 66 Sunday 17 Superliminare T 46, 47 The Temper 27 The Thanksgiving 115 Time 59 Trinitie-Sunday V 77. 104 Vanitie 18 Vertue 74 Ungratefulnesse 86 Unkindnesse W 164 The Water-course 51 Whitsunday 76 The World 179A Wreath FINIS.

¶ JESU. JESU is in my heart, his sacred name Is deeply carved there: but th’other week A great affliction broke the little frame, Ev’n all to pieces: which I went to seek: And first I found the corner, where was J, After, where ES, and next where U was graved, When I had got these parcels, instantly I sat me down to spell them, and perceived That to my broken heart he was I ease you, And to the whole is J E S U.

¶ Jordan. WHo sayes that fictions onely and false hair Become a verse? Is there in truth no beautie? Is all good structure in a winding stair? May no lines passe, except they do their dutie   Not to a true, but painted chair? Is it no verse, except enchanted groves And sudden arbours shadow course-spunne lines? Must purling streams refresh a lovers loves? Must all be vail'd, while he that reades, divines,   Catching the sense at two removes? Shepherds are honest people; let them sing: Riddle who list, for me, and pull for Prime: I envie no mans nightingale or spring: Nor let them punish me with losse of ryme,   Who plainly say, My God, My King.

¶ Jordan. WHen first my lines of heav'nly joyes made mention, Such was their lustre, they did so excell, That I sought out quaint words, and trim invention: My thoughts began to burnish, sprout, and swell, Curling with metaphors a plain intention, Decking the sense, as if it were to sell. Thousands of notions in my brain did runne, Off'ring their service, if I were not sped: I often blotted what I had begunne; This was not quick enough, and that was dead. Nothing could seem too rich to clothe the sunne, Much lesse those joyes which trample on his head. As flames do work and winde, when they ascend, So did I weave my self into the sense. But while I bustled, I might heare a friend Whisper, How wide is all this long pretence! There is in love a sweetnesse readie penn'd: Copie out onely that, and save expense.

¶ Josephs coat. Wounded I sing, tormented I indite, Thrown down I fall into a bed, and rest: Sorrow hath chang'd its note: such is his will, Who changeth all things, as him pleaseth best. For well he knows, if but one grief and smart Among my many had his full career, Sure it would carrie with it ev'n my heart, And both would runne untill they found a biere To fetch the bodie; both being due to grief. But he hath spoil'd the race, and giv'n to anguish One of Joyes coats, ticing it with relief To linger in me, and together languish. I live to shew his power, who once did bring My joyes to weep, and now my griefs to sing.

¶ Judgement. Almightie Judge, how shall poore wretches brook Thy dreadfull look, Able a heart of iron to appall, When thou shalt call For ev'ry mans peculiar book? What others mean to do, I know not well; Yet I heare tell, That some will turn thee to some leaves therein So void of sinne, That they in merit shall excell. But I resolve, when thou shalt call for mine, That to decline, And thrust a Testament into thy hand: Let that be scann'd. There thou shalt finde my faults are thine.

¶ Justice. I Cannot skill of these thy wayes. Lord, thou didst make me, yet thou woundest me; Lord, thou dost wound me, yet thou dost relieve me: Lord, thou relievest, yet I die by thee: Lord, thou dost kill me, yet thou dost reprieve me. But when I mark my life and praise, Thy justice me most fitly payes: For, I do praise thee, yet I praise thee not: My prayers mean thee, yet my prayers stray: I would do well, yet sinne the hand hath got: My soul doth love thee, yet it loves delay. I cannot skill of these my wayes.

§ Justice. O Dreadfull Justice, what a fright and terrour Wast thou of old, When sinne and errour Did show and shape thy looks to me, And through their glasse discolour thee! He that did but look up, was proud and bold. The dishes of thy ballance seem'd to gape, Like two great pits; The beam and scape Did like some tort'ring engine show: Thy hand above did burn and glow, Danting the stoutest hearts, the proudest wits. But now that Christs pure vail presents the sight, I see no fears: Thy hand is white, Thy scales like buckets, which attend And interchangeably descend, Lifting to heaven from this well of tears. For where before thou still didst call on me, Now I still touch And harp on thee. Gods promises have made thee mine: Why should I justice now decline? Against me there is none, but for me much.

¶ L’Envoy. KIng of Glorie, King of Peace, With the one make warre to cease; With the other blesse thy sheep, Thee to love, in thee to sleep. Let not Sinne devoure thy fold, Bragging that thy bloud is cold, That thy death is also dead, While his conquests dayly spread; That thy flesh hath lost his food, And thy Crosse is common wood. Choke him, let him say no more, But reserve his breath in store, Till thy conquests and his fall Make his sighs to use it all, And then bargain with the winde To discharge what is behinde. Blessed be God alone,   Thrice blessed Three in One. FINIS.

¶ Lent. WElcome deare feast of Lent: who loves not thee, He loves not Temperance, or Authoritie, But is compos'd of passion. The Scriptures bid us fast; the Church sayes, now: Give to thy Mother, what thou wouldst allow To ev'ry Corporation. The humble soul compos'd of love and fear Begins at home, and layes the burden there, When doctrines disagree. He sayes, in things which use hath justly got, I am a scandall to the Church, and not The Church is so to me. True Christians should be glad of an occasion To use their temperance, seeking no evasion, When good is seasonable; Unlesse Authoritie, which should increase The obligation in us, make it lesse, And Power it self disable. Besides the cleannesse of sweet abstinence, Quick thoughts and motions at a small expense, A face not fearing light: Whereas in fulnesse there are sluttish fumes, Sowre exhalations, and dishonest rheumes, Revenging the delight. Then those same pendant profits, which the spring And Easter intimate, enlarge the thing, And goodnesse of the deed. Neither ought other mens abuse of Lent Spoil the good use; lest by that argument We forfeit all our Creed.

It's true, we cannot reach Christs fortieth day; Yet to go part of that religious way, Is better then to rest: We cannot reach our Saviours puritie; Yet are we bid, Be holy ev'n as he. In both let's do our best. Who goeth in the way which Christ hath gone, Is much more sure to meet with him, then one That travelleth by-wayes. Perhaps my God, though he be farre before, May turn, and take me by the hand, and more May strengthen my decayes. Yet Lord instruct us to improve our fast By starving sinne, and taking such repast As may our faults controll: That ev'ry man may revell at his doore, Not in his parlour; banquetting the poore, And among those his soul.

¶ Life. I Made a posie, while the day ran by: Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie My life within this band. But time did becken to the flowers, and they By noon most cunningly did steal away, And wither'd in my hand. My hand was next to them, and then my heart: I took, without more thinking, in good part Times gentle admonition: Who did so sweetly deaths sad taste convey, Making my minde to smell my fatall day; Yet sugring the suspicion. Farewell deare flowers, sweetly your time ye spent, Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament, And after death for cures. I follow straight without complaints or grief, Since if my sent be good, I care not, if It be as short as yours.

¶ Longing. With sick and famisht eyes, With doubling knees and weary bones, To thee my cries, To thee my grones, To thee my sighs, my tears ascend: No end? My throat, my soul is hoarse; My heart is wither'd like a ground Which thou dost curse. My thoughts turn round, And make me giddie; Lord, I fall, Yet call. From thee all pitie flows. Mothers are kinde, because thou art, And dost dispose To them a part: Their infants them; and they suck thee More free. Bowels of pitie, heare! Lord of my soul, love of my minde, Bow down thine eare! Let not the winde Scatter my words, and in the same Thy Name! Look on my sorrows round! Mark well my furnace! O what flames, What heats abound! What griefs, what shames! Consider, Lord; Lord, bow thine eare, And heare! Lord Jesu, thou didst bow Thy dying head upon the tree: O be not now More dead to me! Lord heare! Shall he that made the eare, Not heare? Behold, thy dust doth stirre; It moves, it creeps, it aims at thee: Wilt thou deferre To succour me, Thy pile of dust, wherein each crumme Sayes, Come?

To thee help appertains. Hast thou left all things to their course, And laid the reins Upon the horse? Is all lockt? hath a sinners plea No key? Indeed the world's thy book, Where all things have their leaf assign'd: Yet a meek look Hath interlin'd. Thy board is full, yet humble guests Finde nests. Thou tarriest, while I die, And fall to nothing: thou dost reigne, And rule on high, While I remain In bitter grief; yet am I stil'd Thy childe. Lord, didst thou leave thy throne, Not to relieve? how can it be, That thou art grown Thus hard to me? Were sinne alive, good cause there were To bear. But now both sinne is dead, And all thy promises live and bide: That wants his head; These speak and chide, And in thy bosome poure my tears, As theirs. Lord Jesu, heare my heart, Which hath been broken now so long, That ev'ry part Hath got a tongue! Thy beggars grow; rid them away To day. My love, my sweetnesse, heare! By these thy feet, at which my heart Lies all the yeare, Pluck out thy dart, And heal my troubled breast, which cryes, Which dyes.

¶ Love-joy. AS on a window late I cast mine eye, I saw a vine drop grapes with J and C Anneal’d on every bunch. One standing by Ask’d what it meant. I (who am never loth To spend my judgement) said, It seem’d to me To be the bodie and the letters both Of Joy and Charitie. Sir, you have not miss’d, The man reply’d; It figures JESUS CHRIST.

¶ Love I. IMmortall Love, authour of this great frame, Sprung from that beauty which can never fade; How hath man parcel'd out thy glorious name, And thrown it on that dust which thou hast made, While mortall love doth all the title gain! Which siding with invention, they together Bear all the sway, possessing heart and brain, (Thy workmanship) and give thee share in neither. Wit fancies beautie, beautie raiseth wit: The world is theirs; they two play out the game, Thou standing by: and though thy glorious name Wrought our deliverance from th' infernall pit, Who sings thy praise? onely a skarf or glove Doth warm our hands, and make them write of love.

II. IMmortall Heat, O let thy greater flame Attract the lesser to it: let those fires, Which shall consume the world, first make it tame; And kindle in our hearts such true desires, As may consume our lusts, and make thee way. Then shall our hearts pant thee; then shall our brain All her invention on thine Altar lay, And there in hymnes send back thy fire again: Our eyes shall see thee, which before saw dust; Dust blown by wit, till that they both were blinde: Thou shalt recover all thy goods in kinde, Who wert disseized by usurping lust: All knees shall bow to thee; all wits shall rise, And praise him who did make and mend our eies.

¶ Love. Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back, Guiltie of dust and sinne. But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lack'd any thing. A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here: Love said, you shall be he. I the unkinde, ungratefull? Ah my deare, I cannot look on thee. Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, Who made the eyes but I? Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve. And know you not, sayes Love, who bore the blame? My deare, then I will serve. You must sit down, sayes Love, and taste my meat: So I did sit and eat. FINIS. Glorie be to God on high, and on earth peace, good will towards men.

DEare Friend, sit down, the tale is long and sad: And in my faintings I presume your love Will more complie, then help. A Lord I had, And have, of whom some grounds which may improve, I hold for two lives, and both lives in me. To him I brought a dish of fruit one day, And in the middle plac'd my heart. But he (I sigh to say) Lookt on a servant, who did know his eye Better then you know me, or (which is one) Then I my self. The servant instantly Quitting the fruit, seiz'd on my heart alone, And threw it in a font, wherein did fall A stream of bloud, which issu'd from the side Of a great rock: I well remember all, And have good cause: there it was dipt and di'd, And washt, and wrung: the very wringing yet Enforceth tears. Your heart was foul, I fear. Indeed 'tis true. I did and do commit Many a fault more then my lease will bear; Yet still askt pardon, and was not deni'd. But you shall heare. After my heart was well, And clean and fair, as I one even-tide (I sigh to tell) Walkt by my self abroad, I saw a large And spacious furnace flaming, and thereon A boyling caldron, round about

whose verge Was in great letters set AFFLICTION. The greatnesse shew'd the owner. So I went To fetch a sacrifice out of my fold, Thinking with that which I did thus present, To warm his love, which I did fear grew cold. But as my heart did tender it, the man Who was to take it from me, slipt his hand, And threw my heart into the scalding pan; My heart, that brought it (do you understand?) The offerers heart. Your heart was hard, I fear. Indeed 'tis true. I found a callous matter Began to spread and to expatiate there: But with a richer drug then scalding water, I bath'd it often, ev'n with holy bloud, Which at a board, while many drunk bare wine, A friend did steal into my cup for good, Ev'n taken inwardly, and most divine To supple hardnesses. But at the length Out of the caldron getting, soon I fled Unto my house, where to repair the strength Which I had lost, I hasted to my bed. But when I thought to sleep out all these faults (I sigh to speak) I found that some had stuff'd the bed with thoughts, I would say thorns. Deare, could my heart not break, When with my pleasures ev'n my rest was gone? Full well I understood,

who had been there: For I had giv'n the key to none, but one: It must be he. Your heart was dull, I fear. Indeed a slack and sleepie state of minde Did oft possesse me; so that when I pray'd, Though my lips went, my heart did stay behinde. But all my scores were by another paid, Who took the debt upon him. Truly, Friend, For ought I heare, our Master shows to you More favour then you wot of. Mark the end. The Font did onely what was old renew: The Caldron suppled, what was grown too hard: The Thorns did quicken, what was grown too dull. All did but strive to mend, what you had marr'd. Wherefore be cheer'd, and praise him to the full Each day, each houre, each moment of the week, Who fain would have you be new, tender, quick.

¶ Man. MY God, I heard this day, That none doth build a stately habitation, But he that means to dwell therein. What house more stately hath there been, Or can be, then is Man? to whose creation All things are in decay. For Man is ev'ry thing, And more: He is a tree, yet bears no fruit; A beast, yet is, or should be more. Reason and speech we onely bring. Parrats may thank us, if they are not mute, They go upon the score. Man is all symmetrie, Full of proportions, one limbe to another, And all to all the world besides: Each part may call the farthest brother: For head with foot hath private amitie, And both with moons and tides. Nothing hath got so farre, But Man hath caught and kept it, as his prey. His eyes dismount the highest starre: He is in little all the sphere. Herbs gladly cure our flesh; because that they Finde their acquaintance there. For us the windes do blow, The earth doth rest, heav'n move, and fountains flow. Nothing we see, but means our good, As our delight, or as our treasure: The whole is either our cupboard of food, Or cabinet of pleasure.

The starres have us to bed; Night draws the curtain, which the sunne withdraws: Musick and light attend our head. All things unto our flesh are kinde In their descent and being; to our minde In their ascent and cause. Each thing is full of dutie. Waters united are our navigation; Distinguished, our habitation; Below, our drink; above, our meat; Both are our cleanlinesse. Hath one such beautie? Then how are all things neat! More servants wait on Man, Then he'l take notice of: in ev'ry path He treads down that which doth befriend him, When sicknesse makes him pale and wan. Oh mightie love! Man is one world, and hath Another to attend him. Since then, my God, thou hast So brave a Palace built; O dwell in it, That it may dwell with thee at last! Till then, afford us so much wit, That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee, And both thy servants be.