The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton For the First Time Collected and Edited: With Memorial-Introduction, Notes and Illustrations, Glossarial Index, Facsimilies, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart. In Two Volumes |
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 | The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton |  |
3
The Countesse of Penbrook's Passion.
1
Where shall I finde that melancholy museThat never hard of any thinge but mone?
And reade the passiones that her pen doth use,
When she and sorrow sadlye sitt alone;
To tell the world more then the world can tell?
What fits, inded most fitlye figure hell.
2
Lett me not thinke once of the smalest thought,Ne speake of less then of the greatest gref;
Wher every sence with sorrowes overwrought,
Lives but in death, dispayring of relef;
Whilst thus the harte with torments torne asunder,
Maye of the worlde be cald the wofull wonder.
3
The dayes like nights all darkned by distresse,Pleasure become a subject all of payne;
The spirit overprest with heaviness,
While hopelesse horror vexeth every vayne;
Death shakes his darte, Grief hath my grave prepared
Yett to more sorrowe is my spirit spared.
4
The owlie eyes that not endure the light,The night-raven's songe, that sounds of nought but death,
The cockatrice that kileth with her sight,
The poysned ayre, that chokes the sweetest breath,
Thunders and earthquakes, altogether mett;
These tell a litle how my life is sett.
5
Where words desolve to sighes, sighes into teares,And everye teare to torments of the mynde;
The mynd's distresse into those deadlye feares,
That finde more death, than death it selfe can finde;
Death to that life, that livinge doth descrye,
A litle more yett of my myserye.
6
Put all the woes of all the worlde together,Sorrow and Death sitt downe in all ther pryde;
Lett Miserye bringe all her muses hether,
With all the horrors that the harte may hyde;
Then reade the state but of my rufull storye,
And saye my gref hath gotten sorrowe's glorye.
7
For nature's sicknes sometime maye have ease,Fortune, though fickle, sometime is a friende;
The mynde's affliction patience maye appease,
And death is cawse that manye torments ende;
But ever sicke, crost, grevid and livinge-dyinge,
Thinke of the subject in this sorrowe lyinge.
8
To shew the nature of my payne, alas!Payne hath no nature to descrye my payne;
But where that payne it selfe in payne doth passe,
Thinke on vexation so in every vayne,
That hopeles, helples, endles payne may tell:
Save hell it selfe, but myne, ther is no hell.
9
If sicknes be a ground of deadlye grefe,Consuminge care hath caught me by the harte;
If wante of comforte, hopeles of relef,
Be further woe: so weye my inwarde smarte;
If friendes unkindenes, so my gref is grounded;
If cawsles wronged, so my harte is wounded.
10
If love refused, so reade on my ruine,If truth disgrac'd, so my sorrow moved;
If fayth abused, the ground my torment grew in,
If vertue scorned, so my death approved;
If death delayinge, so my harte perplexed,
If livinge-dyinge, so my spirite vexed.
11
My infant's yeares myspente in childishe toyes,My riper age in rules of litle reasone;
My better yeares in all mistaken joyes,
My present time,—Oh most unhapie seasone!—
In fruiteles labours and in ruthles love:
Oh what a horror hath my harte to prove.
12
I sighe to se my infancie myspent,I morne to finde my youthfull life misled;
I weepe to feele my further discontent,
I dye to trye how love is livinge dead;
I sighe, I morne, I weepe, I livinge dye,
And yett must live to shew more miserye.
4
13
The hunted harte sometymes doth leave the hound,My harte, alas, is never out of chase;
The lime-hound's lyne sometymes is yett unbound,
My bands are hopelesse of so high a grace;
Sumer restores what Winter doth deprive,
But my harte wythred, never can revive.
14
I cannot figure Sorrow in conceite,Sorrow exceedes all figures of her sence;
But on my woe, even sorrowes all may wayte,
To see a note exceed their excellence;
Let me conclude, to se how I am wounded,
Sorrow herself is in herself confounded.
15
But whereof groweth the passion of this payne,That thus perplexeth every inwarde parte?
Whence is the humore of this hatefull vayne
So dampes the spirite and consumes the harte?
Oh lett my soule with bitter teares confesse,
It is the grounde of all unhapines.
16
If lacke of wealth? I am the note of need,If lacke of friendes? no fayth on earthe remaynes;
If lacke of health? se how my harte doth bleed,
If lacke of pleasure? looke upon my paynes:
If lacke of wealth, of friendes, of health, and pleasure
Saye then my sorrowe must be out of measure.
17
Measure? no measure measure can my thought,But that one thought that is beyonde all measure;
Which knowinge how my sorrowes have been wrought,
Can bring my harte unto her highest pleasure;
Which eyther must my Sorrow cutt of quite,
Or never lett me thinke upon delight.
18
Ther is a lacke that tels me of a life,Ther is a losse that tels me of a love;
Betwixt them both a state of such a strife
As makes my spirite such a passion prove;
That lacke of t'one, and th' other's losse, alas!
Makes me the woefulest wretche that ever was.
19
My dearest love, that dearest bought my love,My onlye life, by whom I onlye live;
Was never fayth did suche affection prove,
Or ever grace did such a glorie give;
But such a lacke, and suche a losse, aye me!
Must neds the sorrowe of all sorrowes be.
20
My love is fayre, yea fayrer then the sune,Which hath his light but from his fayrest love;
O fayrest love, whose light is never done,
And fayrest light doth such a love approve;
But suche love loste, and suche a light obscured,
Can ther a greater sorrow be indured?
21
He came from highe to live with me belowe,He gave me life and shewed me greatest love;
Unworthy I so high a worth to knowe,
Who left chefe blisse, a baser choyse to prove;
I sawe his woundes, yet did I not beleve him,
And for his goodnes with my synnes did greve him.
22
I sawe him faultles, yett I did offend him,I sawe him wronged, yett did not excuse him;
I sawe his foes, yet sought not to defend him,
I had his blissinges, yett I did abuse him:
But was it myne, or my forfathers' deed?
Whose ere it was, it makes my harte to bleed.
23
To se the feett, that travayled for our good,To se the hands, that brake the livlye bread;
To se the head, wheron our honor stoode,
To se the fruite, wheron our spirits fedd:
Feete pearc'd, hands bored, and his heade all bledinge,
Who doth not die with suche a sorrowe readinge.
24
He plast all rest, yett had no restinge place,He healed ech payne, yett lived in sore distres;
Deserved all good, yett driven to great disgrace,
Gave all harts joye, himself in heavines;
Suffered them live, by whom himself was slayne,
Lord! who can live to se such love agayne?
25
A virgine's child by vertue's power conceyved,A harmles man that lived for all mene's goode;
A faythfull frend that never fayth deceyved,
An heavenly fruite for hart's especiall food,
A spirite all of excellence devine;
Such is the essence of this love of myne.
26
Whos mansion's heaven, yett laye within a manger,Who gave all foode, yett suckte a virgine's breste;
Who could have kiled yett fledd a threatned danger,
Who sought our quiet by his owne unrest;
Who died for them that highly did offend him,
And lives for them that cannot comprehend him.
27
Who cam no further than his Father sent him,And did fulfill but what He did commande him;
Who prayed for them that proudley did torment him,
For tellinge truth to what they did demand him;
Who did all good that humblie did entreat hime,
And beare ther blowes, that did unkindlie beat hime.
5
28
A sweet phisicion for the bodye crazed,A heavenlye medicine for the mynd diseased;
A present comfort for the witts amazed,
A joyefull spirit to the soule displeased:
The bodie, mynd, the witts, and spiritts' joye,
What is the world without him but annoye.
29
He knewe the sicknes that our soule infected,And that his bloude must onelye be our cure;
When so our fayth his sacred love affected,
That for our lives he would a death endure;
He knew his passion, yett his patience bare it,
Oh! how my soule doth sorrowe to declare it.
30
He heal'd the sicke, gave sight unto the blinde,Speache to the dumbe, and made the lame to goe;
Unto his love he never was unkinde,
He loved his frende, and he forgave his foe,
And last, his death for our love not refused:
What soule can live to se such love abused.
31
To note his words, whatt wisedome they contayne!To note his wisedome of all worth the wonder;
To note his workes, what glorie they do gayne!
To note his worth, world, heaven and earth, came under;
To note the glorye that his angells gave hime:
Fye that the world to suche disgrace should drive hime.
32
Unsene he came, he might be sene unto us,Unwelcome sem'd, that came for all our wealth;
He came to die, that he might comfort do us;
We slewe the subjecte of our spirits' healthe;
The subject? noe, the kinge of all our glorie:
Weepe harte to death to tell the dolfull storye.
33
A lion wher his force should be effected,And yett a lambe in myldnes of his love;
As true as turtle to his love electted,
Sure as Mounte Sion that can never move:
So mylde a strength and so fast truth to prove;
What soule can live and lacke so sweet a love.
34
He preacht, he prayed, he fasted, and he wept,The sweet Creator for the synfull creature;
The carefull watchman warelye he kepte,
That brake the necke, even of the fowlest nature;
And when he did to hapie state restore us,
Shall we not weep to make him then abhore us?
35
To hate a love, must argue lothsume nature;To wronge a frend must prove too foule a deed;
To kill thyself will show a cursed creature;
To slaye thy soule no more damnation nede;
To spoile the fruite whereon thy spirit feedeth;
Oh what a hell within the soule it bredeth.
36
He thought none ill, and onlie did all goode,He gave all right and yett all wronge receyved;
The fiende's temptatione stoutley he withstood,
Yett lett himself by synners be deceyved;
And so at last when he was woe begone him,
Howe trayter worlde did tiranyze upon hime!
37
His faultles members nayled to the crosse,His holye head was crowned all with thornes;
His garments given by lots to gayne or losse,
His power derided all with scofes and scornes;
His bodie wounded and his spirit vexed:
To thinke on this what soule is not perplexed?
38
Pore Peter wept when he his name denyed,And Marye Mawdlen wept for her offence;
His mother wept when she his death espied,
But yett no teares could stand for his defence;
But if thes wept to see his waylefull case;
Why dye not I to thinke on his disgrace?
39
Happie was he that suffred deaths so nighe himeThat at his end repentance might behould hime;
Thrise hapie life that did in love so trie hime,
As to his fayth such favour did vnfould hime,
As cravinge comforte but in mercie's eyes
That selfe-same daye did live in paradise.
40
Would I had ben ordeynd to suche a death,To dye with hime, to live to hime for ever!
And from the ayre but of his blissed breath,
To sucke the life whos love might fayle me never!
And drinke of that sweet springe that never wasteth,
And feede of that life's bread that ever lasteth!
41
Oh would my soule wer made a sea of teares,Myn eyes might watch, and never more be sleapinge;
My harte might beare the payne all pleasur weares,
So I might se hime once yett in my weepinge;
When, joyfull voyce, this songe might never cease:
My Savioure's sight hath sett my soule in peace.
42
Should I esteme of anye worldlie toye,That might behould the height of suche a treasure?
Could I be Judas to my chefest joye,
To gayne possession of a graceless pleasure?
Noe! could my soule in comforte once conceyve hime,
I hope his mercye would not lett me leave hime.
6
43
Blest was the fishe that but the figure swallowed,Of my swete Jesus, but in Jonas' name;
More blessed tombe by that sweet bodie hallowed,
From whence the ground of all our glorie came;
Might not my soule be synner, I could wish,
That I were suche a tombe or such a fishe.
44
But Jonas left the sea, and came to lande,And Jesus from the earth to heaven ascended;
Why shoulde I then upon more wishes stande,
But crye for mercye wher I have offended;
And saye my soule unworthye is the place
Ever to see my Savioure in the face.
45
Yett lett me not dispayre of my desire,Although even hell do answer my desarte;
Where humble hope that pitie doth aspire,
Proves patience the pacifyinge parte;
Wher mercye sweet that sees my soule's behavioure,
Maye graunte me grace to se and serve my Savioure.
46
Whom till I see in sorrowe's endles anguish,All discontent with all that I can see,
Resolv'd in soule, in sorrowe's looke to languish,
Wher no conceit but discontent may be;
I will sitt downe, till after this world's hell,
My Saviour's sight maye only make me welle.
47
But shall I so my gryping grief give over,With hope to se the glorie of my sight?
Or can my soule her sacred health recover
While no desarte doth looke upon delighte?
No, no, my harte is too, too full of grefe,
For ever thinkinge to receyve relefe.
48
The sune is downe, the glorie of the daye;The Springe is paste, the sweetnes of the yeare;
The harvest in, wherein my hope did staye,
And wethering Winter gives her chillinge cheare;
And what such grefe can death or sorrowe give,
To see his death wherby his soule doth live?
49
Methinkes I se, and seinge sighe to see,How in his pasion patience playes her parte:
And in his death, what life he gives to me,
In my love's sorrowe to relive my harte.
But what a care doth this conclusion trie,
The head must of, or els the bodie dye.
50
He was my head, my hope, my harte, my health,The speciall jewell of my spiritt's joye;
The trustie treasure of my highest wealth,
The onlye pleasure kept me from annoye;
He was, and is, and ever more shalbee,
In life or death, the life of life to me.
51
And lett me se how sweetelie yett he lookes,Even while the teares are trickling downe his face;
And for my life how well his death he brookes,
While my desarte was cawse of his disgrace;
And lett me wishe yett while his death I see,
I could have dyed for hime that dyed for me.
52
Had I but sene him as his servantes did,At sea, at land, in citie, and in fielde;
Though in himselfe he had the glorie hid,
That in his grace the light of glorie helde;
Then might my sorrowe somewhatt be appeased,
That once my soule had in his sight ben pleased.
53
But not to se him till I se him dye,And that my deed was cawser of his death;
How can I cease to weepe and howle and crye,
To se the gaspinge of that glorious breath?
That purest love unto the soule approved,
And is the blissinge of the soule beloved.
54
Am I not one of that unhapie broode,The pellican doth figure in her neste?
When I muste live but by his only bloode;
In whose sweet love, my life doth only rest.
O wretched bird, but I more wretched creature
To figure such a birde in such a nature.
55
Did God himself ordayne it should be so,To save my life my Saviour should die?
His will be done, yett lett me weep for woe,
To be the subject of this miserie;
That though he came to mende what was amise.
He should be so the author of my blisse.
56
Shall I not wash his bodie with my teares,And save the blood that issues from his syde?
That keeps my harte from all infernall feares,
Unto my soule in penitence applied?
Shall I not strive with Joseph for his corse,
And make his tombe in my soule's true remorse?
57
Shall I not curse those hatefull hellish fiends,That led the worlde to worke such wickednes?
And hate all them that have not ben his friends,
But followed on that work of wretchednes?
Cut of the head, firste hands upon him layde,
And helpe to hange the dog that hime betrayed?
7
58
Shall I not drive the watchmen from the grave,And watche the risinge of the sune renowned?
Or goe myself alsoe into the cave,
To kisse the bodie wher it lies entombed?
What shall I doe? or shall I not approve,
For my soule's health that so my soule did love?
59
O love! the ground of life; oh livlye love!Why doe I live that did not dye with the[e].
When in my harte I do such horror prove,
As lets mye care no thought of comforte see?
How my poore soule might once such service do the[e],
To give me hope how I might come unto the[e].
60
No, I have rune the waye of wickednes,Forgettinge that my fayth should follow moste;
I did not thinke upon thy holines,
Nor by my syne what sweetnes I have loste:
Oh syne, so close hath compaste me aboute,
That, Lord, I knowe not wher to finde the[e] out.
61
If in the heaven, it is too highe a place,For wicked harte to hope to clime so highe;
If in the worlde, the earth is all too base,
To entertayne thy glorious majestie;
If in thy Word, unworthy I to read
So sweet a senc to stande my soule in stead.
62
If in my harte, syne sayth, thou arte not there,If in my soule, it is too foule infected;
If in my hope, it is too full of feare,
And fearefull love hath never fayth elected:
In soule nor bodye, hope nor feare! Aye me!
Wher should I seeke wher my soule's love may be?
63
Alas the daye that ever I was borne,To se how synne hath bar'd me from my blisse!
And that my soule is so in torments torne,
To knowe my love, and com not where he is:
O yet, if ever heavens hearde creature crie,
Lord, looke a litle on my miserey!
64
Let mercy plead in true repentante's cawse,Wher humble prayre may heavenlye pitye move;
That though my life hath broken sacred lawes,
My hart's contrition yett may comfort prove;
That till my soule maye my sweet Savioure see,
Mercey may caste one lovinge looke on me.
65
And while I sitt with Marye, at the grave,As full of grefe as ever love maye live;
My wounded harte som sparke of hope may have,
Of such relefe as glorious hand may give;
To make me fele, though syne hath death deserved,
In heaven for me there is a place reserved.
66
Which sacred truth untill my soule doth taste,To slake the sorrowe of this harte of myne;
My wearye life in wofull thought must waste,
While soule and bodye humblie I resigne
Unto those glorious holye hands of his;
Who is the hope of my eternall blisse.
67
Butt can I leave to thinke upon the thinge,That I can never put out of my thought?
Or can I cease of his sweet love to singe,
Who by his blood his creature's comfort wrought?
Or can I live to thinke that he should dye
In whom the hope of all my life doth lye?
68
No, lett me thinke upon his life and death,And after death his ever-life agayne;
He breathed our life, and giving up his breath,
Revived our soules that in our synes were slayne:
His life so good, as never death deserved,
And by his death our ever-lives preserved.
69
Did he not wash his pore Apostles' feett?Cam he not rydinge on a sillye asse?
Did he not heale the criples in the streett?
And feed a world whear litle victaull was?
Did not his love most true affection trie?
To dye for us that we maye never dye?
70
Was never infant shewed such humblenes,Was never man did speake as this man did;
Was never lover shewed such faithfullness,
Was never trew man, such a torture bid;
Was never state continwed such a storie,
Was never angel worthy such a glorie.
71
Oh glorious glorie, in all glorie glorious!Angels rejoyced at his incarnation;
O powerfull vertue, of all pow'r victoriows!
In true redemption of his best creation.
O glorious life that made the divels wonder!
Oh glorious death that trode the divels under!
72
Thus in his birth, his life, his death, all glorieHe did receyve, who was himself the same;
The statlye substaunce of that sacred storie,
From whence the ground of highest glorie came;
Whom highest power to highest glorie raysed,
And all the hoste of heaven with glorie praysed.
8
73
Was ever such a gratitude approved,Since heaven and earth for man, and man was made?
For onlye God, who held him his beloved,
Till graceles syne did make his glorie fade;
That he whom angels with such reverenc used
Should be by man so cruellye abused.
74
O livlye image of thy Father's love!O lovlye image of the Father's life!
O pure conceite that doth this concord prove!
That all augmented breeds no thought of stryfe!
But that the Sonne in state of all the storye,
Is found the brightnes of the Father's glorie.
75
Could ever such a glorie be refused,By those that wer in dutie to adore it?
Or could so great a glorie be abused,
When angels tremble when they stand afore it?
Oh man, woe man! to wounde thy soule so sore,
To lose thy glorie so for ever more.
76
Behould the heavens what sorrowe they did shewe,And how the earth her doller did discrie!
The sune was darke, and in the earth belowe,
The buried bodies shewed their agonye;
The Temple rent, the heavens with anger moved,
To se the death of the divine beloved.
77
And yett thou man, fulle litle didst regardeWhat thou hadst done unto thy dearest love;
Thou madest more reckninge of the worlde's rewarde
Then of the blissinge of thy soule's behove;
But wretched man, descend into thy thought,
And with thy sorrowe weare thyself to nought.
78
Yett some ther were, to[o] smalle a some wer they,That joyed to see the sume of all ther joye;
They watched the night, and walked in the daye,
And wer not choked with the world's anoye;
But followed on ther heavenly love alone:
Would God in heaven, that I were such a one.
79
But aye me, wretch, all wretched as I am,Unworthye all to followe such a friend;
In sweet rememberaunce of whos sweetest name,
The joyes begine, that never make an end;
Lett me butt weep, and sorrowe, till I see
How mercye's love will cast one looke on me.
80
And lett me heare but what my Savioure sayth;‘He once did die that I might ever live;’
And that my soule by her assuréd fayth
May feele the comforte that His grace doth give;
That for his love, who sorrowes here so sore,
May joye in heaven, and never sorrowe more.
81
O joye above all joyes that ever were!Coulde I conceyve but half thyne excellence,
Or howe to hope to have attendaunce there,
Where thou dost keepe thy royall residence;
And on my knees thy holye name adore;
Wer my soule well, she should desyre no more.
82
To se the daye that from on high is springinge,To guide our feett into the waye of peace;
To heare the virgines playing, ang'lls singinge
The psalmes of glorie that shall never cease;
To heare the sounde of suche an heavenly quere,
Would it not joye the soule to se and heare?
83
To se the Saints and Martirs in ther places,By highest grace with heavenlye glorye crowned;
To see the kisses and the sweett embraces,
Of blessed soules by constant fayth renouned;
To se the ground of all this sweett agreinge,
Were not these sights all sweetlie worth the seinge?
84
The diamounde, rubie, saphire, and such likeOf pretious gemmes, that are the worldlinge's joyes,
And greatest princes for ther crownes doe seeke;
To heavenlye treasures are but triflinge toyes:
Wherwith the holie citie all is paved,
And all the walles are round about engraved.
85
No! He that sits on the supernall throne,In majestie moste glorious to behould,
And holdes the septer of the worlde alone;
Hath not His garments of imbroydred goulde,
But He is clothed with truth and righteousness;
The garments of true fayth and holynes.
86
Oh, would my soule out of some angel's winge,By humble sute might gaine one heavenlye penne
Might wright in honor of my glorious Kinge!
The joye of angels, and the life of men;
That all the worlde might fall upon ther faces
To heare the glorie of his heavenlie graces.
87
But since I see his wondrous worth is suche,As doth exceed all reache of human sence;
And all the earthe, unworthie is to touche,
The smaleste title of his excellence;
Lett me refere unto some angel's glorie,
The hapie writtinge of this heavenlie storye.
9
88
Wher heavenlye love is cawse of holye life,And holie life encreaseth heavenlye love;
Wher peace establisht without feare or stryfe,
Doth prove the blissinge of the soule's behove;
Wher thirst, nor hunger, grefe, nor sorrowe dwelleth,
But peace in joye, and joye in peace excelleth.
89
Wher this sweett kinge that on the white horse rideth,Upon the winges of the celestiall winde;
Neare whose sweett ayre no blastinge breath abideth,
Nor stands the tree that he doth fruitles finde;
Doth make all tremble wher his glorye goeth?
Yea, wher his mildnes most his mercye sheweth?
90
O joyfull fear! on vertue's love all founded;O vertuous love! in mercie's glorie graced;
O gratious love! on faythe in mercy grounded;
O faythfull love! in heavenlye favoure placed;
O setled love! that cannot be removed;
O gratious love! of glorie so beloved.
91
Wher virgines joye in their virginitie;The virtuus spouses in undefiled bedd;
The true divines in true divinytie;
The gratious members in ther glorious heade;
The synners joye for to escape damnation,
And faythfull soules rejoyce in ther salvation.
92
Wher sicke men joye to se their sweetest health,The prisoned joye to see ther libertie;
The pore rejoyce to se ther sweetest wealth,
The verteous to adore the Deitye;
And I unworthye most of all to see
The eye of mercye cast one look on me.
93
But can my harte thus leave her holye love,Or cease to singe of this her highest sweett?
Hath patience no more passiones for to prove?
Hath fancye laboured out both hands and feett?
Or hath invention strayned her vayne so sore,
That witt nor will, hath power to write no more?
94
No! heavens forbid that ever faythfull harte,Should have a wearye thought of doinge well;
But that the soule maye summon everye parte,
Of everye sence wher anye thought maye dwell;
That may discharge the dutie of this care,
To pen his praise that is without compare.
95
But since no eye can looke on him and live,Nor harte can love, but lookinge on his love;
Behould the glorye that his grace doth give,
In all his workes that dothe His wonders prove;
That all the world maye finde ther witts too weake
But of the smalest of his prayse to speake.
96
Behould the earth how sweetlie she bringes forthHer trees, her flowers, her hearbes, and every grasse;
Of sundrye nature and most secrett worth,
And how ech branche doth others' beawtie passe;
Both beastes, and birds, and fisshes, wormes and flies,
How ech ther high Creator glorifies.
97
The lyon's strength doth make him stand as kinge,The unicorne doth kill the poyson's power;
The roaring bull doth make the woods to ringe,
The tiger doth the cruell wolfe devoure;
The elephant the weightie burthen beares,
And raveninge woulefes are good yett for ther heares.
98
To see the grayhounde course, the hounde in chase,Whilst litle dormouse sleepeth out her time;
The lambes and rabbots sweetlie rune at base,
Whilst highest trees the litle squiriles clime;
The cralinge wormes out creepinge in the showers,
And how the snayles do clime the lofty towers.
99
To see the whale make furrowes in the seas,Whilst soddenlye the dolphine strikes him deade;
Which havinge founde the depth of his disease,
Upon the shore doth make his dyinge bed;
Where heavens doe worke for weaker harts' behove:
Doth not this grace a worke of glorie prove?
100
But since that all skye, sea, or earth contaynes,Was made for man; and man was onlye made
For onlye God, Who only glorie gaynes;
And that one glorie that can never fade;
Shall man forgett to give all glorie due
Unto his God, from whom all glorie grew?
101
But lett me come a litle higher yett,To sune and Moone, and everye stare of light;
To see how each doth in his order sitt,
Wher everye one doth keep his course aright;
And all to guide these darkned eyes of ours:
Give these not glorie to the highest powers?
102
No, lett not man shew himself so ungratefullUnto his God, that all in love did make him;
By thankles thoughts, to make his spirite hatefull
Unto his kinge that never will forsake hime;
But lett his soule to God all glorie give,
In whome doth all love, life, and glorie live.
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103
And lett me wretch, unworthy most of all,To lift myne eyes unto his lonelye seate;
Before the feett, but of his mercye, falle,
And of his mercye but the leave entreate;
That with his servants I maye sitt and singe
An alleluiah to my heavenlye kinge.
104
Come all the worlde and call your witts together,Borrowe some pens from out the angell's winges;
Entreat the heavenes to send ther muses hether,
To helpe your soules to write of sacred thinges;
Prophane conceits must all be caste awaye;
The night is past, and you must take the daye.
105
Speake not of synne, it hath no partie heare,But wright of grace, and whenc her glorye grew;
Thinke of the love that to the life is deare,
And of the life to whome all love is due;
And then sitt downe in glorie all to singe,
All to the glorye of your glorious kinge.
106
Firste make your grounde of faythfull holynesThen your devisions of divine desyres;
Lett all your restes be hopes of happynes,
Which mercye's musicke in the soule requires;
Lett all your sharpes be feares of faythfull hartes,
And all your flatts the death of your desarts.
107
Yett rise and fall, as hope or feare directes,The nature of ech note, in space, or line;
And lett your voyces carrye such effectts,
As maye approve your passions are divine;
Then lett your consorts all agree in one,
“To God above all glorye be alone.”
108
Then lett your dittie be the dearest thought,That may revive the dyinge harte of love;
That onlye mercye in the soule hath wrought,
The happie comforte of the heavens to prove;
Then lett your sounds unto the heavens assend,
And lett the closes all in glorie end.
109
Glorie to him that sitteth on the throne,With all the hoste of all the heavenes attended;
Who all thinges made, and governes all alone,
Vanquisht his foes, and all his flocke defended;
And by his power his chosen soules preserveth,
To singe his prayse that so alle prayse deserveth.
110
And whilst all soules are to his glorie singinge,Lett me pore wretch not whollye hould my peace;
Butt let my teares from mercye's glorye springinge,
Keepe time to that sweett songe maye never cease;
That while my soule doth thus my God adore,
I maye yett singe Amen, althoughe no more.
Gloria in Excelsis Deo.
| The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton | |