University of Virginia Library

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.