University of Virginia Library

The Preface.

Yov wanton Lads, that spend your winged time,
And chant your eares, in reading lustfull rime,
Who like transform'd Acteon range about,
And beate the woods to finde Diana out,
I'st this you'ld have? then hence: here's no content
For you, my Muse ne're knew what Venus meant;
But stay: I may subvert your rude conceit;
And every verse may proove a heavenly baite:
O that ye were such captives! then yould be
Thrice happy: such as these are onely free,
Leave, leave your wanton toyes; and let alone
Apollo sporting at his Helicon,
Let Vulcan deale with Venus, whats to thee
Although shee dandle Cupids on her knee?
Be not inchanted with her wanton charmes,
Let her not hugge thee in her whorish armes,
But wisely doe (as Neptune did) in spite
Of all, spue out the Lady Aphrodite,
Come, come fond lad, what? would'st thou faine espye,
A glorious object for thy wandring eye?
And glut thy sight with beauty? would'st behold
A visage that will make thy Venus cold?
If this be all, Ile give thy eye delight:
Come see that face that lendes the Sunne his light,
Come see that face that makes the heavens to shine,
Come see that glorious face, that lends thee thine,
Come and behold that face which if thou see,
Aright, t'will make the earth a heaven to thee,
Come see that glistring face from which arise
Such glorious beames that dazels Angels eyes,
What canst have more; but dost thou thinke that such
A comely visage will not let thee touch?
Or dost thou thinke a Sunne that shines so cleare,
Will scorne to let a lesser Orbe come neere?
No thou mistak'st: say, dost thou truely thirst,
For him? I dare avouch hee lov'd thee first,
Be not dismaid, It needes no more dispute,
Come give this glorious face a kinde salute.

THE WORLDES METAMORPHOSIS.

Before all time; when every thing did lye,

The Chaos.

Wrapt in a Chaos of deformity,
When all things nothing were, and could present
No comely frame, no heaven, no element,
No earth, no water, fire or ayre alone
But all as twere compounded all in one,
Then with a word our Tri-une Iove did bring,
This nothing Chaos into every thing;
Yea then our great Iehovah did present
A severall region to each element,
Then Time, his houres began to measure out,
And he most nimbly garison'd about,
This new created Orbe: he tooke his flight
And hurried restlesse on both day and night,
His motion was so quicke, that scarce twas ey'd,
He for ten thousand worlds won't squint aside,
Nor once turne backe his head; by chance I viewd
His flight, his wings I thought were then renewd,
Yea his unwearied feathers did so soare
Swiftly, as if they never flew before,
As when the Thracians from their snaky bow
Did make there featherd darts so swiftly goe,
That they out ranne all sight, so time did flie,
As if he strove with winged Mercurie;
No weapon all this while for his defence
He bore, he dealt with none but innocence,
And now those foggy mists that so did lye,
Cloyster'd together from eternity
Were all dispersd; yea now twas very bright
And darkenesse was unfetter'd from the light;
When this was done, our great Iehovah lent
The world (as yet scarce made) a firmament,
He separated waters wondrous well,
Then Seas with surging billowes ganne to swell,
And tossed to and fro with every wave,
As if the fretfull region would out brave
Her owne Creator; they were not content
With their but now appointed regiment,
Their watry mountaines did so oft aspire
To Heaven, as if they would be placed higher,
But now great Iove lookt on they did not dare
Surpasse their stations, nay, nor once impaire
Their bounds, he quickly queld their lusty prankes,
And causd the waves to crouch within their bankes,
When he had conquerd this unruly stran,
Within two dayes he crownes Leviathan,
King of the liquid region, and doth give
Ten thousand thousand more with him to live,
Then fruitfull earth which is the Ocean barres
Appeares, and heavens bespangled all with starres,
The Sunne begins his beauty
And proudly danceth up the Orient,
He nor his horses can no longer sleepe,
But gallop from the orientall deepe,
He rid so fast that in few houres was spide
All bravely wrapt in his meridian pride,
But when he clamber'd to the highest brinke,
He view'd the fabricke, then began to sinke,
And all the way as hee did homewards goe,
He laughed, to see so brave a frame below,
Still whipping on his Iades, untill his head
Was safely laid into his Westerne bed.
Silver Lucina as yet did not enter,
But lay immured within the reeking center,
Whilst he had mounted on his flaming seate,
And viewd a glorious orbe, wondrous, compleate,
With that the purple Lady straight prepares,
Attended with ten thousand thousand starres,
Shee clambers up in this her rich aray,
And viewes the goodly building all the way,
Sweete smiles shee cast from her admiring eye,
Whilst all her little babes stood twinkling by,
Playing the wantons by their mothers side,
As if they were inamour'd with the pride
Of such a Fabricke: to expresse their mirth,
Some shot from heaven, as though they'd live on Earth,
This done, sweete Phœbe soone beganne to drop
Her borrowed beames into her brothers lap,
And eversince to see this glorious sight
One laughes at day; the other smiles at night.
And can you blame them? earth is spread with bowres,
And trees, and proudly deckt with sundry flowers,
Shee that ere while in dunghill Chaos lay,
Is now with Vi'lets purp'ld every day,
And damaskt all with Roses, yea shees clad
With sweeter herbes then ever Ceres had,
Her fruitfull wombe brings forth most dainty cates,
And lovely fruites, these are her comely brattes,
No rusticke Plowman now doth take the paines
To peirce her entrailes, or to squeeze her veines,
But heaven and shee unites, they scorne to see
A bastard weede, disgrace their pedigree,
Shee's overspread with pinkes and Daffadillies,
Carnations, Roses, and the whitest Lilies,
Those fondlings lolling in her armes doe lye,
Shaking their heads, and in her bosome dye;
These in their mothers sides doe take their rest,
Till they doe drop their leaves into her brest,
And now the little birds doe every day,
Sit singing in the boughs, and chirpe, and play,
The Phesant and the Partridge slowly flye,
Vndaunted even before the Faulcons eye,
Now comes Behemoth with his Lordly gate,
Gazing, as if he stood admiring at
So rich a frame, first having fixt his sight
On glorious earth, he alwayes tooke delight
In viewing that; and would not looke on high,
Nay all the glorious spangles of the skye
Could not entice him, ever from his birth
He spent his time in looking on the earth.
All other beasts their greedy eyes did fling
On lovely earth, as did their crowned King:
Yea now the Lion with the Lambe did goe,
And knew not whether blood were sweete or no,
The little Kids to shew their wanton pride,
Came dancing by the loving Tigers side,
The Hare being minded with the Hounds to play,
Would give a sporting touch, and so away,
And then returne, being willing to be found,
And take his turne to chace the wanton Hound.
The busie Mice sat sporting all the day,
Meane while the Cat did smile to see them play.
The Foxe stands still, to see the Geese asleepe,
The harmelesse Wolfe now grazeth with the Sheepe,
Here was no raping, but all beasts did lye
As link'd in one, O Heavenly Sympathy!
The goodly Pastures springing from the Clay,
Did wooe their mouthes to banquet, all the way
Was spread with dainty herbes, and as they found
Occasion, they would oft salute the ground,
Those uncontrouled creatures then begunne
To sport, and all lay basking in the Sunne,
No creature was their Lord, gaine said by none,
As if that Heaven and earth were all their owne.
Thus when this mighty builder did inrobe
Himselfe with night, and Chaos to a globe
Convert, of this he tooke a serious view,
And did as twere create it all anew,
He made a little Orbe, cald man; the same,
Onely compacted in a lesser frame,
For what is all this all, that man in one
Doth not enjoy. A man thats onely blowne
With heavens breath, a man that doth present
Life, Spirit, sense, and every element:
Yea in this little world great Iove did place
His glorious Image, and this miry face
Was heavens picture, twas this face alone
That still lookt up to his Creators throne,
Then God did make (a place to be admir'd,
Surely twas heaven it selfe had then conspir'd,
To finde it out,) a garden sweetly blowne,
With pleasant fruite, and man's exempt from none,
Of all these plants, except a middle tree,
And what can one among a thousand bee!
O glorious place, that God doth now provide
For durty clay! the earth in all her pride,
He tramples on: and heav'n that's so beset
With spangles and each glistring Chrysolet
Doth give attendance, yea it serves to be
A covering for his head, his Canopie.
Thus man of heaven and earth is all possest,
This span of durt, is Lord of all the rest,
Me think's I see how all the Creatures bring
Their severall Congies to their new made King,
Behemoth which ere while did range about
Vncheckt, and tossing up his bony snowt,
Feard none: now having cast his rowling eyes
Vpon his Lord, see how he crouching lyes,
Behind a sheltring bush, he seemes to be,
Imploring aide of every spreading tree,
The Lyon which ere while was in his pride,
Squinting by chance his gogle-eyes aside,
Espies his King, he dares not stay for haste,
Spues out his meate halfe chaw'd, and will not taste
Of his intended food; but sneakes away,
Counting his life to be his chiefest prey,
It was but now the raven was espide,
Sporting her wings upon the Tigars hide,
But now, O how her feather'd sayles doe soare,
As if shee vowd to touch the earth no more!
See how the Goates doe clamber to the top
Of highest mountaines, and the Conies drop
Into their holes, see how the Roebucke flings
himselfe, almost exchanging legs for wings.
Why? what's the matter, that ye haste away,
Ye that ere while, were sporting all the day?
Tell me yee Creatures, say, what fearefull sight
Hath put you to this unexpected flight?
Speake, speake thou giddy lambe, wer't not thou spide
At play but now? why then dost skip aside?
What? is it man that frights you? can his face
Stretch out your legs unto their swiftest pace?
Can one looke daunt you all? what neede this bee?
Are ye not made of Clay, as well as hee?
Have ye not one Creator? are ye not
His elder Brothers, and the first begot?
Why start ye then? is it not strange to see
One weake-one make ten thousand strong ones flee?
But ah I neede not aske, I know it now,
You spied your makers image in his brow.
T'was even so indeed, no time to stay,
Your Lord was comming, fit, he should have way.
And thus these Creatures dares not come in sight;
Surely t'was heavens Idea, causd the fright.
Now see how flattering earth doth strive alone
To please this Lord; each tree presents a done,
See how the fruite hangs with a comely grace,
And wooes his hands to rent them from their place,
O how they bow, and would not have him bring
His hands to them, they bend unto their King,
But if by chance he will not plucke and taste,
They breake the boughes, and so for griefe they waste.
See how the little pinkes when they espie
Their Lord, doe Curtsy as he passeth by,
The wanton Dazies shake their leavy heads,
The purple Vilets startle from their beds,
The Primrose sweete and every flowre that growes,
Bestrowes his way with odours as he goes;
Thus did the herbes, the trees, the pleasant flowres
Welcome their Lord into his Eden bowres.
But all this while, the earth with all her pride,
Shee nor her store could not aford a bride
Fitting for man, no, no, to end the strife
The man himselfe must yeeld himselfe a wife,
It was not meete for him to be alone.
Then did our one-in-three our three-in-one
Cast him into a sleepe, and did divide
His ribbes, and brought a woman from his side.
When this was done, the devill did entice
The wife from Gods, unto his Paradice,
See how the lying serpent maketh choise
Of the forbidden tree: a tacite voice
It hath indeede most lovely to the eye,
Presents it to her, and shee by and by
Forsooth must taste: and so must Adam too.
What cannot women by entreaties doe!
God he intends a wife for mans reliefe,
But oftentimes shee prooves the greatest griefe.
Was there but one forbid? and must shee bee
So base a wretch to taste of such a tree?
Must Adam too? Ah see how shee pluckes downe
Her husbands glory, and kickes off his crowne!
O see how angry God himselfe comes downe,
To curse these wretches! heaven begins to frowne,
Alas poore naked soules, me thinkes I see
Transformed Adam crouch behind a tree,
T'is time to runne when once God doth reject him,
Tis not his leavy armour can protect him,
Heaven and hell with all the spight they can
Strive for revenge against this monster man.
O how the Creatures frowne, and bend their brow,
As if they all conspir'd and tooke a vow
Against this caytive, hearke how earth complaines
That shee by man is barrd of mod'rate raines,
Shees now become a strumpet, fruitfull seedes,
And dainty flowers, are turn'd to bastard weedes,
Disrob'd of all her glory, lost her pride,
The creatures now lie starving by her side,
O how shee sighes, and sends up hideous cryes,
To see poore cattell fall before her eyes,
For want of foode: they rip their mothers wombe
For meate, but finding none, doe makt their tombe,
Harke how the buls and angry Lyons roare
To heaven, and tell how man decreast their store,
Heare how the little Lambes which yesterday
Did honour to their King, and gave him way,
O how they begge for vengeance to come downe
On man, and dispossesse him of his Crowne,
See, see what raping and what cruell thrall
Is us'd: tis man alone that murders all,
The Lion mild ere while for want of foode,
Doth fill his paunch with unaccustom'd blood,
The wolfe which lately was more apt to keepe
The tender lambes, now prosecutes the sheepe,
Surely the ravenous beasts (did not they spye
The glimpse of heaven within mans purblind eye,)
Would straight devoure him, did not mercy now
Come downe and smooth her fathers wrinkled brow:
The earth would scorne to beare him, but divide
Her selfe, and make this Dathan sincke in pride;
The earth would not indure the plough to passe
Into her iron sides, the heavens as brasse
Would soone become, and both doe what they can
To starve up this deformed monster man.
See how this Caytife causeth discontent,
And raiseth discord in each element,
How often have I seene the raging fire
Vnto the top of highest Towres aspire,
And clamber mighty buildings? tis unbound,
Surely t'would burne the fabricke to the ground,
Did not our God looke from his mercy seat,
And make the watry sister quell the heate.
How is the ayre poysned with misty fogges,
And churlish vapours; onely such that clogs
The Corps with deadly humours, such that brings
The Pestilence, yea such that quickely flings
Loathsome diseases alwayes tipt with death,
Did not Iove fanne it with his mighty breath.
Harke how the impatient seas beginne to thunder,
As if they'd rent their prison walls in sunder;
See how the mounting waves doe swiftly flye
To heaven, as if they meant to tell the skye
How basely man hath dealt: O how they roare,
Beating their foming waves against the shore,
Chiding their sister earth that dares to beare
So base a wretch; see how the waves doe teare
Her bowels, and with all the spight they can
Strive for to drowne this wretched Caytife man.

CHRISTS BIRTH AND PASSION.

O thou most Sacred Dove that I may write
Thy praises, drop thou from thy soaring flight
A quill: come aide my muse, for shee intends
To sing such love no mortall comprehends,
Guide thou her stamring tongue, and let her be
Strongly protected in her infancy,
Then shee'll tell how the King of Kings by birth
Forsooke his throne, to live on dunghill earth,
Then shee'le declare how great creating Iove,
Whose starre-bepaved pallace is above
All whose attendance is a glorious troope,
Of glitt'ring cherubs, unto whom doe stoope
Each glorious Angell, flinging himselfe downe,
Presenting at his feete his pearely crowne,
To be his pallace heaven it selfe's not meete,
And dunghill earth's too little for his feete;
Yet this great King-creating King did slide
To earth, and laid his Diadem aside,
Exchanging it for thornes, and did untire
His glorious selfe, and clad himselfe in mire;
At whose appearance singing Angels shot
Like starres from heaven (newes nere to be forgot)
Yea winged Cherubs from the highest came
As Heavens Heralds to divulge his fame.
All heaven did obeysance but for earth
(Vngratefull soile unworthy of the birth
Of such a babe) twas readier to intombe
The dying Lord, then to afford a roome,
Proud Salem was too high to entertaine
Poore Maries babe, twas kept for Herods traine,
And Rome that seavenhild Citty was too greate
To lodge this Child, tis Cæsars royall seate,
T'is Bethlem, little Bethlem must suffice
To lighten Iosephs Consorts weary thighes,
And thats almost too proud to lodge him in,
No private house, but even a vulgar Inne,
And tha're not harbourd in the choisest roomes,
No, not so well as with the common groomes,
But this (ah most unworthy) worthy guests
Is thrust (and gladly too) among the beasts,
He that before was wont to take his rest,
All coverd in his fathers silken breast,
Is now constrained to lay his worthy head,
Vpon an undeserved strawy bed,
He that was wont to heare the pleasant tones
Of sweete-voyc'd Angels, now the saddest grones
Of dolefull Mary, mixt with brinish teares,
These onely these are harbour'd in his eares,
The Babe is scarcely borne, but sought to dye,
As yet not learn'd to goe, but forc'd to flye,
And to avoid the Tetrarchs furious Curse,
Hard hearted Egypt's now become a Nurse,
He that can make both Heaven and earth to dread,
Loe patiently takes all, and hides his head,
Yet hee'le returne, no, not the bitter wrongs,
Nor spightfull usage, nor the smarting thongs,
Nor sharpest scourges, no nor blackest hell,
Can quench the boundlesse love, nor yet expell
His strong affections, let the traitors set
A thorny crowne on's head, and also wet
His glorious face with spittle, and deride,
And scourge till blood falls trickling downe his side,
Nay though he be constrain'd to leave his breath,
And's dying soule is heavy unto death,
He can't but smile upon his bitter foe,
And love the traitors whe're they will or no,
Yet see how sordid man repayeth all
His kindnesse, with an undeserved thrall,
Whil'st he (sad soule) lay prostrate all alone,
Fast fixing both his eyes at heavens throne,
And sending up such sighes, as though he'd make
The weakned vaults of heaven and earth to shake,
His sweate dropt downe like dew, and as he stood
He staind Mount Olives with his Crimson blood,
Whilst all his sad Disciples drowsy lye,
Scarce able to hold up a sluggish eye,
Now he's betraid by Iudas, he that bore
The bagge, and was intrusted with the store,
He that did scorne the traitors name, and cry,
Who shall betray thee Lord? Lord speake? is't I?
Yet now an abject Christ becomes, to be,
And thirty pence is valu'd more then he,
The bloody steward with a treacherous kisse
Forsooke his Master and eternall blisse,
And sould the body of a Lord so good
To souldiers, such as thirsted after blood,
And then for feare the Innocent should passe
Vntoucht, was straight accused by Caiaphas,
Condemn'd by Pontius Pilate, to expell
The guilt, he washt his hands, and all was well,
O see what force weake water had to quench
His sparkling Conscience, and his flaming sence!
Alas not Nilus, no nor Iordans flood
Can cleanse the staines of such a Crimson blood;
No tis the streames of a repenting eye
Tis onely this takes out a scarlet dye,
Thus our Astrea stands arraign'd to dye
And nothing's to be heard but Crucifye:
When this alarum sounded to the hight
And heav'n and hell conspired both to fight
Against this Captaine, then his daunted troope
Forsooke their Lord, each soule began to droope;
Yet gracious he imparted his renowne
He wonne the battell and gave them the Crowne,
Yea he became a curse that knew no sinne
He was inrob'd and disinrob'd ag'in;
His temples crown'd with thornes, his glorious face
Was spit upon and beate with all disgrace
That abject slaves could use, and then they cry,
To blinded Christ who beate thee? prophecy.
Ah stupid soules as if that piercing sight
That viewes all secrets in the darkest night,
That tries the thoughts of every heart, and stares
Into each soule is now as blind as theirs;
Thus was he basely us'd, but all's not done
The hell-invented fury is to come,
By vulgar slaves the very Sonne of God
Is falsely scourg'd and forc'd to kisse the rod,
Yea he whose nostrils able are to cast
Out flame, and burne the world at every blast,
Whose mighty breath is able for to fanne
Ten thousand worlds, and puffe out every man
Like chaffe, and make the flanting world to tosse
Like waves, is now compeld to beare his crosse;
Whereon his body in a vulgar streete
Hung naked pierc'd with nayles both hands and feete:
The well of water, he that gave the first
To all his creatures, now's himselfe a thirst,
Yea he to whom all thirsty creatures call
For drinke, must now drinke vinegar with gall,
They pierc'd his side from whence came watry blood,
More soveraigne farre then all Bethesda's flood,
These tyrants thus (though to themselves denide)
Did make a way to heaven through his side.
Alas my muse for sighes can scarce prolong
The fatall tuning of so dire a song,
To see heavens faire Idea seeme so foule
Sobbing and sighing out his burdned soule,
Those eyes which now seeme dim, were once so bright,
From hence it was that Phœbus begd his light,
Those armes which now hang weake did from their birth
Support the tottring vaults of heaven and earth,
That tongue that now lyes speechlesse in his head,
A word of that would soone revive the dead,
One touch of those Pale fingers would suffice
To heale the sicke and make the dead man rise:
Those legges which now are peircd by abject slaves
were kindly entertaind amongst the waves:
The coate whose warmth did give his sides reliefe
The hem, the very hem could cure a griefe;
But now strength's weake, th'omnipotent's a crying
For aid, health's sicke and life it selfe's a dying,
His head hangs drooping and his eyes are fixt,
His weakned armes growne pale, the sunne's eclipst
(O boundlesse love, thus thus thou didst expose
Thy selfe to damned paines to save thy foes)
Hell fought against him, heaven began to frowne
And justice soone sent vengeance posting downe,
Who clad with fury, being angry shakes
Her ugly head whose haire doth nurture snakes,
Shee layes about her greedy of her prey
Quencheth her thirst with blood and so away,
And mercy now lies cover'd in a cloud
And will not heare although his sighes are loud
(Although his cries are such that cause a stone
To heare, yet sinne makes heav'n forget her owne)
Heav'n frownes as if shee had her owne forgot,
Mercy lookes off as if shee knew him not,
He suffred paines that hell it selfe devisd,
So much, that justice cride I am suffic'd:
His tortures were so high, so great, so sore,
That hell cride out: I can inflict no more:
Which done the heavens closd up their lamping light
And turn'd the day into a dismall night;
Bright Phœbus vaild his face and would not see,
Wormes actors of so bloody treachery:
And quivering earth her wonted rigour lackt
And straight stood trembling at so dire a fact:
The buri'd Saints arose to see betwixt
Two dusky clouds, their glorious Sunne eclipst:
Thus heav'n it selfe with the terrestriall Ball
Doth joyne to celebrate his funerall:
The Landlord of the globe who first did raise
Earths fabricke, was a tenant for three dayes;
But when once Christ did cease to be turmoyld
Heaven and he was gladly reconcil'd,
Mercy came dancing from the angry denne
Tost off her cloudy mantle, smild againe,
Pearch'd on her brightest throne, and makes a vow
To smooth the wrinckled furrowes of her brow:
And grim fac'd vengeance shee thats onely fed
With poyson, dares not shew her snaky head
For feare: all angers banisht cleane away,
Sterne justice now hath not a word to say,
And now the Fathers anger being done
Double imbraces entertaine the Sonne:
As when a tender mother sometime beates
Her wanton boy for his unruly feates
Shee wipes his blubberd face and by and by
Presents a thousand gugoyes to his eye,
Shee angry with her selfe beginnes to seeke
His former love teares trickling downe her cheeke,
Quickly forgetting what was done amisse,
Ending her anger in a lovely kisse,
Doubtlesse her fondling burnes the rod and then
Come peace my babe kisse and be friends agen.
Iust so when God inflicted on his Sonne
His bittrest wrath, the anger being done
O then how soone he doubled his renowne?
Adorn'd his Temple with a richer Crowne?
Angry with those that would not heare his moane
Ready to fling grim vengeance from his throne,
And chide with mercy shee that once did runne
To hide her selfe from this his dying Sonne,
And for this fact would surely overthrow
The fabricke, did not Iustice hold the blow.
Thus heaven was friends againe, but sordid man
Poore mortall dust whose dayes are but a span
Doth strive against his God, like dogges that storme
And barke and brawle and fome at Phœbes horne:
Ah Lord, why are they so extreame to thee?
What is the cause thou madst their blindmen see?
Or why didst thou their fury thus inrage?
Because thou didst revive their dead mens age?
Me thinkes tis strange good God thou shouldst enflame
Their anger by restoring legges too lame.
How is it Lord thou sowedst glorious seedes
And loe a harvest all compact of weedes?
Thou gavest them life, and spentst thy dearest breath
For them, and now thou art repaid with death:
What griefe was ere like thine? would not thy mone
Quickly dissolve an adamantine stone?
Wold not those sighs (which could not peirce their eares)
Have turnd a rocke into a sea of teares?
Would not those wrongs thou bor'st without reliefe,
Make every cave, to echo out thy griefe?
For greedy Lions are more kind then men,
They entertaind thy limbe within their denne:
Forget their wonted humours and became
As carefull shepherdes to thy tender Lambe,
The croking raven, shee whose natures wilde
Became a tender nurse unto thy Childe,
And to obey thy voice the stony rocke
Became a springing fountaiue to thy flocke,
Yea rather then thy babes shall live in thrall,
The very sea it selfe provides a wall,
The flames forget their force, through thy constraint
Lose heate and know not how to burne a Saint,
Yea when thy souldiers wanted day to fight,
The Sun stood still and lent them longer light:
When boistrous seas did shew their lusty prancks,
Scorning to be imprison'd in their banckes,
And with their billowes vaulted up so high,
As if they meant to scale the starry sky,
And boundlesse Boreas from his frozen Cave
Rusht out and proudly challeng'd every wave,
One nod of thine did quell those seas agen,
And sent proud Boreas to his sullen denne:
Thus thou the senselesse creatures oft did'st checke,
And mad'st the proudest pliant to thy becke,
For devils trembled and that breath of thine
Made them seeke shelter in a heard of swine,
They knew thy greatnesse and confest thy name.
Hell sent forth Heraulds to divulge thy fame
But man (Lord whats he made of?) stupid soule
Is now more greedy then the raping foule:
Harder then flint, his nature is so grimme,
That questionlesse the Lyon chang'd with him:
Hotter then flame, more boystrous then the winde,
More fierce then waves, and hels not more unkinde.
Yet thou (O matchlesse love) didst undergoe
An undeserved curse to save thy foe:
Yea guiltlesse thou because thou would'st suffice
For guilty man, becom'st a Sacrifice.
Thou Grand Physitian for thy patients good
Didst mixe thy Physicke with thy dearest blood:
Man from the sweetest flower did sucke his griefe
But thou from venome didst extract reliefe,
From pleasures limbecke man distild his paine
Thou out of sorrow pleasure drawd againe,
Sweete Eden was the garden where there grew
Such sugred flowers, yet there our poyson blew,
Sad Gethseman the arbour where was pluckt,
Though bitter herbes, yet thence was hony suckt:
So have I seene the busie Bee to feed,
Extracting honey from the sowrest weed,
Whilst Spiders wandring through a pleasant bowre
Sucke deadly poyson from the sweetest flower,
Thus, thus sweete Christ, thy sicknesse was our health,
Thy death, our life, thy poverty our wealth,
Thy griefe our mirth, our freedome was thy thrall,
Thus thou by being conquerd conquerest all.

Cant. 8. 7.

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

O how my heart is ravisht! thoughts aspire
To thinke on thee my Christ: my zeales on fire,
What shall I doe my love? me thinkes mine eyes
Behold thee still, yet still I Tantalize;
Ten thousand lets stand arm'd and all agree,
Conspiring how to part my love and me.
Presumption like Olympus scales the skye,
A mountaine for to part my Love and I.
Despaire presents a gulfe, a greedy grave
Much like the jawes of the infernall Cave:
But what of this? though hils are nere so high
Whose sunne-confronting tops upbraide the skye
Ile trample o're, and make them know tis meete
Their proudest heads should stoope and kisse my feete:
Ile stride o're cares deeper then Neptunes well,
Whose threatning jawes doe yawne as wide as hell:
Although the sea boyles in her angry tides
And watry mountaines knocke at Heavens sides,
Though every puffe of Neptunes angry breath
Should raise a wave and every wave a death,
Ile scorne his threates should stop my course, or quell
My pace, though every death presents a hell:
Yea Ile adventure through those swelling stormes
Whose billowes seemes to quench great Phœbes hornes,
Mountaines shall be as molehilles, every wave
Tost in the fretfull region, shall outbrave
No more then streames that shew their wanton pranckes,
Gliding along by Thames his petty banckes:
But grant that seas should swell, and tossing tides
With stormes should crush my waving vessels sides:
Suppose for footemen mountaines are too steepe,
Each hill too high, and every cave too deepe:
Suppose all earth conspire to stop: care I?
My faith will lend me wings and then Ile flye:
O how Ile laugh to see that mounting clay!
O how Ile smile at that that stopt my way!
O how I laugh to see the Ocean straine
Her banckes for to oppose and all in vaine!
And can you blame me? when I'me once above
Ile care for none, for none but thou my Love.
Thou art my path: I shall not goe awry:
My sight shall never faile: thou art my eye:
Thou art my clothing: I shan't naked be:
I am no bondman: thou hast made me free;
I am not pin'd with sickenesse: thou art health:
I am no whit impoverisht, thou art wealth.

Mans naturall infirmity.

VVhat meanes my God? why dost present to me
Such glorious objects? can a blind man see?
Why dost thou call? why dost thou becken so?
Wouldst have me come? Lord can a Cripple go?
Or why dost thou expect that I should raise
Thy glory with my voice? the dumbe can't praise.
Vnscale my duskye eyes, then Ile expresse
Thy glorious objects strong attractivenesse:
Dip thou my limbes in thy Bethesdaes lake,
Ile scorne my earthly crutches, Ile forsake
My selfe: touch thou my tongue and then Ile sing
An Allelujah to my glorious King.
Raise me from this my grave, then I shall be
Alive, and Ile bestow my life on thee
Till thou Eliah-like dost overspread
My limbs, I'me blind, I'me lame, I'me dumbe, I'me dead.

The Melancholicke Soules comfort.

The Soule in love with Christ.

Lord why hidest thou thy face from me.

VVhat drowsie weather's this? the angry skies
Doe threaten stormes, and heav'n it selfe denies
Her lovely visage, ah these darkned dayes
Doe make my vitals drowsie, and decayes
My soules delight: good God can I controule
Or drive these pensive humours from my soule?
Ah no I can't my lively spirits keepe,
Such drowsie weather's fit for nought but sleepe.
O thou eternall light that hast the sway
In Ioves broad wals, thou scepter of the day,
Thou heav'ns bright torch, thou glistring worlds bright eye,
Why dost thou hide and so obscurely lye?
Come wrap thy selfe in thy compleate attire,
Shew forth thy glory, make my soule admire
Thy splendor, come and doe no longer stay
But with thy glorious beames bestrow my way,
Extirpe these foggy mists from out mine eyes,
That I may plainly see where heaven lyes.
Then Ile awake, sweete Christ, doe thou display
Thy glittering beames, send out a Summers day,
I'le rub my slumbring eyes, O then I'le roame
A life-time journey from my native home:
The soule will sleepe and can't hold up her eyes
Vntill the sunne of righteousnesse arise.

Christs Resurrection.

Sanctificat.

A Meditation on a Mans shadow.

When as the Sunne flings downe his richest rayes,
And with his shining beames adornes my wayes,
See how my shadow trackes me where I goe,
I stop, that stops; I walke, and that doth so:
I runne with winged flight, and still I spye
My waiting shadow runne as fast as I.
But when a sable cloud doth disaray
The Sunne, and robs me of my smiling day:
My shadow leaves me helpelesse all alone,
And when I most neede comfort I have none:
Iust so it is; let him that hath the hight
Of outward pompe, expect a parasite:
If thou art great, thy honours will draw nigh:
These are the shadowes to prosperity:
O how the worldlings make pursuite to thee,
With cap in hand and with a bended knee:
But if disastrous fate should come betwixt
Thee and thy Sunne, thy splendor's all eclipst:
Thy friends forsake thee, and thy shadow's gone,
And thou (poore sunne-lesse thou) art left alone,
This is thy Soules estate, the worldly gaine
And greatest pompe, in stormy times are vaine:
They are but shadowes when distresse comes nigh,
They are as nothing to a faithfull eye.
Yet here's my comfort Lord, if I can see
My shadow, I must needes a substance be.
O let me not with worldly shadowes clogge
My selfe, grant me more wit then Esops dogge.

A Meditation on Childrens rashnesse.

When Mothers are desirous for to play
The wantons with their babes, and shew the way
To finde their feete: to give their brats content,
They wagge their sporting fingers, and present
A penny in the forehead, or some pap,
To win the Children to the Mothers lap:
How soone will they their little grissels stretch,
And runne apace, aspiring for to fetch
This petty object? never caring though
Their way be full of stumbling blockes below:
Thou art that Mother Lord, thou usest charmes,
And still art dandling, Christ within thine armes
Presents most glorious objects to our eyes,
And shewes us where thy choisest mercies lies;
Why then are we so backward? why so slow?
Or why so loth into thy armes to goe?
Small molehils seeme as mountaines in our way,
And every light affliction makes us stay:
Why should we stop at petty strawes below?
Make us thy Children Lord we shant doe so.

A Meditation on a good Father having a bad Sonne.

Qverkus of late was minded to dispute
Of this, A tree thats good brings forth good fruite.
Hence he concludes such parents that have bin
Converted, bring forth children void of sinne.
Peace Querkus peace, and hold thy tongue for shame
Dost not perceive that thy conclusion's lame?
May not a graine thats free from chaffe and cleare
Cast in the ground, bring forth a chaffy care.

A Meditation on a Weathercocke.

See how the trembling Weathercocke can find
Noe setled place, but turnes with every wind,
If blustring Zephyr blowes and gives a checke,
How soon's this cocke made pliant to his becke,
If Boreas gets the day, twill change its side,
And turne in spite of bragging Zephyrs pride:
Thus temporizers turne at every puffe,
And yet forsooth they thinke they're good enough,
If stand, they stand: if he that seemes to be
The greatest turne, they turne as fast as he,
I wonder at such wav'ring feathers, did I
So often turne t'would make me wondrous giddy.
Lord let that wind that blowes upon thy flocke,
Turne me, and make me Lord thy weathercocke.

A Meditation on Cockfighting.

See how those angry creatures disagree,
Whilst the spectators sit and laugh to see.
Doe not two neighbours often doe the same,
Whilst that the Lawyers laugh to see the game?

A Meditation on an Echo and a Picture.

See how Apelles with his curious art,
Pourtraies the picture out in every part:
If he can give't a voyce, no doubt he can
Compleatly make the shape a living man:
Surely his worke would to his praise redound,
Could he but give the shape he made, a sound:
What wants the Echo of a living creature
But Shape? and what but voice this comely feature?
Yet both can't meete together: God alone,
Will have this secret Art to be his owne.

A Meditation on Noahs Dove.

VVhen God the floods from lands did undivide
And made the skye aspiring mountaines hide,
When heaven raind seas, and fountaines were unbound,
And all mankind except eight soules were drownd;
Then did Ioves Pilot Noah make an Arke
And thrust this little world into a barke:
Yea then he sent a Dove to range about
The Floods, to answer his uncertaine doubt:
O how shee wanders up and downe the Seas,
Fluttring her weary wings but findes no ease!
Shee sees no food, no resting place, no parke,
But soone returnes into her wished Arke.
Observe how tender Noah, full of Love,
Opens the window to this weary Dove.
Puts forth his hands to meete her, takes her in,
But by and by shee flutters out agin:
Shee findes an Olive leafe, and that shee brings
Betweene her bill, hov'ring her tyred wings
Vpon the Arke: still Noah is the same,
Lets in his wandring Dove thats now made tame
With restlesse flight; once more shee gets away,
And now shee spies the earth (that lately lay
Sok'd in the impartiall deluge) in her pride,
Adornd with dainty hearbes on every side;
When food is plenty, this ungratefull Dove
Forgets her Noah, and his former love:
Minds nothing but her selfe, shee that before
Did crouch unto thee Arke, returnes no more.
Thou art that Noah Lord, and Christ the boate,
Afflictions are the waters that doe floate:
Man is that wandring Dove, that often flies
Vnto his Christ for shelter, else he dyes.
How apt are we good God to use our wings,
And flye to thee when all these outward things
With floods are drowned up, though we have bin
So vile, how apt art thou to catch us in?
O how our God when we have bin astray
Puts forth his armes to meete us in the way,
And take us home! we are no sooner in
But by and by we flutter out agin:
This time by chance like Noahs Dove we see,
The upper branches of some Olive tree,
I meane some petty shelter: still we flye
Vnto our God for aide or else we dye.
How apt are we, when outward things forsake us,
To haste to God? how apt's our God to take us?
The third time we are gone, now floods are husht
The Sun-confronting mountaines bravely washt,
The Seas give place, the lowest vallies seene,
Yea all the earth most sweetly deckt in greene:
Now we forget our God and post away,
And after make an everlasting stay:
When worldly wealth comes in, and we can rest
Vpon the creature: O how we detest
Our former refuge! if we find a Parke,
We ne're returne unto our wonted Arke.

A Meditation on a Shippe.

Marke how the floting vessell shewes her pride
And is extold with every lofty tide;
But when it ebbes, and all the floods retire
See how the bragging barke is plungd in mire:
Iust so good God, how apt are we to swim
When mercies fill our banckes unto the brim?
When worldly wealth appeares, and we can see
Such outward blessings flow: then who but we?
But when it ebbes, and thou dost once unlinke
These mercies from us: O how soone we sinke;
Good God let not the great estate possesse
Me with presumption, nor despaire the lesse:
Let me not sinke when such an ebbe appeares,
No, let me swim in true repentant teares:

A Meditation on a Windmill.

Observe it alwaies tis the makers skill
To place the windmill on the highest hill;
It stands unusefull till the potent windes
Puffe up the lofty sayles and then it grinds:
Iust thus it is: the hypocrite's the mill,
His actions sayles, ambition is the hill,
The wind that drives him is a blast of fame,
If blowne with this he runnes, if not hee's tame:
He stirres not till a puffe of praise doth fill
His sailes: but then, O how he turnes the mill!
Lord drive me with thy Spirit, then Ile be
Thy windmill, and will grind a grist for thee.

A Meditation on Organs.

Harke how the Organist most sweetely plaies
His Psalmes upon the tone-divided Kayes:
Each touch a sound, but if the hand don't come
And strike the kayes, how soon's the musicke dumbe?
A mod'rate stroke doth well, but if too hard
The Organ's broke, and all the raptures mard.
I am that Organ Lord, and thou alone
Canst play, each prayer is a pleasant tone,
Affliction is the hand that strikes the kayes:
(O Lord from me the sweetest musicke raise:)
If thou don't strike at all how can I speake
Thy worthy prayses, if too hard I breake:
Strike mildly Lord, strike soft, and then Ile sing,
And charoll out the glory of my King.

A Meditation on an Apes love.

VVhen once the foolish Ape hath fild her nest
With little brats, there's one among the rest,
Shee most affects: to shelter this from harmes,
Shee alwayes hugges it in her wanton armes.
Vntill at length shee squeezeth out the breath,
Of this her fondling, Loves the cause of death:
The Worlds this wanton Ape, that still delights
In hugging some peculiar favourites,
Of those that are thus dandled by this Ape,
There doth not one among a thousand scape.

On contempt of the World.

Aloft O Soule; soare up, doe not turmoyle
Thy selfe by grabbling on a dunghill soyle:
Tosse up thy wings, and make thy soaring plumes
Outreach the loathsome stench and noysome fumes
That spring from sordid earth: come, come, and see
Thy birth, and learne to know thy pedigree:
What? wast thou made of Clay? or dost thou owe
Homage to earth? say, is thy blisse below?
Dost know thy beauty? dost thou not excell?
Can the Creation yeeld a parallel?
The world can't give a glasse to represent
Thy shape, and shall a durty element
Bewitch thee? thinke, is not thy birth most high?
Blowne from the mouth of all the trinity,
The breath of all-creating Iove, the best
Of all his workes, yea thee of all the rest
He chose to be his Picture: where can I
But in thy selfe see Immortality
'Mong all his earthly creatures? Thou art chiefe
Of all his workes: and shall the world turne theefe
And steale away thy love? wert not for thee
The heav'n aspiring mountaine should not bee,
The heavens should have no glistring starre, no light,
No Sunne to rule the day, no Moone the night:
The Globe had bin ('twas not the makers will
To make it for it selfe) a Chaos still:
Thou art Ioves priestly Aaron to present
The creatures service, while they give assent
By serving thee, why then's the world thy rest?
'Tis but thy servants servant at the best:
It gives attendance to refined mire,
That Iove hath wrapt thee in as thy attire;
For whats the body but a lumpe of clay
Carv'd neatly out, in which the soule beares sway?
Tis servant to the soule: what limbe can stirre,
Nay darst to quatch, if once shee make demurre?
See how the captiv'd members trembling stand
Wondrous submissive to her dire command!
O how the legs doe runne with eager flight
To overtake the object of delight!
See how the armes doe graspe as if they'd rent
To hold the thing that gives the soule content.
Why whats the body when the soule's away?
Nought but a stincking carkasse made of clay.
What's heav'n without a God? or what's the skye
If once bright Phœbus close his radiant eye?
The world was for our bodies, they for none
But for our soules, our soules for God alone:
What madnesse then for men of such a birth
To nuzell all their dayes on dunghill earth,
Still hunting after with an eager sent
An object which can never give content;
For what contentment in the world can lye,
That's onely constant in inconstancy?
It ebbes and flowes each minuie: thou maist brag
This day of thousands, and to morrow:
The greatest wealth is subject for to reele,
The globe is plac'd on Fortunes tottering wheele:
As when the gladding sunne begins to show
And scatter all his golden beames below,
A churlish cloud soone meetes him in the way,
And sads the beauty of the smiling day:
Or as a stately ship a while behaves
Herselfe most bravely on the slumbring waves,
And like a Swanne sailes nimbly in her pride
The helpefull windes concording with the tide
To mend her pace: but by and by, the wind
The fretfull Seas, the heav'ns and all combin'd
Against this bragging barke, O how they fling
Her corkey sides to heaven, and then they bring
Her backe: shee that ere while did sayle so brave
Cutting the floods, now's tost with every wave:
Iust so, the waving world gives joy and sorrow,
This day a Crœsus, and a Iob to morrow:
How often have I seene the miser blesse
Himselfe in wealth, and count it for no lesse
Then his adored God: straight comes a frowne
Flying from unhappy fate, and whirleth downe
Him, and his heapes of gold, and all that prize
Is lost, which he but now did Idolize.
But grant the world (as never 'twill) to be
A thing most sure most full of constancy,
What is thy wealth unlesse thy God doth blesse
Thy store, and turne it to a happinesse?
What though thy Table be compleatly spread
With farre-fetcht dainties, and the purest bread
That fruitfull earth can yeeld? all this may bee,
If thou no stomacke hast, what's all to thee?
What though thy habitation should excell
In beauty, and were Edens parallel?
Thou being pesterd with some dire disease,
How can thy stately dwelling give thee ease?
Thy joyes will turne thy griefe, thy freedome thrall,
Vnlesse thy God above doth sweeten all:
When thou (poore soule) liest ready to depart,
And hear'st thy Conscience snarling at thine heart,
Though heapes of gold should in thy coffers lye,
And all thy worthlesse friends stand whining by,
'Tis none, 'tis none of these can give thee health,
But thou must languish in the midst of wealth.
Then cease thou mad man and pursue no more
The world, and know shee's but a painted whore,
Thou catchest shadowes, labourst in thy dreames,
And thirst's amongst th'imaginary streames.

A Meditation on a meane.

Lord in excesse I see there often lies
Great dangers, and in wants great miseries:
Send me a meane, doe thou my wayes preserve,
For I may surfet Lord, as well as starve.

On Sathans tempting Eve.

Art thou turn'd Fencer Sathan? prethee say?
Surely thou art not active at thy play.
Challenge a Woman? fie thou art to blame,
Suppose thou getst the day, thou getst no fame.
But prethee speake, hast any cause to prate?
Thou bruis'd her heele, what though? shee broke thy pate.

On a Spunge.

The Spunge it selfe drinkes water till it swell it,
But never empties till some strength expell it:
Lord, of our selves we're apt to soake in sinne,
But thou art faine to squeeze it out agin.

A Meditation on a chime of Bells.

Harke; what harmonious Musicke fils mine eare?
What pleasant raptures? yet me thinkes I heare
Each Bell thats rung, to beare a various sound,
Had all one note, how quickely twould confound
The tune; a discord in the bels arise,
And yet they disagreeing, sympathize:
Tis not the greatest makes the sweetest noyse,
No, but the skilfull Ringer still imployes
The small as well as great, tis every bell
Together rung, that makes them sound so well;
Thus tis in Common-weale: if every man
Kept time, and place proportiond to him, than
How sweetly would our musicke sound? twould be
The emblem of an Heavenly harmony,
Where each man would be great, the land enjoyes
No musicke, but a base prepostrous noyse,
Each Bell sounds well: what though the tenor be
The big'st? the treble seemes as sweete to me:
Lets not aspire too high, experience tels
The choisest chimes makes use of petty bels:
But howsoever Lord, least I disgrace
Thy sweet-voic'd chime, make me keepe time, and place.

A Meditation on the burning a torch at noone day.

VVhen Sol doth in his flaming throne remaine,
My Blazing torch doth spend it selfe in Vaine,
But when the sunne goes downe, and once tis night,
O then how welcome is my torches Light,
Sols radient beames at noone doe so surmount
They make my tapers light of small accompt;
So Lord when thou dost great abundance send
We cannot then so well esteeme a friend,
We slight their helpes: they alwaies seeme most bright
When dire affliction sends a dismall night.

A Meditation on the sound of a crackt Bell.

Harke how the Hoarsemouth'd Bell extends a tone
Into mine eares; delightfull unto none,
The Mettal's good, tis some unwelcome skar,
Some fatall cracke that makes the musicke jarre,
But what of this? although the sound be rough
Twill call me to the temple well enough:
Such are those ill-lived Teachers who confound
The sweetnesse of their soule converting sound
By flawes seene in their unbeseeming lives,
By which their heavenly calling lesser thrives:
Yet Lord, I know they're able for to bring
My Soule to heaven, though with so hoarse a ring.
But since thou dost such jarring tunes disdaine,
Melt thou this mettall, cast these bels againe.

A Meditation on a silly Sheepe.

VVhen all the Winds shew forth their boystrous pride,
And every cloud unloads his spungy side,
When Boreus blowes, and all the Heavens weepe,
And with their stormes disturbe the grazing sheepe:
See how the harmelesse creature, much dismaide,
Doth crouch unto the bramble bush for aide:
Tis true, the bramble hides her from the winde,
But yet it makes her leave her fleece behinde.
Who can but smile at such that knowes not how
To take the frownings of an angry brow;
Whose base revengefull spirits strive to crush
Their foes, though fleece themselves at law'ers bush.
Guide me good God, let me revenge no more,
When once the cure growes worse then the sore.

A Meditation on the Flowers of the Sunne.

Marke how the flowers at night doe hang their heads
As if they'd drop their leaves into their beds,
But when the morning sunne doth once arise
They represent their glory to mine eyes,
Then they unvaile their tops, and doe attire
Themselves in beauty, as the Sunne goes higher.
Thus Lord thy Saints on earth, when thou do'st hide,
They cover all the glory of their pride,
Their drooping soules doe wither, all their mirth
Is gone, they finde no pleasure in the earth:
But when the Sunne of righteousnesse appeares,
Then they display their beauty, and their feares
Are all extinct: O Lord doe thou make me
Thy Saint, that I may fall and rise with thee.

A Meditation on a Loadstone, and Jet.

When once the Loadstone shewes it selfe, then straight
The Iron carelesse of its wonted waight,
Vnto its wished object doth aspire,
As if it did enjoy the sense, Desire,
And thus the blacke-fac'd let is apt to draw
The dust, and to inchant the wanton straw,
This Iet and Loadstone well me thinkes imparts
An embleme of our fond-attractiv'd hearts,
The Spirit is that Loadstone that doth plucke
Our Iron hearts, that once so fast were stucke
Plung'd in the depth of sinne, and sets them sure,
In spight of devillish mallice to indure.
The World's the Iet that often doth controule
Vaine frothy man, and steale away his soule
With her inchanting trickes; thus Iet can bring
Light strawes, submissive to so vaine a thing:
Be thou my Loadstone Lord, then thou shalt see
My Iron heart will quickely cleave to thee.

A Meditation on false looking-glasses.

Madam looke off; why peep'st thou? O forbeare,
Twill either make thee proud or else despaire!
Th'one glasse doth flatter thee above desart,
The other makes thee blacker then thou art,
Tell me sweete Lady, now thou hast both there,
Dost not most love the glasse that makes thee faire?
Tis our condition, we can seldome see
A man that tels us truely what we be;
Our friends doe often flatter, and present
Too fine a shape, and all to give content:
Our rough-mouth'd foes do strive to lay a skar
On us, and make us worser then we are,
But yet of both, our lofty nature's such
Indeed, we love our flattering friends too much:
Give me a perfect Glasse, Lord cleare my sight,
That I may see my selfe, and thee aright.

A Meditation on hunting the Hare.

Observe how nature tutors senslesse Beasts,
How quickly will they poste into their nests
For feare of harme; O how the trembling Hare
Will shunne the dogge, and ev'ry bird the snare,
See how the crafty Fox doth take his rounds,
And clamber mountaines to avoid the hounds,
If Nature shewes this; to such creatures too,
O what doth Reason and Religion doe?
How is it then, that Man so little feares
The plots of Sathan and those dev'lish snares?
How apt are we good God to trample in,
Nay t'urge occasions for to act our sinne?
Vnlesse we by thy Spirit are possest,
We are more stupid then the senslesse beast.

A Meditation on the pride of Womens apparrell.

See how some borrow'd off cast vaine attire,
Can puffe up pamper'd clay, and dirty mire:
Tell me whence had'st thy cloath's that makes thee fine,
Wast not the silly Sheeps before twas thine?
Doth not the Silke worme and the Oxes hide
Serve to maintaine thee in thy cheefest pride?
Do'st not thou often with those feathers vaile
Thy face, with which the Ostridge hides her taile?
What art thou proud of then? me thinks 'tis fit
Thou should'st be humble for the wearing it:
Tell me proud Madam; thou that art so nise,
How were thy parents clad in Paradise?
At first they wore the armour of defence
And were compleatly wrapt in innocence:
Had not they fin'd, they ne're had beene dismaid
Nor needed not the Fig-trees leavy ayde!
What ever state O Lord thou place me in
Let me not glory in th'effect of sinne.

A Meditation on a Wax Candle lighted.

See how my burning Taper gives his light,
And guids my wayes in the obscurest night,
It wasts it selfe for me, and when tis spent
The snuffe doth leave behind a wholsome sent:
Thus doe thy Pastors Lord who shine most bright,
They spend themselves to give thy people light,
And when by thee their posting time's confind,
They dye and leave a lovely smell behind.

A Meditation on an Elephant.

The Elephant doth alwayes chuse to drinke
In durty ponds, and makes his paw to sinke
And raise the mud, that so he may escape,
Without the shadow of his ugly shape:
Thus tis with guilty soules, who dare not peepe
Into themselves, but make their conscience sleepe;
Cleanse me O Lord, and then I shall surpasse
In beauty, and won't feare the looking glasse.

A Meditation on a Bird in a Cage.

See how my little prisoner hops about
Her wyrie Cage, and sweetly ditties out
Her various tunes: and since shee cannot flee
Abroad, shee looks for meate from none but me:
But if I ope my Cage, her lofty wings
Supports her to the Forrest, where shee sings
Some rustick notes, and when my bird can see
Some meat abroad, shee seeks for none to me.
Tis thus, (good God) whilst thou on us dost bring
Thy great afflictions, O how well we sing
Thy prayse, whilst we thus imprisned be,
Our faiths more active and our hop's on thee:
But if thou let us loose, we quickly flye
Abroad, and lose our wonted harmony.
Our faiths more uselesse, if elsewhere we see
Some foode, we seldome come for meate to thee,
If thou wilt feede, and teach me Lord to praise,
Then let me be thy prisoner all my daies.

A Meditation on the fire.

Keepe but an equall distance, then the fire
Will give thee warmth unto thine hearts desire,
But if thy daring spirit once presumes
To crouch too nigh, it warmes not, but consumes,
Tis thus in things divine: Search thou Gods will
Reveal'd, and then twill warme, but never kill:
But pry into his secrets, then the ire
Of God will burne thee like consuming fire:
O Lord so warme me with thy sacred breath,
That I may neither burne nor freeze to death.

A meditation on boyes swimming with bladders.

See what extreame delight some boyes have tooke
Playing the wantons in some gliding brooke
Vpon their bladders tumbling up and downe
Though ne're so deepe, in spight of Neptunes frowne:
They seldome learne to swimme: doe but unlincke
Them from their bladders, then they quickely sincke,
This Worlds a tossing Sea, fild to the brim
With waves, where ev'ry man doth sincke or swim,
These Bladderd Lads are such that still rely
Vpon the creature, which gone, by and by
Their drooping spirits faile: the faithfull man
Is he that swims aright, and alwaies can
Support himselfe, and with his art outbraves
The fretfull Sea, though fild with angry waves:
Lord give me faith, that I may still depend
On thee, and swim, what ever stormes thou send.

On Cain and Abels offerings.

Art angry Cain? what doe thy thoughts repine?
Is Abels offring better tooke then thine?
Didst not thou bring thy God a lovely prize
And crowne his Altar with a sacrifice,
Art not thou elder? did not thy offring too
Come from thy God? what more could Abell doe?
Ile tell thee Cain how Abel got the start,
He with his offring, offered up his heart.

On an Apprentices Boxe.

The Prentise after all his yearely painēs,
Filleth his small mouth'd box with Christmas gaines,
Yet though he fill his box unto the brim
Vnlesse he breake it up, whats all to him?
A miser's such a Boxe, thats nothing worth,
Till death doth breake it up, then all comes forth:
Convert good God, or strike with some disease,
Breake up such small mouth'd boxes, Lord as these.

On Eves Apple.

Eve for thy fruite thou gav'st too deare a price,
What? for an Apple give a Paradise?
If now a dayes of fruite such gaines were made
A Costermonger were a devillish trade.

On a faire house having ill passage to it.

A house to which the builders did impart
The full perfection of their curious art,
Most bravely furnisht, in whose roomes did lye,
Footeclothes of Velvet, and of tapestry;
I wondred at (as who could not but doe it)
To see so rough so hard a passage to it:
So Lord I know thy heaven's a glorious place,
Wherein the beauty of thy glistring face
Inlightens all: thou in the wals dost fixe,
The Iasper and the purest sardonyx,
Thy gates are pearles, and every dore beset
With Saphires, Emeralds, and the Chrysolet:
Each Subject weares a crowne, the which he brings
And flings it downe to thee, the King of Kings.
But why's the way so thorny? tis great pitty
The passage is no wider to thy Citty,
Poore Daniel through his den and Shadrake's driven
With his associates through the fire to Heaven,
But yet we can't complaine, we may recall
The time to minde when there was none at all,
T'was Christ that made this way, and shall we be
Who are his Servants, farre more nice then he?
No, Ile adventure too, nay, Ile get in,
Ile tracke my Captaine thorow thicke and thin.