Divine raptvres or piety in poesie :: :: University of Virginia Library

Though nature paints her cheekes with red
And makes proud Venus hide her head?
What though her crimson lips so mute
Doe alwayes wooe a new salute,
What though her wanton eyes doe shine
Like glistring starres and dazell mine?
Tis Christ alone,
Shall be my owne,
Tis him I will embrace,
Tis he shall be
A Spouse to me,
All beauty's in his face.

What though the earth for me prepares
A present from her golden Quarres,
And braggeth of her earely gaines,
Exhausted from her silver vaines?
What though shee shew her painted brates
And bids me smell her Violates?
And deckes her selfe in spring attire,
To make my ravisht soule admire?
Yet all this shant
My Soule inchant
Ile smile to see her pride
I know where lies
A better prize
For Christ hath broch'd his side.

What though the world doth me invite
And daily play the Parasite?
Or with her gilded tales intice
Me, to a seeming Paradise?
And paints her face and all day long
Sits breathing out a Syrens song?

And shewes her pompe, and then in fine
Tells me, that shee and hers are mine?
Yet none of this,
Shall be my blisse,
Ile scorne the painted whore
I will deride
Her and her pride
For Christ is this and more.

What though insinuating pleasure,
Preferres me to her chiefest treasure
And every day, and every night
Doth feede me with a new delight
And slumbers me with lullaby
Dandling me on her whorish thigh?
What though with her sublime pretences
Shee strives t'imprison all my senses?
Yet shee shant be
A trap to me
Her freedome is but thrall,
Her greatest coy
Will but annoy,
Till Christ doth sweeten all.

Or what though profit with her Charmes
Grasping the world within her armes
Vnlades her selfe? and bids me see
What paines shee takes, and all for me;
And then invites me to her bower
Filling my coffers every houre?
What though shee thus inlarge my store
With every day a thousand more?
Yet let her packe
And turne her backe,

Her purest gold's but drosse
Her greatest paines
Produce no gaines
Till Christ come all is losse.

Or what though Fortune should present
Her high Olympicke regiment.
And never my Ambition checke,
But still be pliant to my becke?
What though she lends me wings to flie
Vnto the top of Dignity,
And make proud Monarches with her wheele
Vncrowne their heads to Crowne my heele,
Ile not depend
On such a friend,
Tis Christ is all my stay:
Shee can revoke
The highest spoke,
Her wheeles turnd every day.

Let none of these in me take place:
Fond Venus hath a Vulcans face:
And so till heaven be pleasd to smile
Poore earth sits barren all the while:
The world thats apt to winne a foole
It is my burden, not my stoole:
Nor pleasure shall enchant my mind,
Shees smooth before, but stings behind:
I will disdaine
Their greatest gaine,
And fortun's but a feather,
Tis none of these
Can give me ease,
But Christ's the same for ever.