The Gushing Teares of Godly Sorrow :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Gushing Teares of Godly Sorrow

Containing, The Causes, Conditions, and Remedies of Sinne, Depending mainly upon Contrition and Confession. And they seconded, with Sacred and Comfortable passages, under the mourning Cannopie of Teares, and Repentance ... By William Lithgovv

Lithgow, William (1582-1645?)

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The Prologue to the Reader.

THE GVSHING TEARES OF GODLY SORROW.

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TO THE TRVLY NOBLE MAGNANIMOVS AND ILLUSTRIOUS LORD, IAMES, EARLE OF MONTROSE, Lord Grahame, Baron of Murdock, &c.

The Prologue to the Reader.

Thou mayst peruse this worke, with kynde respect,
Cause; none my good intention can controule;
The style may (not the subject) beare defect,
Some Painter will the fayrest face drawe foule:
Excuse myne age, if faultie, blame my quill,
Defects may fall, and not fayle in goodwill.

My Muse declynes, downe flyde her loftie straynes
And hoarie growes, succumbing to the dust;
Old wrung inventions, from industrious paynes
Draw to the grave, where death must feede his lust:
Flesh flye in ashes, bones returne to clay,
Whence I begunne, there must my substance stay.

Goe thou laborious pen, and challenge tyme,
For memorie, to all succeeding ages;
In thy past workes, and high heroicke ryme,
And pregnant prose, in thryce three thousand pages:
Yet dye thou must, and Tyme shall weare thee out,
Ere seaven tymes seaven, morne ages goe about.

But Vertue claymes her place, and prostrate I
Must yeelde due honour, to her noble name:
Shee taught mee to take paynes, its done, and why?
To make her famous, in her flying fame:
A Sculler, may transport, a royall Queene,
As well as Oares, and both their safeties seene.

Trust mee, my paynes, contend, for to bee playne
No style Poeticke, may this subject clayme:
Touch but Vermilion, you shall see a stayne,
No fiction, may averre, a sacred Theame:

Nor dare Panthoas, Cynthias herball flowre
Be seene, nor spread, till rolling Phœbus lowre.

Then read, misconster not, but wisely looke
If I divinely, keep a divine stile:
Which done, thou mayst, take pleasure in this booke,
An Infant, from devotion, bred the while:
Like treatise I, before neere wrote; excuse
This new borne birth, from mine old aged Muse.

See! here in generals, thou mayst observe
The cause of sinne, sinnes remedy, salt teares;
Where sharpe particulars, for repentance serve
To blazon wickednesse, and wicked feares:
What here is done, to thee, to me, to all,
May be apply'd, as each one findes his fall.

Yet who can stop, base Critick tongues to carpe,
For Atheists shall, and Epicures repine;
So scoffing fooles, on strings of scorne will harpe
To see this myte, a part of mine engyne:
But sitly Gnats, worse bred then Berdoan beasts,
I slight their spight, my Muse in Sion feasts.

Would thou contend with me, who best should write
On choice of Theames, selected between us twaine,
I could abide thy censure, take delite
In thy defects, to censure thee againe:
Since thou sits dumbe, and cannot bite, but barke,
Peace, hold thy peace, else show me thine owne wark.
But zealous eyes may come, come, and come soone,
To read this Task, if pleasd, Lo! I have done.

To the godly and good Christian, a fellow suppliant in Christ, William Lithgovv.

THE GVSHING TEARES OF GODLY SORROW.

Spring sweet cœlestial Muse, launch forth a flood,
Of brinish streams, in cristall melting woes;
Rain-rill my plaints, then bath them in Christs blood
Let pearling drops, my pale remorse disclose:
Sink sorrow in my soule, divulge my grief.
Who mourns, and mourns in time, shall finde relief.

I can not reach, to what my soule would aime!
But help good God my weaknesse, and support
My bashfull quill: O! teach me to disclaime
My self, and cleave, to thy all-saving Port:
Touch thou my heart, so shall my lips recoile,
Thine Altars praise, to sing sins utmost spoile.

Thrice blest is he who mournes, he shall rejoyce
Whilst godly sorrow, shall encrease his joy:
Lord heare my cryes, remarke my weeping voice!
Blesse thou this work, let grace my heart imploy;
That what these Tears aford, in this plain storie,
May tend to my souls health, and thy great glorie.

Great Son, of the great God, fulnesse of time!
Whom Heavens applaude, whom earth fals down before!
The promis'd Pledge, whom Prophets most sublime;
Foretold to come, our Lord, the Son of glore:
To thee knee-bowd, before thy face I fall,
Come help, O help! now I begin to call.

Most holy, mighty, high, and glorious God!
Most mercifull, most gracious, and kinde;
Most Ancient, righteous, patient, and good,
Most wise, most just, most bountifull of minde;
Infuse thy grace, enlarge thy love in mine,
Confirme my faith, conforme my will to thine.

Eternall One! Beginner, unbegunne!
Thou first, and last; Heavens founder, and Earths ball!
Container, uncontaind! Father, and Sonne!
Thou All in All! unruld, yet ruling All!
Great Light, of lights! who moves all things unmovd!
Hearke, help, and heare; for Christs sake thy belovd.

Sole Soveraigne Balme! come heale my wounded soule!
Which fainting fals, under thine heavie hand;
Regard my plaints, remit mine errours foule,
Let mercy far, above thy justice stand:
Be thou my Heaven, place Heaven within mine heart,
Thy presence can make Heaven, where e're thou art.

Come challenge me! come claime me for thine owne!
Plead thou thy right, take place in my possession;
Lord square my steps, thy goodnesse may be knowne,
In pard'ning each defect of my transgression:
Arrest my sinnes, but let my soule goe free,
Baile me from thrall, let sinne deaths subject die.

Lord wing my love, with feather'd faith to flee,
To thy all-burning Throne, of endlesse glory;
Mercie is thine, for mercy is with thee,
Lord write my name, in thine eternall story:
O! help my strength! farre weaker than a reed!
Accept my purpose, for the reall deed.

The good I would, alace! I can not do,
The ill I would not, that I follow still;
The more thou citst me, I grow stubborn too,
Preferring base corruption to thy will:
For when thy Sprite, to serve Thee, doth perswade me,
The World, the Flesh, and Satan they disswade me.

What should I say? no gift in me is left
To doe, to speak, to think, one godly motion;
Lord help my wants, for why? my soule is reft,
'Twixt feare and hope, 'twixt sinne, and true devotion:
Faine would I flighter, from this lust-lymd clay,
But more I strive, the more I faster stay.

Lord, with the sonne forlorne, bring me againe,

Application, and invocation.

And cloth me, with the favour of thy face,
The swinish husks of sinne I loath, and faine
Would be thy childe (adopt'd) the childe of grace;
Thy Lambe was kill'd, for my conversions sake,
Of which let me, some food and comfort take.

Thy glorious Hierarchy, and Martyres all,
Rejoyce, at the returne, of a lost sheep:
Lord, in that number, let my portion fall,
That I with them, like melodie may keep:
So with thy Saints, my happynesse shall be,
One, and the same, as they are blest in Thee.

Yet whilst I pause, and duely do consider,
Thy will, my wayes, thy righteousnesse, mine errours.
I cannot plead, to flie, I know not whidder,
So grievous, are, the mountains of my terrours:
My sinnes so ugly, stand before thy face,
That I dare hardly claime, or call for grace.

What am I in thine eyes? if I could ponder?
But brickle trash, compos'd of slyme and clay;
A wretch-worne worme, erect'd for sinne a wonder,
Whilst my souls treason, is thy judgements prey:
I have no health, nor truth, nor divine flashes,
So wicked is this Masse, of dust and ashes.

Humble implorations.

Lord stretch thine arme, put Satan to the flight,
Exile the world from me, and me from it;
Curbe thou my flesh, beat down my lusts delight,
Rule thou my heart, my will guide with thy Spirit;
Infuse, encrease, confirme here, from above,
Thy feare, thy law, in me, thy light, thy love.

So shall I through Heavens merit onely rise,
And kisse thy soule-sought Sonne, thy Lambe, thy Dove,
For whose sweet sake, I shall thy sight surprise,
And lift my hope, on his redeeming love:
Blest be the price, of mine exalting good!
Who payd my ransome, with his precious blood.

In Thee I trust, Lord help my wavering faith,
And with thy merits, my demerits cover;
Dispell my weaknesse, strengthen my faint breath,
Renew my life, and my past sinnes, passe over:
Be thou my Pilot, guide this barke of clay,
Safe to the Port, of thy cœlestiall stay.

Grant me obedience to thy blest desire,
Instruct my minde, environe me with ruth;
Cleanse thou my heart, with flames of sacred fire,
Fraught with the fulnesse, of thy saving truth:
Build up mine Altar, let mine offerings be
Faith, feare, and hope, love, praise, and thanks to Thee.

Lord! spare me for his sake, whom thou not spard,
For my sake; even for him, from Thee above
Was sent down here and slaine: O! what regard
Bore thou to Man; to send thy Sonne of Love,
To suffer for my guilt, the fault being mine,
But (ah!) good Lord, the punishment was thine.

Thy love great God, from everlasting flowes
To everlasting; Mans reach onely brings
Forth the Creation; but thy love forth showes
From all eternitie, eternall springs
Of light unsearchable; then praise we Thee,
That ere time was, ordain'd our time to be.

God made all things, and God was made a Man,

The Creators great love towards us his creatures.

All things he made of nothing; but come see?
Withoutten man, all things (the truth to scan)
Had turnd to nothing; for from one degree
God of himselfe, made all things: and what more?
He would not all things, without Man restore.

He was of God begotten, all things made,
And borne of woman, all things did renew;
For without man, all things had been a shade,
So nothing well, without a Virgin true:
Thus God, and Man, conjoynd in one we feele,
Life of our life, and soule of our souls weele.

What was he made? and what hath he made us?
I pause with joy, with silence I admire!
This mystery I adore! who can discusse?
That goodnesse great, sprung from so good a Syre:
Can reason show, more reasonable way,
Than leave to pry, where reason can not swey.

The Sonne of God, (behold!) was made a Man!
To make us men, th' adopted sonnes of God:
By which he made himself, our brother then,
For in all kindes, he keeps our brotherhood:
Though Judge (save sinne) and Intercessour, see!
He brothers us, we must his suppliants be.

With what assurance, then may we all hope,
What feare can force, despaire, or yet distrust?
Since our salvation, and our endlesse scope,
Hangs on our elder brother, Christ the Just:
He'le give us all the good, which we desire,
And pardon all the sinnes, on us engyre?

Christs inesteemable love.

The burden of our miseries he bore,
And laid his merits weight, on our sick soules;
A kindnesse beyond reach; his goodnesse more,
Engross'd his name, for us, in shamefull scroules:
O! wondrous love, that God should humble thus,
Himself, and take Mans shape, to rescue us.

He who in heavens was admirable set,
Became for us, contemptible on earth;
And from the Towre, of his Imperiall state,
Imbrac'd a Dungeon, for angelick mirth;
And chang'd the name, of Majestie in love,
To shelter us, with mercy from above.

What eyes for grief, should not dissolve in floods?
Whilst our vile sinnes, procur'd his wofull paine:
He sought our well (unsought) when wein woods
Of wickednesse, lay wallowing amaine;
And daily yet, by sinne, distrust, and strife,
We crucifie againe, the Lord of life.

As irne in fire cast, takes fires nature,
And yet remaineth irne, though fram'd, what than?
So he, who in Gods love doth burne, that creature
Partakes his holynesse, abiding man;
For love, seals up Gods counsels, ends the law,
From which we sinners, cords of mercy draw.

Love, is the roote of vertue, and the childe

Love conquers heaven.

Of grace; Truths mistresse, and religions glasse;
The soule of goodnesse, in perfection milde,
The crowne of Saints, that conquer Paradise:
The joy of Angels: O! what springs of love!
Flow from the Lamb, for us, and our behove.

Ingratefull Man! contemner of thy good,
Can thou not back bestow, thy debt-bund love!
To him, for thee, did shed his precious blood,
And though rebuk'd, yet would he not reprove:
Why did he fast, weep, watch, and labour take?
In basenesse and contempt, but for thy sake.

Then be not like, that plant Ephemeron!
Which springs, and growes, and fades, all in one day;
But plead remorse, beg for contrition,
Mourne for thy sinnes, make haste, prevent delay:
In this my self, shall to my self returne,
He best can weep, that knowes the way to mourne.

Obsequious confessions.

I rather seem'd, than been religious set,
Having Jacobs voice, and Esau's rough hands;
I make profession, practise I forget,
My better zeale, hypocrisie commands;
I Serpent like, do change my skinne, but not
Disgorge the poison, lurkes within the throate.

Vice I have us'd, under a vertuous seeming,
And like the sea, though rivers in it fall;
Yet not the sweeter; or like Pharaohs dreaming,
The leane kine, yet were leane, when eaten all:
Stay then dry soule, where are thy Teares? what springs?
Should thy pale eyne cast out, when sorrow sings.

A distinction twixt worldly and godly teares.

I meane not childrens teares, when whipt for aw,
Nor mundane teares, for losse of trash or geare;
Nor spightfull teares, which would revenge downe draw;
Nor teares of grief, for them concerne us neare;
Nor teares for death, nor teares for what disasters;
Nor teares for friends; nor wives teares for men wasters.

Nor drunken teares, spent after sugred wine,
Which women waste, to colour imperfection;
Nor Dalilahs fained teares, to undermine,
The strong mans strength, by way of fals detection:
Nor Sinons teares, the Trojane state betrayde,
With the wooden horse, Ulysses wit bewrayde.

Nor faigned teares, the Crocodilean sexe,
Do spend (I meane) their husbands to deceave;
Nor these Courtegian teares, that love to vexe
Their sottish Palliards, and their meanes bereave:
Nor teares of pitty, mercy beg from men,
That's not the drift, of my obsequious pen.

Looke to thy lapses, and quotidian falling,
Then try thy conscience, if remorse creeps in;
Which if it doe, thou art brought to this calling,
Of godly weeping, for the guilt of sinne!
These tears are blest, and such mine eyes would borrow,
But not these tears, which melt, for worldly sorrow.

Lord, strengthen me, with knowledge of thy word,
Square thou my judgement, I may walk upright;
An intellective Heart, my soule aford,
Endue my sprite, with supernatrall light;
Faine would I slaughter sinne, that would me slay,
And learne thy truth, Lord teach me thy right way.

Confound in me, this all-predominant finne,
Which overrules my reason, sense, and will;
One head-strong vice, that lurkes, and lyth within
The inmost center, of mine utmost ill:
Lord, curbe its force, and purifie my soule,
From such uncleannesse, for its wondrous foule.

Grant! grant remorse! let godly sorrow show!
My full-swolne sight, my brinish tears, my sadnesse;
Come sowre repentance, let sweet contrition know!
The mourning woes, of my rejoycing gladnesse:
What though that grief, at morne worke me annoy,
Yet long ere night, thou'le turne my grief in joy.

The best man lives, hath one predominant ill,

The repugnance of ill and good.

Oppos'd to the best good, he can effect,
The worst man breaths, though curs'd, pervers'd of will,
Hath some predominant good, he doth affect:
Even either answering, contrare to their kinde,
Seeme to resemble, what they never finde.

Lord! what am I, whose best is even accurst,
Who with thy Convert, is of sinners chief:
A sharde unsav'rie, of thy works the worst,
Unlesse thy grace, renew me with reliefe:
Lord! will my well! prepare my heart, give eare,
If faith can call, O! thou canst quickly heare.

The poore which almes seeks, he gets not aide
For any need, the giver hath of him;
But even because, he hath of us great need;
So we by faith, on Christian steps must clim:
For God of his great love, he freely gives us,
And without need of man, he still relieves us.

Contrary extremities.

A Cynick came, and ask'd the Syrian king,
Antigonus; a dram of silver coyne;
But he reply'd, it was too base a thing
For kings to give, or lend so small aloane.
Said Cynick then, I would a talent crave,
But thats too much, for thee (said he) to have.

Thus two extreams, were both extreamly met,
But its not so with God, and sinfull men;
The more we seeke, the more we're sure to get,
God of his bounty, is so good, that when
We mercy crave, he grants it, gives us grace,
Our wills, and wayes, may in his precepts trace.

Lift up my falling minde, Lord! knit my heart
With cords of love, and chaines of grace to thee;
As Jonathans three arrows, did impart
To Davids woes, true signes of amitie:
So rouze my sprite, let grace and goodnesse spell
Mine Annagram, I Love Almighty Wel.

O! if I could, byte off the head of sinne!
As the shee Viper, doth the male confound;
But not like her, whose brood conceiv'd within,
Cut forth her wombe, leave her dead on the ground:
Lord! grant, I sinne may slay, ere sinne slay me,
The wounds are deep, my health consists in Thee.

Lord! when I ponder on this worldly pride,
Vaine glory, riches, honour, noble birth,
Great lands, and rents, faire palaces beside,
Pastimes, and pleasures, fit-thought things on earth,
Without thy love, and in regard of thee,
They're nought but shaddows, of meere vanitie.

All under sunne, are Emblems of deceit,

The vvorld is a map of evils.

Link'd snares, to trap, blind man, in ev'ry vice;
They're feather'd baits, prest grines, that lye in wait,
To catch the buyer, unvaluing their pryce:
Then carelesse soule, take heed, prevent this danger,
Lay hold on Christ, and be no more a stranger.

Gods will allots, that my past curious sights,
In painfull prime, all where the world abroad;
Should be repaid, with as darke cloudie nights
Of sorrows sad; for now I finde the rod;
Sicknesse, and crosses, compasse me about,
Whence none but Christ, can help or rid me out.

Listen to me, as to thy Lazar poore,
Thats overstamp'd with seals, of scabs, and sores:
Both vile and wretch'd, lyth at thy mercies doore,
Begging for crummes of pitie; and implores
That thou wouldst open, with Lydia my heart,
And make me Sauls dear second, thy Convert.

Thy lengthning hand, is now no more cut short,
Than in old times, of wonder-working dayes,
But thou canst turne, and safely bring to Port,
The wilsome Wandrer, from his sinfull wayes:
O then great Sheepherd! pitie a lost sheep!
And bring me home; safe in thy fold me keep.

Thou art the vine, I am the twisted branch,
Which on thy roote, my hopes must humbly twine;
For in thy sap, my sin-galld wounds, I'le quench,
No balme of Gilead, to that Balme of thine:
O! better things, than Abels blood it speaks!
It saves the world, and Mans salvation seeks.

Christs teares over Jerusalem.

How sacred were these teares? fell from thine eyes?
When for Jerusalem, thou wept so sore:
Mercy did plead, deploring their disease,
For pitties sake, thou didst their well implore:
A kindnesse passing love! when for thy foes
Thou wept and cryde for; prophecying their woes.

That spikenard oyle, which on thy feet was spred!
Doth represent to me that bloody balme;
Which on the crosse, from thy left side was shed,
To slay the power of sinne, make Satan calme:
O! let that oyle, by grace sinke in my soule,
To heale my sores, and cleanse mine errours foule.

Breake downe the rock, of my hard flinty heart!
Let moisture thence, ascend to my two springs;
The head contains these Rills, let them impart,
Signes of contrition, godly sorrow brings:
O! happy stoods! of ever springing joyes!
That in the midst of weeping can rejoyce.

When pale remorse, strikes on my conscience sad,

We should not despair but hope for mercy.

Mov'd with the lapse, of my relapsing sinne;
Faith flees above, and bids my soule be glad,
Where mercy enters, judgement comes not in;
One sigh in need, flowne from a mourning spirit,
Thou'le not reject, being cast on Jesus merit.

Come gracious God, infuse in me full grace!
Wrought by thy Sprite, my souls eternall good:
Let mercy plead 'gainst justice; Lord, give place?
The way is thine, my right, rests in Christs blood:
Come pardon my misdeeds! release my smart!
Then quicken me, with a relenting heart.

Whilst I conceive mans frailnesse, weake by nature,
How wretch'd he is? how prone to fall or sinke?
Of all thy works, the most rebellious creature:
Clog'd with ingratenesse, ever bent to shrinke.
What thing is man (think I) thou shouldst regard him,
And with a crowne of glory to reward him.

Thus pausing too, on long eternall rest,
That boundlesse time, which no time can containe;
How rich thinke I these soules be? and how blest?
In time strive here, that endlesse time to gaine:
Strive then poore soule, to claime and climbe this Fort,
For faith and violence, must force Heavens Port.

O Lord! how wondrous is thy powerfull love?

Inpenetrable counsels.

Whose mercies farre, above thy works excell!
Who can thy secret Cabine reach above?
Or sound these deeps, wherein thy counsels dwell?
When thou for man, turnd man, and suffer'd death,
To free slaine man, from thy fierce judgements wrath.

Thy wayes are all inscrutable to Man,
For who can dyve, in thy profounding love;
Whose kindnesse is unspeakable; and whan
We would most comprehend, we least approve:
Thy wayes, thy works, so farre excell us men,
The more we strive to know, the lesse we ken.

The works of creation

To look on Heavens, rich star-imbroidred coat,
That Cannopy, of silver-spangled skie;
The glorious firmament, clear without spot,
The Sphearick Planets, as their orders lye;
The worlds two lamps, erect'd with mareveilous light,
And Elements, which blinde our dazeling sight.

Darknesse, and light, all quarters, and their Climes,
The rolling Axletree, supporting All;
The Airts, and seasons, in their severall times,
This ovall Orbe, fenc'd with a glassie wall;
These revolutions, from proud Planets fall,
Portending Comets, Mans prodigious thrall.

The rolling seas, against the stars that swell,
Their reeling tides, their turnes and quiet rest:
These Creatures, and hudge Monsters therein dwell,
Nought here on earth, but that shape there's exprest:
Their exhalations (earths concavities)
And shoare-set bound, all wonders to our eyes.

Differences of mankinde.

These phisnomies of men, their variant faces,
Show the Creators wisedome, in creation;
Not one like other, in forme, nor in graces,
Manners, condition, qualitie, nor station:
O strange! Mans frame, should thus all times be showne,
By gifts and Vults divers'd, yet clearly knowne.

These birds ætheriall, glyding fowles that flee,
To court the clouds, alwhere the aire about;
Which nest the Rocks, steep walls, and springing tree,
Whose names, and kindes, none yet could all finde out:
Each keep their office, set by natures stamp,
And live, and die, within thy boundlesse Camp.

That influence, which man, beast, hearbs, and trees,
Draw from the silver Phebe, of the night:
The signes cœlestiall, aspectives to disease,
The Starres so different in their glorious light:
Time, that was creat first, and last shall be,
And ev'ry creature in their own degree.

How marveilous great, art thou almighty God!
Who by thy word, wrought all, and it was done:
Thou spreadst thy works, the Heavens, and earth abroad!
No part left vaste, that can creation shunne:
O! what is foolish man, the childe of lust!
That should not in, this great Jehovah trust.

Dull are my senses, any way to think,
My blind capacitie, can well conceave,
The supreame providence, by natures wink,
And bound his boundlesse pow'r, unlesse I rave:
Like, who can once, exhaust the Occean dry?
No more can I, in his great grandure pry.

A king command'd, a Philosophick man,
To shew him, what was God, and what his might?
He strove, and faild, and said, He could not scan
That greatnesse which excelld, best Natures light:
The Pagan king admird, and yet this wretch
Confess'd, there was a God, in power rich.

Gods works shevv his Godhead.

To show us there's Deitie, all things ascend,
And mount aloft, as vapour, smoake, and fire,
The trees grow upward, waves when tost transcend,
All birds and fowles, ætherially aspire.
So words, and voices, still their ecchoes raise,
And man, whose face, is made on heaven to gaze.

There's nought but worms and beasts, which sight the ground
But all denote, their great eternall Maker;
Yet man, wretch'd man, is earth ty'd, and fast bound,
To things below, whereof he's still partaker:
Nay; worse then beasts, he's choak'd with worldly cares,
And kills his heart with greed, his soule with snares.

What are the humours, of our foggy braines?
But stupid thoughts, conceiv'd of doubts and feare:
Best pregnant wits, suspition quells their straines;
The wise, the worldlings, have their Emblemes here:
A shadow without substance, I finde man,
Nay worse! than Baalams Asse, the truth to scan.

He sinne reprov'd, yet never sinn'd himselfe,
But wofull man, can both rebuke and sinne;
That which his words most hate, becomes the shelf,
Whereon his inward lusts, fall deepest in:
Mans lips are snares, his lips both false and double,
His tongue, a sting, begets both shame and trouble.

Mans infirmities.

O heavie lump! the carcasse of disease?
O Masse of ill! the Chaos of corruption;
O Microcosmos! of infirmities!
O rotten slyme! the pudle of inruption!
I mean mans stinking flesh; who can expresse?
The worst; its best, is but base filthynesse.

A plunge of carion clay, a prey for wormes,
A faggot (without mercy) for Hells fire:
A gulf, where beats, sterne deadly boystrous stormes,
A whirlewinde, for Airts of each attire:
Wherein combustion, sprung from contrare wills,
Makes thoughts arise, like waves, surpassing hills.

And what's our beauty? but a flash-showne show,

Mans beauty, summers blossome.

For when at best, its filthy, vile, and base:
The nose, the mouth, our excrements we know,
And breath stinke worse, than beasts of any race:
Nay, sweetest things, that ever time made faire,
They loathsome grow, unlesse the use be rare.

The soule except'd, when I consider all
Gods workes and Creatures, Man is onely worst!
The rest sublunary, succumbent fall;
Mans onely blest, or else for ever curst:
All things as servile, serve for mediate ends,
Save Man, whose wage, on joy or woe depends.

Lord! what am I, within this house of clay?
But brickle trash, compos'd of slime and dust:
A rotten fabrick, subject to decay,
Which harbours nought, but crums of wretched lust:
And if a guest, of one good thought, entreates me,
I barre it out, to lodge the ill, that hates me.

Impietie, and custome, scale my Fort,
To rule my minde, like to their blinde desire:
Will, head-strong helpes; corruption keeps the Port,
The hands and feet, set eye and tongue on fire:
Then Eloquence breaks forth, a subtile foe,
To trap the object, working me the woe.

Self-love rules the world.

Why? cause affection, begets opinion,
Opinion rules the World, in ev'ry minde:
Then sense submits, that pleasure should be Minion,
To base conceit, absurdly grosse, and blinde:
Thus fond opinion, self loves halting daughter,
Betrayes my scope, commits me to sinnes slaughter.

Then judgement falls, and fails, and reason flees,
To shelter Wisedome, in some solid breast:
They leave me both, left loaden with disease,
Whilst frailty fastens, sorrow on my creest:
Delite contracts despite, despyte disdaine,
Thus threefold chaind, their furies forge my paine.

My best companion, is my deadly foe,
Sin is my Consort, and would seeme my friend;
Yea; walks with me, where e're my footsteps goe,
And will not leave me, till my journeys end:
The more I flee, the faster it cleaves to me,
And makes corruption, labour to undoe me.

Sinne, and the causes of sin.

There six degrees of sinne, in man I finde,
Conception first, and then consent doth follow:
The thirds desire, that turns his judgement blinde:
The fourth is practise, ragged, rent, and hollow:
The fift is flinty, keeps fast obduration,
And last, the sixt, lulls him in reprobation.

Mans owne corruption is the seed of sinne,
And custome is, the pudle of corruption:
Swift head-strong habit, traitour-like creeps in,
And blows sinnes bellowes, to make more inruption:
Nay; the worlds example, sinnes strong secourse,
Makes both the object, and the subject worse.

How many foes hath man? within, without him?

Mans life a warfare

Within, lurks concupiscence, vertues foe;
Without, the world, which waits, and hangs about him,
Both ghostly and humane, to worke his woe:
Last comes the conscience, judge-set to accuse him,
And verdict given, then terrour would confuse him.

Thus man is ev'ry way, tost to and fro,
Like Tunneise balls, when banded, still rebound:
All things have action, Nature rules it so,
The secret sprite of life, these motions bound:
Their being honours God, who gave them being,
But Man fals back from him, gave reason seeing.

And yet to quench these fires, remorse creeps in,
And brings contrition, with confession crying:
Faith flees before, pleads pardon for our sin,
Then ragged rottennesse, fals down a dying:
For repentance, and, remission of sinnes,
Are two inseparable, sister twinnes.

Most have no tears for sinne, but tears of strife,
To plead malicious pleyes, and waste their meanes
On Lawyers tongues; that love their envious life,
And what like partie loose, the Cormant gleanes:
Their cause, and charges lost; O spightfull pride!
They spend at last, the stock, they had beside.

Like to the Mouse, and frogge, which did contend,
Which of them should, enjoy the marish ground;

Deceitful greed.

The Kyte as Judge, discuss'd this cause in end,
And took them both, from what they could not bound:
So Proctors seaze, on Clyants lands, and walls,
And raise themselves, in their contentious falls.

They're like to Æsops dogge, who had a bone,
When through a flood he swim'd, fast in his head:
Where spying his shade, he lets it fall anone,
To catch the other, lost them both indeed:
So spitefull men and greedy, (well its knowne)
In seeking others state, they loose their owne.

Thrice blest is he, who knowes, and flyes, like men,
Since greed begets oppression, or debate:
And though Deceivers, play Politicks then,
To make their wrongs, a right, to raise their state:
Yet forth it comes, no subtiltie can close it,
For time and truth, will certainly disclose it.

They thinke to hide their faults, by craft and plots,
To blynde Gods eyes, as they inveigle man:
O strange! what villany their soule besots,
That dare 'gainst truth, the traitour play; and than
Deceive themselves, by a deceitfull way,
Which tends to death, and make them Satans prey.

Then, there is nought, but once will come to light,
No sinne so close, but God will it discover;
No policie can blinde Almighties sight,
Nor fault so hid, that he will once passe over:
Unlesse repentance, draw his mercy downe,
Thy darkest deeds, shall be disclos'd eftsoone.

Jonah discovered.

Behold Jonah! from Joppa when he fled!
And would not stay, to do the Lords direction:
Clos'd in a ship, and hid; yea, nothing dread,
Yet found he was, and swallowed for correction:

Paul converted.

And Paul for Damas bound, to persecute
His Saints, was stroke, yet sav'd, his drifts refute.

Looke to Cains murder, how it was clear'd?
And Davids blood-shed, with adultrie mixt:
Remarke the bush, whence Adams voice appear'd,
And Israels thoughts, when they their Maker vext:
Then he who made thine eyes, and gave them sight,
Can he not see, who gave thy seeing light.

It's not with God as men, Gods ev'ry where!

Gods omnipotency.

In Heaven, and earth, Gods presence filleth all;
In Hell below, his Justice ruleth there,
All things must, to, his omniscience fall:
Man knows, but as he sees, and in a part,
But God doth search the reynes, and try the heart.

How swinishly (alas) have I then liv'd:
Nay, who can say, that I have liv'd at all;
Whilst buried else, in sleep, in sloth, or griev'd
With fals-forgd cares, conglutinating thrall:
To tempt my loving, and most patient God,
I have contemn'd his mercy, mock'd his rod.

There's nought so smooth and plaine, as calme-set seas,

Repugnant comparisons.

And nought more rough, when rag'd, by stormy winde;
The lead is cold as yce, or Winter freize;
But when been firde, its scolding hote we finde:
The irne is blunt, till toold, and edge be put,
And then most sharpe, to stobbe, to shave, or cut.

So patient God, is loath, and flow to wrath,
His patience is as great, as great his love;
Long suffring he, deferres to threaten death!
Till our grosse sinnes, his just drawn judgements move
And then his anger stirr'd, it burnes like fire,
Consuming man, and sinners in his ire.

Next; pause I on, the momentany sight,
Of mans short life, that like a shadow flees;
Much like the swiftnesse of a Faulcones flight,
Or like a bird, glydes by our glancing eyes:
Then marvell I, how man can harbour pride?
Or wherein should, his vanitie confyde.

The weaknesse, and changes of our nature.

To day he's stout, to morrow laid in grave,
His lookes alive, are plumd, like variant feathers:
Been throwne in dust, he turnes to earth a slave,
And as he breaths, the crummes of lust he gathers:
But would he muse, on long eternitie,
He would forsake himself, and learne to die.

To learne to die, that he may learne to live,
For in this course, his happinesse consists;
Die to himself, that grace may vice survive,
In mortifying sinne, his blesse subsists:
Come life, come death, thus dying so, he's blest,
And doubtlesse shall, in peace of conscience rest.

O Jesu! who redeemd us, being dead!
Whence could thy love, so farre to us extend;
We had no merit, thou of us no need,
And yet thy grace, our weaknesse doth defend;
For as Man first, to be like God, condemn'd us,
So God turnd man, that God should not contemne us.

Farre better is a life unfortunate,
In end with honour, that yeelds up the breath;
Than honourable life, and wealthy state,
With shame to perish, and untimely death:
I rather wish, to be a sheepherd borne,
Then live a Prince, and at my death forlorne.

Come answer me, who would be undertaker,

An objection between man and beast.

Whether its best, to be a man or beast?
The beast dissolves, and not offends his Maker,
Nor makes no count, save to some carnall feast:
But godlesse Man, in grieving God, is worse,
Throwne downe to Hell, and with that fall, his curse.

Who rightly weighs, the variable kindes,
Of Mortals all, in either death or life?
Shall see their bubling breath, tost with sharpe windes,
Of stagring doubts, ingorgd with timerous strife:
Their conscience, and, their living disagreeing,
In will or worke, most vanquish'd are in dying.

Nay, soule and body, at that dreadfull day,

The pang of Hell.

Shall be conjoynd, and hurld downe to hell:
This wretch thus damn'd, in tortring flames shall stay,
Chaind in that howling Radamanthan Cell:
The beast he fals, and turnes to nought we see,
But Man adjudgd, his worme shall never die.

As for the vertuous Saint, his happinesse,
Begins at death, which end all worldly noyes;
He swarmes in pleasures, rich in blessednesse,
Death makes the passage, to his heavenly joyes:
He feares no stop, nor stay, his faith instructs him,
The way (though strait) his good Angel conducts him.

And wouldst thou learne whilst here, t'attaine that way,
Be humble first, and then religious set;
Place Heaven before Thee, make faith thereon to stay,
And then let zeale and love, fast setling get
To grip Christs wounds; then feare, then praise, then pray,
Let earnest prayers, thy best devotion swey.

Prayer and meditation, two heavenly exercises.

For prayer is, the souls great sacrifice,
Which speaks to God; and meditation,
Is Gods speech to the soule; an exercise
Conjoynd together; two revolv'd in one:
The one invelopes the other, and speaks
Reciprocall: Both our salvation seeks.

Which two, like Hypocrates twinnes are bred,
Who liv'd, fed, slept, joyd, wept, and dyed together;
So can they not be separate indeed;
Though fasting doe prepare, their journey hither:
This outward action, like t'a potion scoures,
The other sprituall, are divinely ours.

Like to a paire of Turtles, truely set,
Whereof the one by death, been slaughter'd gone,
The other mournes, for loosing of her Mate,
And languishing doth die; No life alone.
So meditation, gives matter to the minde,
And without prayer, nothing shall we finde.

The effects of prayer.

For both bring reconcilement, and acceptance,
And makes thee, to thy father, a loving sonne;
So by his Sonne, a brother of acquaintance,
And by the Sprite, a Temple; squard, and done:
Last in the court of Heaven, thou art made free,
A fellow, with th' Angelick hierarchie.

O joy of joyes! O happy endlesse blesse!
Who can expresse, that glory there reveal'd?
The eye, the minde, nor tongue can dascon this!
Since ravish'd Paul, amaz'd, hath it conceal'd:
Then labour silly soule, this marke to aime,
Which seen, and got, how great is thy good name?

But (ah!) I stagger in the myres of sin,
And daily sinks, in pudles of defects:
The more I flee, the more I swallow in
The stinking marish, of absurd effects:
The very boggy quagmyres of vice,
I plunge them all, unvaluing weight, or price.

The price (alas!) is great, and I must pay it,
Unlesse Christs wounds, break open, plead for pitie;
O pledge divine! thy merits will defray it,
Thou art my surety, O prevent my dittie!

Christs wounds our health

Evert the sentence, least I lye in Jayle,
Stand to thy mercy, Lord! be thou my bayle.

To square the lives, of godly men with mine,
How farre my selfe, fled from my self, I finde;
Thrice wretchd am I, to thinke me one of thine,
In whom corruption, rules the inward minde:
It's more then strange, I should expect for good,
Whilst still I trample, on my Saviours blood.

There is no sense in this, that I should slay
My silly soule, to crosse my crost desire:
Can head-strong passions, mine accounts defray?
When my just Judge, my reckning shall require:
Nay, spare thy spurres, poore wretch, and call to minde
A self-soule Murdrer, can no mercy finde.

That sinne which I hate worst, I follow most,

The instabilitie of man.

Yet faine, would sift, the evil of deceit:
Loe! with repugnants, how my breast is tost,
Here lyes my safety, there the snaring bait;
Sinne, like a Fowler, with a whistle takes me,
And that good, which I would, it then forsakes me.

O! love! and love it self! Father of love!
And God of mercy, mercy is thy Name!
O King of pitie! all my faults remove
Farre from before Thee, cover thou my shame:
That here me to accuse, they never come,
Nor hence to damne me, at the day of doome.

Wicked men delite to make the simple sinne.

Ah! wicked men! they triumph in excesse!
To tempt thy patience, O long suffring God!
They glory to cast downe, the fatherlesse,
And on the Widows back, they lay their rod:
They lose themselves, and so would lose their brother
With them; thy honour, in their pride to smother.

Unwise is he, and thrice unhappy too!
Who ill commits, that good thereon may follow:
He's like the Crocodile, that loves to wooe
The gray Nyle Rat, and eftsoone doth it swallow:
Which, when enclos'd, it cuts his wombe, seeks breath,
And with its freedome, workes the others death.

So haplesse man, in hurtfull wayes of sinne,
His hopelesse heart, he suffocats with lust;
Till custome bring, sterne obduration in,
And then he turnes a Reprobate injust:
The doore of grace is shut, his soule wants faith,
Then sinne leaves him, squard for eternall death.

They gallop on, in dark-drawne pathes of Hell,
The glen is hollow, but the way is broad;
In two extreames, the least, they quite repell,
To shunne a fardell, they receive a load:
The yoake of Christ is light, but ah! they swallow
The weight of sinne, which all their labours follow.

I crosse my crossing armes, on my crost breast,

Moments, pkeasures, eternall paine.

And musing lurks, to looke on humane state;
How wretch'd it is? how carelesse? how deprest?
To ev'ry snare, makes man unfortunate:
That haplesse he! for one small moments pleasure,
Dare hazard (ah!) his souls eternall treasure.

The will, 'twixt reason, and sensualtie plac'd,

Will overcomes reason.

Is apt to be apply'd, to either side;
But first, and firmest, Will by sense is trac'd,
Which is of youth, and childish age the guide!
For seldome reason, can once conquer will,
Cause; sense presents for good, a pleasant ill.

And in that ill, a wofull sowre content,
Which frights it self, with shadows of despaire:
O! miracle of madnesse! what intent
Hath my cross'd soule? to worke my grievous care:
If mercy can not move me, to amend,
Yet self-affection, might my good intend.

Why then sick soule? dost thou not weep one teare?

Sighes and teares are holy sacrifices.

O! that thy grief! would windy sighes disclose!
Let mourning sorrow, melt in holy feare,
And pale remorse, dissolve, in watrie woes:
For godly groanes, which deep contrition brings,
They rent the clouds, and court the King of kings.

Whence pardon comes, and consolation too,
And strength to guard us, in worst stormy times;
For what we would, the same he helps to doe,
And for one teare, he'le cover worlds of crymes:
What though I faint? 'cause, great is my transgression,
Yet comfort comes, when there's a free-confession.

Fraile is the foolerie, of my fragile flesh,
Still prone to fall, but never prompt to stand:
I second causes, with a desperate dash,
Cares not for times to come, nor whats in hand:
If I finde pleasure, in the worst of ill,
I murder reason, with a fearlesse will.

How long shall wicked thoughts, in me remaine?
To slay my soule, and bring thy judgements downe:
When wilt thou curbe my sinne, and it restraine,
Lest like a flood, it shall me helplesse drowne:
Unlesse thy grace, support me, being fraile,
There's nought with mee, that can with thee prevaile.

The godly sometime fall, and are recalld.

Alas! to number, what I should not speake,
Of holy ones, thy Prophets, and Apostles;
How farre (too oft) from Thee, were they to seek,
Throwne downe, 'mongst thornie briers, and pricking thistles:
Yet they were thine, thou suffer'd them to fall,
That in thy mercy, thou might them recall.

Herein their weaknesse, and thy power was knowne,
That to thy glorious Fame, it might redound:
What though they straid, these wandrers were thine owne,
They knew at last thy voice, and trac'd the sound:
Sometimes thy Saints would slip, and then repent them,
With heart-swolne, tears, which grief & grace had lent them.

Thy holy writs, bear of their names record!
To paternize my hopes, fixt on a Rock;
How ev'r I faile, thou art a gracious Lord,
Full of redemption to thy chosen flock:
For their examples, teach me to beleeve,
Thou wilt protect me, and my faults forgive.

Gods Champion Joshua, when he Jordan crost,

Joshua's gratefulness to Rachab

And raz'd wall'd Jericho, downe to the ground:
Yet sav'd he Rachab, all the rest were lost,
Gratefull he was, this Woman mercy found;
Which towne lay waste, till Hiel Bethelite,
In Achabs time, rebuilt its ancient seat.

This was that towne, which Christ so oft past by,

Jesus at Jericho saved Zacheus.

From Galilee to Jebus, Sions glore;
Where throngd with folk, Zacheus could not spy
His sacred face, but run in haste before,
And top'd a fig-tree trunck: Which seen by Christ,
Come downe (said he) Zacheus, I'me thy guest.

This day salvation, to thy house is come,
I'le recompense thy curious carefull eye:
Select'd thou art, for my cœlestiall home!
Great is thy faith, though small thy stature be:
By grace a Gyant, though a Dwarfe by nature,
I am thy Lord, Zacheus is my Creature.

Thus Joshua and Jesus, sav'd two, here see!
A bordell Strumpet, and this Publican;
To lesson us, what kinde soe're they be,
Turke, Jew, or Arab, Moore, or Mussilman?
Christ hath his own Cornelius, and his Ruth,
The Moabite, Centurions fraught with truth.

For almes deeds and prayer, pierce the clouds!
Whence Rills of tears, do ever springing vent,
Remorsefull songs, explor'd by rusling flouds,
Bank'd with the willow, bondage still lament:
Where Harpes lye mute, and hearts are fill'd with plaints,
Deploring sore, stress'd Sion, and her Saints.

O! if the Heavens! would now infuse in me!
Some divine rapt, to lay abroad her crosses:

Gracelesse eloquence hard obdurance

But stay sad Soule! that is too much for thee,
Let Pastours plunge these deepths, and blaze her losses:
Onely bewaile, her sorrows, and thy fall,
Men may have tongues, and have no grace at all.

Not by compulsion, as by sense we see
Numbers do slide, each training one another;
Herod could speak, and yet with vermine die,
Curst Cain slew, the righteous man his brother:
Saul he could prophecie, and yet he fell,
The Witch at Endor, rang his passing bell.

Baalim could blesse, and Baalim he would curse,
And yet his Asse did check him, but come see!

Worldly wisedome and pride confounded.

Wise was Achitophel, his end was worse,
Proud Absalom was hair-hangd on a tree:
Like be our foes, and like our Church now findes,
We want but Hushai, to bewray false mindes.

Though Ezra wept, and mourn'd for Judahs faults,
Yet had he adversars, which sought to slay him;
Whilst rearing Sions walls, to barre assaults,
His threatning foes, sent Bassads to affray him:
The people wrought, and built with dextrat hand,
And in the left, their swords, for guard did stand.

So, so, and so, the state of Saints should be,
Resolvd to suffer, and resolv'd to fight:
Yea, for the faith, should not refuse to die,
Since truth averres, what we acclaime by right:
But we have Wolves for lambes; their coat is all,
If they get means, care not who stand or fall.

I scorne their checks, but more their critick censures,
Whilst with an honest heart, I live, to live:
Whose sharp-edg'd calumnies, and scurrile tonsures,
Retort their breasts, but with more grief, to grieve:
If Gods good sprite, by grace to blesse contract me,
I care not, how, these turnecoat times detract me.

Their time is short, their sentence can not bide,
Like to opinion, so their verdicts follow;
They're blinde in reason, malicious in pride,
Whose tongues are Tombs, their hearts both false and hollow.
For whilst their craft, deceives them with deceeat,
They swallow up the hooke, and misse the bait.

Themselves they slay, with the same dart they shoot,

Saikles envie retorts reply.

And in the pit do fall, they digg'd for other;
To stand for ill, they will not flee a foot,
Their evils, with a show of good they smother:
But soone mischief, can overcrush their braines,
Men swallow mounts, for execrable gaines.

Alas! what is the bubling breath of man?
VVhose life hangs on his nostrils; like to dew
Falne from the humid clouds; and no wayes can
Secure it selfe, from Titans scorching view:
So mens conceit, in fond opinions flee,
VVhiles this, whiles that, whiles naught their actions be.

Let Davids hymnes, discover all their drifts,
Till that their very eyes for fat leap out:
I love that soule surchargd with pious gifts,
Simple in life, and for his conscience stout:
Say though his best were nought, his good intention,
Cast on the Lord, begets a safe prevention.

The malice of each snare, my thoughts imbrace,
But above all with darling sinnes I dandle;
I pleasure take, wherein there's no solace,
And with the Butterflie, the flame I handle:
The wings of lust I oyle, then sinne burnes me,
And whilst I stand to live, I post to die.

Wormes are sepulchrall mates.

Wormes are my Mates, when I in grave am laid,
They'le feed on me, who lov'd to feed on dainties,
My senslesse Corps, shall with the senslesse spade
Be made a prey, to their devouring plenties:
My bones shall rot, then turne in mouldring dust,
This is the way of flesh, both bad and just.

And yet vaine Man, he little thinks or dreames,
Once of his death, nor what his end may be?
His sense deludes him, and the world it seemes
A glasse to looke on, for his sensuall eye:
He neither mournes for sinne, nor sinne forsakes,
But from one ill, another worser takes.

What surging follies, overcloud my minde?
With vain-wing'd fancies, and surmysing flashes;
Such fleering thoughts, more lighter than the winde!
Breed nought but foolerie, which opinion dashes:
My wish'd for wishes, straight conceiv'd and done,
The care of carelesse dreams, I scarce can shunne.

I posting runne, in wayes of naughty ends,

Man headlong falls.

Lord! crook, and stop my course, with streames of grace!
Which flood, can carry none that ill pretends,
Like Jordan, that, receives no barbarous face,
Unlesse they swim: So, (sans remorse) they'le drowne,
Who hazard here, quick sandie sins pull downe.

This saving grace, the soule guards with strong hand,

The lake Maronah fathers Jordan.

And if it slip, it can not fully fall:
Its like Maronahs, full disgorging strand,
Hembes in Canaan, from barbarian thrall:
Like keeps the Lord his owne, and guards their wayes,
They perish not; though chargd with fraile delayes.

As Jordan circuits the holy land,
Twixt Liban, and, that south-lake smoaking show;
From the Petreian soyle; joynd with a strand,
Which tribute payes, 'gainst Jericho I know,
To famous Jore: One parts the Midian soyle,
The other sackt, Samarias confynes coyle.

This is the march, girds Canaans south-east side,
But more the Lord preserves, and guards his owne
From ghostly ill, and from ætheriall pride,
From terrene sprites, from Hell, and what is knowne
To plague the soule; he is a bulwark strong,
Fens'd with good Angels, free all his from wrong.

Then happy they, can creep within this Tent!

Godly teares' saving grace.

And sheltrage seek, under his mercies wings;
Sigh for thy sinnes, O! let thy soule repent!
Thy misdemeanour, to the King of kings:
First grieve, then weep, last seeke thy Saviours face,
Let teares implore, for teares can plead for grace.

Kinde were these teares, which Josephs love had spent,
When with his brethren, he his brother saw:
His heart, surchargd with joy, it shrunke as shent,
To plunge that deep, which Benjamin did draw:
But loe! moe teares! were shed one with another,
When Joseph said, Behold, I am your brother.

Feare not (said he) the strict Ægyptian law,
Though to the Ismaelites, my life you sold:
For what was done, was done by God I knaw,
No spight of yours, his providence behold!
Foresaw your need, and brought me here to be,
A father to my Fathers miserie.

There five yeares famine yet, shall worke your woe,
Wherein ag'd Jacob, and his race may starve,
Unlesse he flit; then get you up and go
To fetch him downe, faile not in this, nor swerve:
They went, he came, all met in melting joyes,
For passions have extreames, as bairnes have toyes.

Since Nature then, in floods of teares can melt,
For joy of sight, to overjoy their love;
Much more our teares, when we remorse have felt
For sinne; shall glade, the powers in Heaven above:
These tears are blest, and make us blest for ever,
For godly grief, from grace, no crosse can sever.

Jobs patience and constancy.

Let patient Job, be paterne in like case,
Whose losse was such, as never yet was none:
Yet shrunk he not, sound stedfast love took place,
Faith forc'd his hope, and both proclaim'd in one:
Sure my Redeemer lives, and he is just,
Though he should kill me, yet in him I'le trust.

Mine eyes shall see him, and he will me save,
As I am confident, he will not faile:
Sterne rough calamitie, would me deceave,
But that's a shade, my purpose must prevaile:
In God my soule is fixt, nought can dismay me,
Nay death it selfe, nor Satan can betray me.

See! here the Columne, of a lively faith!
The type of Christ, in meek and milde behaviour:
His friends they slight him, he contemnes his death,
And in his miserie, still avowd his Saviour:
This was a love, excell'd all loves on earth,
For Christ he lov'd, who lov'd him ere his birth.

Then how hate I my selfe, if I love not

Love the Lord for his loves sake.

My loving Lord, who lov'd me, from his love;
He truely loves, who for thy sake, I wot
Loves thee; and himselfe for thee; this we prove:
All kindes of love, without thy love, breed loathing,
Unlesse we love them, for thy sake, they're nothing.

Great king of glory, all thy works invite!
Us to love thee, since thou first loved us:
As starres do from the Sunne, take light and heat,
For from that fulnesse, we the like discusse:
How can our soules? thine Jmage, want the sight,
Of thy bright love, whose love is perfect light.

Lord! we do all, depend upon thy love,
Because our being, had of thee beginning:
Next, thou preserves us, as we rest or move,
And art our end; controlls us, when a sinning:
All what we have, we have receiv'd from thee,
And what we want, thou wilt the same supply.

O God of love! thy nature is all love!
In love more glorious, than the sunne in light:
Thou art an infinite fire from above,

Gods love our life.

Which here enlightens, with its beames, each wight:
A fire of love, a loving fire we finde,
A light! not burnes, a flame, not quels the minde.

O Lord! if thou thy tender love withdraw:
And from us slips one step, to turne thy back:
Are we not dead, in sloth and sleep; no awe;
But each temptation, shall presage our wracke:
Then Lord uphold us! since all worldly things
Are ever changing, tyme their ruine brings.

The brevitie of life

To day we live, the morne to grave we're sped,
We sight this world, as birds by gazers glyde;
As dreams evanish, so our dayes are fled;
Like water bubles, as soone quelld as spyde:
Thus heart-grown man, ingorgd with pryde and lust,
He posts, and posts to death, then turnes in dust.

To argue on corruption, that subverts
The good we would, and choaks our best desires;
It is a senslesse appetite, perverts
The light of reason, with entangling fires:
A head-strong blinde irregularly ill,
That captives wit, and wounds both sense and will.

Corruption corrupteth all things.

Its strong in all infirmities in just,
Still fraile in goodnesse, weak in sound conception:
Its rull'd by nature, and her daughter lust,
Which blinds the light of knowledge, with deception:
Like pitch, corruption, blacks the purest soule,
And where it comes, makes ev'ry clean thing foule.

It takes best hold, on imbecillitie,
And where that fortitude, deficient is,
It dare not wrestle, with dexteritie,
Nor count with Temprance, one defective misse:
Much like a Ruffian, or a Theefe by night,
It loves, and lives in darknesse, more than light.

Corruption, many wayes, may be defind,
To be a Hydra neck'd Herculian snake;
Stop'd at the eye, it compasseth the minde,
Barr'd from the soule, the heart it soone will take:
Say, if the eare be deafe, the hand will feele,
And if it smell not, it can taste too well.

Corruption, rules most states, and office places,
In Church and Common-wealth, it beares great swey:
It masks the Merchants, with Gibeonitish faces!
And with each trade, it can the harlot play:
From mighty men to mean, see! what I sought?
I finde them all corrupt'd, their wayes are nought.

Corruption, in their brybries, fraught with greed,
Corruption, in their flesh, subborn'd by lust,

The power and varieties of corruption

Corruption, in their manners, full of need,
Corruption, in their sinne, and lives injust:
Corruption, in their malice, flankd on pryde,
Corruption, in their wills, blinde Natures guyde.

Corruption, in the treachrie of deceat,
Corruption, in false weights, and falser measures,
Corruption in vile perjurie, and hate,
Corruption, in the hoording up of treasures:
Corruption in hypocrisie and strife,
Corruption in a base dissembling life.

Corruption, (ah!) injustice by the Judge,
Corruption, too, in partiall ends 'gainst reason;
Corruption, in the traitour, that dare lodge
Corruption, fixt on murder, and high treason:
Corruption, in oppression, and what then?
Corruption, in the lavishnesse of men.

Corruption, in forg'd tales, and false reports
Corruption, in fraile fleshly vile desires!
Corruption, in base taunts, and jeering torts,
Corruption, in despysing naturall Syres:
Corruption, (ah!) in negligence and slouth,
Corruption, from fond sports, in age or youth.

Corruption, in ambition, and high looks,
Corruption, in straind-selfe contract'd opinions.
Corruption, in best learneds, and best books,
Corruption, in great Princes, and their Minions:
Corruption, in vaine courtly Courtiers stiles,
Corruption, in sunk Worldlings greedy wiles.

Corruption, in abusing outward things,
Corruption, in vile drunkennesse, and swearing,
Corruption, in a Wranglers crafty wrings,
Corruption, in delay, and long forbearing:
Corruption, in the ignorance of mindes,
Corruption, in best knowledge of all kindes.

Corruption, in prest complements, and phrases,
Corruption, in bad cariage, mask'd with guile,
Corruption, in poore flattrers foolish praises,
Corruption, in most Pen-men, and their stile:
Corruption, in a Sycophantick leyar,
Corruption, in the Layers mouth and Pleyar.

Corruption, in Adultrie, and worse lust,
Corruption, in backbyters slandring tongue,
Corruption, in lost credit, without trust,
Corruption, in the gathering worldly dung:
Corruption, in blinde filthy Criticks censures,
Corruption, in mechanick glyding tonsures.

Corruption, in corruption, sinne afords,
And ev'ry way corrupt'd, corruption swallowes;
Most grow absurd, corrupting deeds and words!
And in the pudle of corruption wallowes:
The hollow heart of man, such venome vomites
Of all corruptions, that they're fixt for Comets.

All which portend, some grievous dissolution,
In ev'ry state, a wofull alteration;
Sprung from enormities of pollution.
This land is turnd, the face of desolation:
Both great and small, the scourge of fortune feele,
Whose fates are tost, still round about the Wheele.

To day a Lord, to morrow fled to warres,
To day a Laird, to morrow turnd a beggar;
To day in wealth, to morrow closd with barres;
To day in peace, to morrow swear and swagger:

The vicissitude of fortune.

To day in farme, to morrow forcd to flee,
To day puft, up, the morne, cast downe we see.

Sinne is the cause, which makes such judgements fall
On Land-lords now, who still oppresse the poore;
They taxe and raxe them, keep them under thrall,
That most are forcd, to leave both hold and doore:
Whose grounds in end is sold, or else ly waste,
Both Tyrants, and th' opprest, such changings taste.

Lord! save me from this all-corrupted age,
Where craft joynes with extortion either hand;
Blood, and oppression, may but passions swage,
Strict law and justice, quite forsake this land:
Men now must gaze, like Souldiers battell broke,
That looke for aide, else for the fatall stroke.

Nay; we're corrupt'd, in thought, in word, and deed!
Yet of all sinnes, vile drunkennesse is worst:
It breeds all ill, and of all vice the seed,
It harbours lust, and makes the Actor curst;
And smothering shame, it wallows in despaire,
Where spoiling vertue, seeks examples rare.

Noah first set vines and first was drunk with it.

Our Patriarch Noah, after the deludge,
Had shunn'd sommersing, of the first drownd World;
He planted vines for man, healths sound refudge!
Yet made his toyle, the snare wherein he hurld:
The grape was sweet and strong, see! how he sunke?
He graft it first, and first with it was drunk.

This worlds sole Monarch, of the second age,
Who built the Arke, which sav'd him and his race
Undrown'd; Behold! was tane, and turnd the Page
Of glutting Bacchus, senslesse of his cace:
Was it not strange! this Columne could decline!
That scaping waters, yet was drownd with wine.

But he, great he! earths sov'raigne Lord and Father,
Had no intent, to foxe his sober senses;
But tasted, touch'd, and drunk; then faild, or rather
He seald his fault, to shelter like offences:
Not so; his slip, pleads o'resight unacquainted,
And reason would, he tast'd the thing he planted.

Lots drunkennesse begot incest.

Like so, was Lot, ensnar'd, when fled for feare
From burning Sodome, and cavernd at night;
Was by his daughters gull'd: They thinking there!
The world was gone; sought to restore the right
Of natures race: And he starke drunk imbrac'd them,
But sure he griev'd, when th' action had defac'd them.

But our grosse Drunkards, base pedestriat natures!
Will roare and quaffe, old houses, through strait windowes;
Blaspheme their Maker, and abuse his Creatures,
And swear, they'le spend their bloud, and carve their sinnewes,
To beard cold Phebe; then Orlando like,
Rapt Rodomunting oathes, and Cyclops strike.

Whose red-ey'd sight, show faces fixt with Comets,

The shamefull effects of drunkennesse,

Through which (like Vulcan) they would see me goodfellowes
O here he staggers! and there he wallowing vomits,
And if mischiefe fall out, he courts the gallowes:
Last, friends and meanes been lost, he's load with curses,
Then bends his course to steale, or robbe mens purses.

What ill can Hell devise? but Drunkards do it?
All kindes of vice, all kinde of lusts they swallow:
For why? its drunkenesse that spurres them to it,
Satan suggests, and they his counsell follow:
Then turne they frantick, mad distracted Sots,
To clout their Conscience, with retorting Pots.

They lye and surfet, belch, and vomit blood,
Yea, ever rammage, brutish, and absurd;
Their beastly manners, loathsome are and rude,
Deprav'd of senses, have their wits immurd,
Benumb'd, debosh'd; last sunke in beggars brats,
Eate up with vermine, starve, and die like Rats.

Worlds of examples, I could here denote,
As well in ancient dayes, as moderne times:
What were these Pagans past? what were they not?
What are our present judgements? for like crymes?
May not their Alcoran, serve to condemne us?
If we our selves, would from our selves exam'ne us.

Beasts and Philosophers condemne excesse.

May not Philosophers? the light of nature?
Convince us, for like riot, and excesse?
Nay, even the beast (unreasonable creature)
Stand up and witnesse, of our sensualnesse:
They will not once exceed their appetite,
But man will surfet, with a deep delite.

In using, we abuse, Gods benefits,
And turne his blessings, to an heavie curse;
Surpassing temprance, we confound our wits,
No health for body, lesse for soule remorse:
All things were made for us, and we for God,
But being abus'd, they serve us for his rod.

Alas! where reason? when poore man misknowes
The life of knowledge, reason did infuse;
Shall understanding sleep? shall I suppose
That will is weaker, than a strong excuse:
He knowes (I know) enough, that can misknow
The thing he knowes, its well, in knowing so.

No perfection in humane knowledge

Well said Alphonso, (knowledge to expone)
That all what we could learne, by sight, or show;
By airts, by science, by books to study on,
Was the least part, of that we did not know:
All what we know, we know but in a part,
And that failes oft, corruption rules the heart.

What thou canst know, another doth know more,
And what he knowes, is but a glimpsing glance:
Who perfect is? nay none; who can deplore
His weaknesse, ruld by counsell, not by chance!
Mans knowledge, like the shade, is swallowed soone,
That hangs between its substance, and the Moone.

He knowes the ill, and in that knowledge rude,
And cleaves to vice, as wooll and briers are knit;
Resolv'd to erre, misknowing what is good,
Rejects his soule; then in a frantick fit,
Neglecting God, neglects his owne salvation,
And quaffing excesse, drinks his owne damnation.

How Lord! these faults behelpd! teach me to mourne,
That being humbled, I may call for grace:
Let men presumptuous, 'gainst thy judgements spurne,
And in the pudle of their labours trace:
Save thou my soule, for now my quivering heart,
'Twixt feare and hope, stands trembling at sinnes smart.

A second Jonah, from thy voice I flee,

Great defects in greatest Saints.

And with shrunke Peter I thy name deny:
I Ahab-like, keep spoiles of sinne for me,
And harbour lust, in Lots ebrietie:
These lookes, that fell, from Sion on a Pond,
Were not so foule as mine, nor halfe so fond.

Unworthy I, to lift mine eyes above,
Or that the earth, should beare me, undevour'd:
Nay, nor my friends, on me to cast their love,
Nor saints pray for me, hath the truth deflourd:
Yet, what God will, it needs must come to passe,
He looks on what I am, not what I was.

Let grace take roome, that mercy soone may follow,
Renew my sprite, O cleanse my heart from ill!
Thy blood can purge me, though my guilt be hollow;
Faith and repentance, have a piercing will:
Infuse thy power, Lord strengthen me to turne
Once to rejoyce, and never more to mourne.

Daniels dainties, poore mens plenties.

As Daniel, with thy servants three forsooke
To feed on Babels delicates, and wine:
But water, and poore pulse, they gladly tooke,
And yet their faces, did for beauty shine:
Lord grant with them, all worldly snares I may
Forsake, and learne, to trace thy law, thy way.

That kingly beast, or beastly king expos'd
Seven yeares to fields; nev'r faild so much as I:
Nor these five kings, by Joshua enclos'd,
Brought forth, and foot-neckd, shamefully did die:
Nev'r vex'd him more (for they their lands defended)
Than I am griev'd, for having God offended.

That Goshan flight, to a desartuous soile,
Through uncouth way, deep seas, laid up in heaps!
Nev'r reft from Egypt, such a swallowed spoile,
With greater right (for now my soule it weeps!)
Then Gods just judgements, might on me befall,
Unlesse his mercy soone prevent my fall.

These wandrings long, which Israel did recoyle,
Tost to and fro, in vast Arabian bounds;
Full fourty yeares they spent, for twelve dayes toyle,
Starv'd, slaine, and quell'd, still galld by savage wounds:
This crosse they bore, for grieving God so oft,
But (ah!) my sinnes, for plagues do cry aloft.

Savages are better than bad Christians.

Now having seene, rude Lybians, nak'd, and bare,
Sterne barbrous Arabs, savage Sabuncks od;
Sword-sweying Turkes, and faithlesse Jews alwhere,
Base ruvid Berdoans, godlesse of a God:
Yet when from me, on them I cast mine eye,
My life I finde, farre worse, then theirs can be.

The rustick Moorish, sterne promiscuous sexe,
Nor Garolines, idolatrizing shame;
The Turcomans, that even the Divell doe vexe!
In offring up, their first-borne, to his name:
Nor Jamnites, with their foolish Garlick god,
Are worse then I, nor more deserve thy rod.

Yet Lord! with Thee, there's mercy; and its true,
Thou art not wonne, with multitude of words,
Its force of tears from us, thy pitie sue,
Which thou regards, and pardon us afords:
For words are formed, by the tongue, but tears,
Speak from the heart, which thou most kindlie heares.

Use then few words (O silly soule) but weepe,

In prayer use few vvords and many tears.

This is the heavenly language, and strong voice,
That calls to God; for he our teares shall keep
Fast bottled in his pittie: Makes the choise
Of teares; few words, let sighs, and sobs display,
Thine inward grief; then tears beginne to pray.

Lord! thou wouldst not, to Herod speak; nor yet
Would answer Pilat, urgd by humane power;
But soone thou spoke, when weeping women set
Their eyes on Thee; and streames of teares did powre:
These Judges sought, advantage for thy dittie,
But Sions daughters, weept for Thee in pittie.

These great mens words, did reach but to thine eares,

Christs silence, and patience.

But their warme drops, did pierce Thee to thine heart;
Lord! thou takes care on them, and on their teares,
Who mourne for others, when the righteous smart:
But farre more pittie, on the sinfull soule,
That mournes for sinne, and wailes her errours soule.

Oh! that my head were waters! and mine eyes!
A source of teares, to weep both day and night;
The peoples sinnes, with theirs, mine owne disease,
Which greater growes, than I to beare have might:
Such flouds of teares, would then my grief disclose!
In airie vapours, flanck'd with watrie woes.

This worlds a valley, of perpetuall teares,
And what's the Scripture? but a springing well
Of gushing teares? flow'd from remorse and feares;
For godly sorrow, must with Mourners dwell:
And who can mourne, unlesse that grace begin
To worke repentance; this grief expiats sin.

Davids teares wet his couch.

All night could David, wet with tears his couch,
And Prophets for the faults of Israel mourne:
But (ah!) good God, when shall mine eyes avouch
Such happy teares, that may with Thee sojourne:
If not thy judgements, yet thy gracious love,
Might melt mine eyes, and Ponds of sorrow move.

Thou saidst, I will, compassion have on all,
That pleaseth me, compassion, for to show;
Be pleas'd thy love, may me redeeme from thrall,
Free will to pardon, thine; the debt I owe:
How soone soev'r a sinner, should repent him,
Thou swore in truth, thou wouldst no longer shent him.

Lord! grant my minde, may second these my words,
And not invent, more then I practice can;
If I deficient prove, good will afords
My sacrifice; obedience is the man:
Did not Abraham, this point paternize,
Whose purpose, was, held for a sacrifice.

David resolv'd, on Sions lower flat,
To build a Temple, for the living Lord:
A daughter cloure, joynd with Jehosophat,
Benorthd, with Moriahs, squink devalling bord:
The Lord accept'd the minde, his thought was to it,
And said, Thy sonne, but not thy selfe shall do it.

The widows myte, was thankfully receiv'd,
Good wills a sacrifice; this seldome failes;
The will, although the purpose be deceiv'd,
Is not to blame, the good intent prevailes:

God accepts the will for the deed.

The Lord accepts, even of the least desire
We have to serve him, though we faint or tire.

When Jacob had, twice ten yeares Laban serv'd,
Yet Laban, would have sent him empty gone:
But he who serves the Lord, though he hath swerv'd,
Shall not misse his reward, nor go alone:
The Sprite of grace, shall second him, and love,
Shall fill his soule, his faith shall mount above.

Then forward go, so runne you may obtaine,
Great is the prise, hold out the journeys end;
Keep course, and runne, thou'le get a glorious gaine,
He who endures, shall onely there ascend:
Rise eare, when young, and runne, betimes then do it,
Who gets the start, and holds, shall first come to it.

The journeys long, the path is strait, and thornes
Ly in the way, to prick thee, on both sides:
Sinne like a Traitour, hourely thee subbornes,
To misse the marke, and blinde thee, with crosse guides:
Yet constant runne, runne on, and be not sory,
So runne thou mayst obtaine, a crowne of glory.

We see, for a light prise, a man will runne
His utmost speed; and often loose his paines:
That Caledonian hunter, never wonne
By strife of foote, a hare was all his gaines:
But he who runs this course, shall earne a treasure,
The butte of Heaven, must be his marke and measure.

Christ is our Physician.

Then blest is he! keeps dyet, for this race!
And fits his soule, to take cœlestiall physick;
Faith is the compound, and the potion grace,
Christ the Physician, mercy our soules musick:
Then pardon seeks our suite, last, love crownes all,
And raignes with glory, rivalls in one saule.

For this prepare thy selfe, since our short dayes
Are but a blast; and yet our longest time
Is scarce a thought; Looke! what experience sayes,
That space, 'twixt wombe and Tombe, (O falling slyme!)
Is but a point, then see! and not suspend,
A happy life, must have an happy end.

Our day of death, excells our day of birth,
And better wer't, with mourning folks to live,
Than like to fooles, that in the house of mirch
Would passe their time, and would that time survive:
Relenting cryes, all times more needfull growes,
Than laughing feasts: blest are all godly woes.

The insolencie of youth.

How vaine are frolick youths? to spend their prime?
In wantonnesse and slouth, lust galling joyes;
They quite forget, the substance of base slime,
Till rotten age, ramverse their masked toyes:
And then diseases, hang about their bones,
To plague their flesh with sores, their hearts with groanes.

The concupiscence, of youths sqink-laid eye,
Which lust begets, and inflamation brangles,
Is but the bait, invelops luxurie,
To follow practice, custome still entangles:
The eye supports the thought, the thought desire,
And then corruption, sets delight on fire.

Yet youth remember, in thy dayes of youth!
Thy sole Creator, remember thou must die!
Lest that these dayes may come, when helplesse ruth,
Shall say, No pleasure in them, thou canst see:
Remember! in thy youth! O youth remember!
Thy Christ and Maker, thou maist be his member.

Shall youth take pleasure, in vaine wantonnesse,
And with his fleshly lusts, go serve the Divell:
Then when growne old, in midst of rottennesse,
Would turne to God, and shunne his former evill:
This can not be, when thou canst sinne no more,
Thou wouldst serve God, whom thou didst hate before.

Dare thou example take, of the good thief,
Nay, Christ was once, for all but sacrifiz'd:

Delay in repentance is dangerous.

This can not ground thy faith, nor lend relief,
That one Thiefs mercy, thine is paterniz'd:
Can thou repent at will, choose time, and place,
Nay, that falls short, its God who gives the grace.

Is any sure, when death shall call him hence,
Nothing more certaine, more uncertaine too;
Time, place, and how, concernes Gods providence:
Then arme thy selfe, take heed, what thou shouldst do?
Bridle thy youth, amend thy life, repent,
Such fruit is pleasant, from thy spring-tyde sent.

The morne is cooler, than the sun-scorch'd day,
The tender juice, more sweeter then old sap:
The flowry grasse, more fresh than withred hay?
The floorish fairer, than the Tronke, we trap:
So dayes of youth, more sav'rie are to God,
Than crooked age, all crooked wayes have trode.

Would thou live well, and live to live for aye,
Beginne at God, obey his word, and law:
Love, feare, and serve him, make him all thy stay,
Honour thy Parents, of the Judge stand awe:
And neighbour love conserve: But ah! this age!
Can show none such, but rot with lust and rage.

The fin-flowne Dolphin, after flying fish,
Nev'r swim'd so swift, as youth hunt after lust;
They dip presumption in a poysond dish,
And fearlesse tumble, in a fearfull gust:
They wrestle not to wrest, but strives with strife
To humour pleasures, in their head-strong life.

Youth and age are disagreeing.

Its incident to youth, to mock old age,
And usuall too for age, to jeere at youth:
The one he dotes, the other playes the page,
A fondling foxd, with wantonnesse and slouth:
Yet age is best, because experience schooles him,
And youth is worst, 'cause vice and pleasure fooles him.

Then 'twixt them both, the golden meane is best,
Neither too young, nor doting dayes are good;
Yet happy both, if faithfully they rest
With confidence, fixt on their Saviours bloud:
For it can purge the old, of what is past,
And cleanse the young, post after sinne so fast.

Both Timothie and Titus, others moe,
Of rarest worth, though young, their youth-head chaind
In cords of temperance; made vertue grow
In fortitude; by which they glory gaind:
Nay; Alexander, in the prime of youth,
Was wondrous chast, till strangers taught him slouth.

The Persian manners spoild him: But behold!

Continencie by Pagans commended.

What good Aurelius said, the Romane King?
If I were sure, that lust were not controld,
Nor punishd by the gods, above which ring:
Yet for the fact it selfe, I will disprove it,
'Cause why? its filthy, base, and who can love it.

Would God! that younglings, and the fry of nature,
Could so resolve, and play the Pagans part;
Yea, old and young, and ev'ry humane Creature!
In this were blest, to take these words to heart:
Then modestie should live, Religion flourish,
And good example, one, another nourish.

A noble youth, been askd, whether he went?
Reply'd; he to the house of teares did go;
To mourne with Mourners, that he might lament,
And learne to weep, when he did older groe:
If hethnicks can show Christians such instruction.
Our blind-set eyes, had need of their conduction.

Who sowe in teares, shall surely reape in joy,
For godly griefe, shall blessednesse inherit:
They who thus mourne, and thus their soules imploy,
Are firmely shelterd, under Jesus merit:
Who shall transchange, their griefe, in glorious gladnesse,
True happinesse expells, all sorrowing sadnesse.

A brief tract of bitter repentance.

Blest were these teares, were spent, neare Cajaphs house!
By Peter griev'd, for imbecillitie,
Brought downe so low he was, nought could arrouze
His hope, for pardon, of infirmitie:
Yard-closde alone, he weept, and wofull hee,
With dolefull cryes, thus spoke, on flexed knee.

Have I (would he have said) deny'd my Lord,
With triple oathes, before the Cocke crew twice:
Which he foretold; ah! feare my faith had smord!
His looks accusd me, I had done it thrice:
Was it not I, who vowd with him to die,
And now forsworne, I from my Master flee.

Was I not Cephas, lately thought a Rock?
And now the tongue, of a base serving maide,
Hath made me shrinke, and turne a stumbling block;
We were but twelve, and one hath him betraide;
And I (as worst) have sworne, I knew him not,
Mov'd by the voice, of a weake womans throat.

O! that a Drudge! should thus prevaile 'gainst me,
Who serves for wage, to him the Altar serv'd:
A slendrer weed, could no poore Hireling be,
And yet o're me shee triumphs; I have swerv'd:
This was Gods will, and now its come to passe,
To show my weaknesse, with a weaker lasse.

Its strange! two Drudges made me falter thrice,
With quivring oathes, and shivring words deny
The Lord of life: How could such hounds surprise
My stedfast love? and not with him to die:
No Judge controll'd me, yet two slavish snakes,
Fill'd me with feare, with it, my Lord forsakes.

How fraile was I and fragile, to succumbe?
Mine hopes, unto such Wranglers void of grace;
I might have silence kept, and so sit dumbe,

Peters confession.

Till Cajaphas had tryde me, having place:
But I a Weakling, to a stragling sound,
Forsooke my vow, and did my selfe confound.

A silly fisher wretch, (no lesse he thought)
Was I, when God, from slaverie did me call;
And now to shrunke infirmitie am brought,
Worse then Judaick law, from Christ, to fall:
Who me select'd, to leave my nets, and when,
He said, Thou shal'st, a fisher be of men.

How shall I answer make? what shall I doe?
His sighs, thus sobd, for groanes, and melting eyes,
Were all his words: Or whats my kindred too?
So base neare Sydon borne? that my degrees
By birth were nought, but fisher men and fooles,
The scumme of Nature, liv'd by warbling tooles.

Was I a chosen Vessell, thus to shrinke,
When erst in Gethsemane, my sword I drew:
And now beginnes, to flatter, lye, and winke,
Yea; failes and falls, with words, and oathes untrue:
I might have with, my fellow flyers fled,
But I would follow, and forsake my Head.

Love bade me venter, feare bade me stay back,
Faith forcelesse fled, a farre I followed on him;
Poore fainting I, though forward now falls slack,
I went to see, what doome, they gave upon him:
Where courting Cajaphs fire (O snaring finne!)
Warming without, too cold I grew within.

I might have fled, to hide me in some cave,
But curious I, would swallow shame and feare:
Could I sustaine his crosse, his death and grave?
To suffer that, which nature could not beare:
All helpfull he! would he crave help unto it,
Nay, fond was I, to thinke that man could do it.

Alone would he! O! all sufficient he!
Straight undergoe, his fathers hote displeasure:
Both God and Man, our Lord behovd to be,
So weighty was that wrath, laid up in treasure
For sinfull man; but he all-conquering he!
Triumph'd o're Hell, got us the victorie.

Peter reprehending himself

My Lord, but spoke, Whom seek yee? (O strong power!)
And backwards fell, the Sergeants on the ground;
He knew, confess'd, it was their time, his houre,
For so his love, to mankinde did abound:
That as by Man, all flesh, accursd, should dye,
Even so by Man, all should redeemed bee.

Was I not witnes, to his word, and deed?
His miracles and mercies, workes of loue;
The Dumbe did speake, the Deaf did heare, the dead,
Hee raysd to lyfe; the Criples straight did moue;
The Palseyes, Paraliticks, withred hands,
Hee helpd, and heald; the blynd their sight commands.

Was hee not Christ, the Lambe, the sonne of God!
Whom I confessd, even face to face afore;
My soules Messias! who bore that heavy loade
Of Indignation; sinners to restore:
Both sacrifice, and Sacrificer plight!
A wondrous mercy, set before my sight.

For which; vile worme, how could my lips deny?
The Lord of glore, my life, my love, my light;
VVas he not there? and was not I hard by?
VVhen that his looke, gave me this sorrowing night:
Yet when my soules sharpe eyne, saw what was done,
My carnall eyes, in floods of teares did runne.

Faith wrought repentance, grace laid hold on grace,

Peters tears consummated in peace.

My bitter streames, like brine, extreamly gush'd:
I wrung my hands, and knock'd my breast apace,
VVhilst sighes, sad sobs, from deep-fetchd groanings rushd:
Then joy appeard, my conscience was assurd,
The fault was pardond, and my soule securd.

Thus Peter shrunke, his soule was humbled low,
(Not like to Popes, who his succession claime)
He sorrowing fell, and made contrition show
That he had faild: So did himself disclaime
From first election, and from former grace,
And causd remorse, give sad repentance place.

Then teares, O bitter teares! relenting woes!
And airie vapours, from salt-raining eyes;
Made windy sighes, and trembling groanes disclose
His lip-lost fall, the cause of his unease.
Thus teares are blest, which godly sorrow brings,
Each drop doth serve thy soule, to heaven for wings.

Though teares distill, and trickle downe thy cheeks,
So vanish quite, and seeme to thee as lost:
Their aire ascends, thy heart to God then speaks!

The blessed fruits of godly tears.

He harbours all, and is a gracious host:
The Font he loves, and thats remorse for sinne,
VVhich his grace works, before thou canst beginne.

Lord! frame my vvill to thine, and forme my heart,
To serve and feare thee, magnifie thy name;
In this obedience, thou mayst grace impart,
For from thy favour, I must comfort claime;
Grant me thine invvard peace, refresh my minde,
With sparkes of love, let sighs thy mercy finde.

All Mortals are, by nature miserable,
Then mourning is the habit, vve should vveare;
Who sinne deplores, his case is comfortable,
Yet none can shunne, prest natures sorrovving feare:
Flee vvhere thou vvilt, thou shalt not finde reliefe,
Though thou changst place, thou canst not change thy grief.

Mortalitie is miserable.

This life is but a Font, of springing teares,
Weeping vvee come, into this vvorld, vvith cryes;
And vveeping vve go out, fraught full of feares,
There's nought but sorrovv, in our journey lyes:
For vvhilst vvithin, this vaile of teares vve bide,
We're load vvith mourning, griefe is Natures guide.

Jacob been ask'd, by Pharo of his age,
Reply'd, that fevv, and evill, vvere the dayes
Of his abode, in fleshly pilgrimage:
He gave this life, no better stile nor praise:
Then sure vve're strangers, vvandring here and there,
On this vvorlds stage, each acting lesse or mair.

Mans a pilgrime here.

Nay, vve are pilgrimes here, tost to and fro,
There's no place permanent, on earth belovv:
Our dvvelling is above, then let us goe
To th' heavenly Canaan, vvhere all joyes flovv:
Jerusalem, Jerusalems above,
A glorious staunce, vvhere sits the King of love.

Its not Judeas citie, built with hands,
The holy grave, and Calvarie containes;
With Moriah, where Sal'mons Temple stands,
Nor Sions seat, where Davids Towre remaines,
Nor Pilats Hall, with farre moe relicks rare,
This City is eternall, great, and faire.

Nor is it compass'd, with Jehosophat,
And on the south, with strait Gehinnons valley;
Nor on the north, with Ennons den halfe flat,
Nor wall'd about, lest Arabs it assaillie:
This Citie is, impregnable, and more,
Its fenc'd about, with everlasting power.

Indeed like Olivet, it overtops
This squink Hebraick citie; and excells

Our heavenly Jerusalem.

All earthly Mansions, which destruction lops
With fatall ruine: O what sounding knells?
Fall from this fabrick, Angels singing musick!
To lure our soules, to take cœlestiall physick.

Then come stress'd thou, who loaden is and weary,
And here refresh, thy fatigating soule:
Make haste, and come; and now no longer tarry!
Lest others barre Thee, from Bethesdaes Poole;
When grace would touch thy sprite, thy heart is troubled
But be not slow, lest losse on losse be doubled.

Consider Lord! these times wherein we live!
And harken to, thy chosen deare Elect;
Let Israel joy, and thine enemies grieve,
No time good God, their sacrifice neglect;
But heare, and help them, guard them round about,
With heavenly hosts, and thine Angelick rout.

Sions tears

Looke downe on thy stress'd Sion, and her teares,
And bottle up her woes, within the Urne
Of thy remembrance: Grievous grow her feares!
By Wolves in Lambskins, topsolturvie turne:
Most fearfull seeme, these whirlewindes of time:
Bred from the base, seditious dregs of slime.

Such wound her sides, but can not dimme her light,
The blood of Saints, is her espousall seed;
When darkest stormes, would theat to bring downe night,
Thy Spouse triumphs, in Christ her soveraigne head:
No winde so high, nor wave so great, but grace,
Can calme sterne blasts, when thou seest time and place.

When Man is snard by sinne, and seemes as lost,
Then God drawes neare, and makes his Sprite prepare
The soule for grace: So when forlorne or crost,
Christs Church appeares, that even her Saints despaire:
Then comfort comes, the Lord will not exile her,
Nor let the spight and craft, of men defile her.

Sions beauty.

Pure like the gold is she, and christall cleare,
White as the snow, and sweeter than the hony;
Thy virgine Spouse, most neare to Thee and deare!
Is farre more precious, than ten Worlds of money:
The silver-fornace tryde, is not so fine,
Nor halfe so sweet, tasts Rethimosean wine.

Sions crosses.

Lord! looke upon her crosses, and relieve
Her troubled Saints for Thee, and for thy Sonne:
She springs through briers, and 'mongst sharpe thorns doth live
Like to the Rose, in midst of thistles wonne:
Her bloudy foes confound, protect her Saints,
Erect, maintaine their zeale; Lord heare their plaints.

Faire is thy sister, sweet thy Spousall love,
Her sent is bundled Myrrhe, fixt on her breasts:
She's thine cled with thy power, thine harmelesse Dove!
For in the Garden, of thy grace, she feasts:
Come clasp her in thine armes! come gracious Lord!
And shew thy Virgin Queene, misericord.

Red shines the blush of Sions fragrant flowres,
Greene spring her boughs, like Liban Cedars tall;
Swift flee her wings, to court her Paramours,
Knowne to her friends, but never knowne to all:
Whose purple Roabes are pure, and finer farre,
Then Tyrians wore, ere they were sackt by warre.

Like the Apple, in midst, of Forrest trees,
Thy Welbeloveds so, 'mongst sonnes of Men:
The fairest 'mongst Women, with radiant eyes,
Would succour have, to save her from the Den
Of darknesse black: Lift up thy face and see!
The spices, and ripe fruit of her fig-tree.

Whose breasts are like two twinnes, 'mongst Lillies fed,
Her rosie cheeks, more brighter than the Sunne:
One marke she beares, that in the soule is bred,
Another badge, lasts till our glasse be runne:
The thirds a sparke, that mounts to Heaven above,
The light of Saints, the love of endlesse Love.

Her richest garment, truth and righteousnesse,
And thats broudred, with mercy, grace, and peace;
Faithfull in all, and patient in distresse;
Constant to stand; unchangeable of pace:
And yet her beauty, Heavens no fairer fixe,
Than mens tradition, would the same ecclipse.

She's Catholick now, not ty'd to a place,
As Jewrie land, where God was onely knowne;
Christs Church, points forth the Universe; for grace,
Came with th' Evangel, peace to Pagans showne:
The Gentiles then were call'd, as well as Jews,
For mercy came with Jesus; Gospell news.

And yet there many darknesse love, than light,

Sinfull lust suddain darknesse.

For sinne craves silence, and umbragious places;
The cloud's their covert, and their friend the night,
The day their foe, their Darling obscure faces:
Thus blinde inveigling vice, turnes darknesse darke,
For jet-black sin, can dim their foggy warke.

Too many darknesse love, so sinne provides,
That blinded eyes, must follow blinde tradition:
Blinde are they bred, but blinder far their guides,
Who maske poore Ignorants, with superstition:
Whose Church maintaines, false miracles and treason,
Blood, murther, incest, powder plots, and poyson.

Besides this Church idolatrous; and drunk
With indulgence and pardons, Policies,
At Limbus forgd: Absurd for gaine; and sunk
In Purgatories, avarice, and lyes:
There other orient Churches, erre, and fall,
From Gospell truth; they know it not at all.

The Æthiopian, Abbasins, the Moore;
Ægyptian Gopties; Chelfanes, Georgians, Greeks,
Nostrans, Syriacks, Jacobines, what more?
Grosse Armenians, th' Amaronite, that seeks
Talp-drawne ignorance: all of which do swerve,
Tradition is the mistresse, whom they serve.

I could dive here, in their distract'd conceit,
And blinde surmises, sowne these parts abroad:
But I suspend; yet here's a dangerous state,
To cast opinions, on the face of God:
Their Patriarchs like themselves, do play the foole,
That will not square Religion, with Christs rule.

O! if I could with Jeremie lament!
The worlds great errours, and my fallings too:
And with grievd Ninivie, in time repent!
Lest with my slippings, justice me undo:
Thrice happy were I, in this resolution,
Ere death enhaunce my life, bring dissolution.

Yet soule despaire not, God is mercifull,

Plenty of mercy.

Long suffring, patient, full of kinde compassion:
His love to Man, is passing plentifull,
Whose grace and mercy, flow on our confession:
For if one teare for sinne, fall from our eyes,
He's pleas'd to pardon our infirmities.

How gracious then is God? how rich I say?
Is Christs redemption, fraught with saving bloud:
If we have faith in him, if we can pray?
And lift our eyes, fixt on the holy Rude:
And then to suffer, in our zeale those pangs,
Our Saviour thold, in this our welfare hangs.

My merit is thy mercy, that's the end!
Although good works, they are the way to heaven:
Yet not the cause, why I may there ascend,
That in thy love remaines, makes mine oddes eaven:
For if thou hadst not dyed? what had I beene?
And if not risen? what had my soule seene?

Thou wilt not gracious God, break the bruisde reed,
Nor quench the smoaking flaxe; for said thou hast,
That if our sinnes, were dy'd in scarlet red!
Thou'le make them white as snow, to let us taste
Of grace and gladnesse: 'Cause the broken heart
Thou'le not reject; contrition would convert.

Lord! thou ordaind, that death no flesh should shunne;
Cause why? it was, the doome and curse of sinne;
And so the punishment, of thy deare Sonne,
Which for our sakes, thy judgements cast him in:
That as the Divell, prevailed by a Tree,
So by a Tree, his power should vanquish'd be.

Then let the sight, of thy transgressions rude,
Draw drops of teares, from thine inunding eyes;
Since they did draw, so many drops of bloud
From thy Redeemers wounds; thy soule to ease:
And looke what David said, in faith and feare,
His sinnes were heavier, then his back could beare.

Then great was that sad burden Jesus bore,
In soule and body, to exstirpe this curse;
His Fathers wrath; our punishment therefore;

Christs Passion our salvation.

Our endlesse doome; eternall his secourse:
His agonies, our happinesse implord,
His bloody sweet, our detriments restord.

As in a garden, first our sinne began,
So in a Garden, our redemption sprung:
That in like place, where Adam, the first Man
Was by the Serpents craft, exactly stung:
So, so, in Gethsemaine, the Lord of light,
Triumph'd o're sinne, put Satan to the flight.

Then Christ is that pure glasse, wherein we spie
Our wants, our faults, or what amisse is done;
Within, instruction, without, examples lye,
Here death proclaimd, and there salvation:
The lists are set, then how can we come in,
But by repentance, sorrowing for sin.

How precious were these tears of Magdalen?
Who washt Christs feet, with eye-repenting drops;

Magdalen: teares.

Yea, with her haire, did dry these feet agen,
And kiss'd them, with her lip-bepearled chops:
Last, did anoint them, with a costly oyle,
For which the Traitour Judas, checkd such spoile.

Thrice sacred worke! but more blest oyle and teares,
Spent in the presence, of her soules Redeemer,
To expiat sinne: Whom now the dead endeares
To be a Saint; for so did Christ esteeme her:
And for which love, its memorie should last,
From age to age, till all ages be past.

Besides her owne salvation, she became,
A dayly follower, to her Lord and Master;
Yea, ministred things needfull; fed zeales flame
With heavenly food, whereof she was a taster:
Nay, to his death and grave, she never left him,
And witnesse bore, how thence his Godhead reft him.

Came not kinde Mary? weeping to this grave?
To looke for Christ, but could not finde him there;
The Angell spoke, and ask'd, Whom would you have?
Said she, To see my Lord, is all my care,
But he's not here! (alas!) he's stolne away!
And where he's laid, I know not, nor what way.

The winding-sheet she found, clos'd at both ends,
And close by the Tombe side, she sate her downe:
She sought, she felt, she search'd, and still suspends,
He was, and was not there: back to the towne
She bends her face, yet staid, and cry'd, and wept,
My Lord is stolne, whom souldiers watch'd, and kept.

The heavie stone roll'd back, which fourty men,
Could scarce advance; yet where's my loving Lord?
I'le runne and tell, let the Apostles ken!
What villanies this night, the Jews afford:
Yet gone, she soone turnd back, love masterd heart,
For from the Sepulchre, she would not part.

Nor did darke midnight fright her, nor the sight
Of two bright Angels, set at either end
Of his interrement; nor their words afright
Her mourning zeale; whose scope did deeper tend,
To seeke the Lord, who gave her light and grace,
And till she found him, would not leave the place.

At last Christ, in, a humane shape appear'd,
Whom she mistooke, and for a Gardner deemd:

Christ reveals himself to Mary Magdalen.

Said he, Why wepst thou? whom seekst thou? she feard,
Said, Tell me, if, thou stole him, us redeemd:
Then Jesus nam'd Mary; she turnes about,
And cry'd Rabboni, with a joyfull shout.

This lessons us, that when we fast or pray,
We should not faint, but hope our suite shall speed:
He'le come, and come in time, though he delay,
Our suite he'le grant, though we mistake the deed:
Then Mary-like, let faith, charge hope, and do it,
Faile not, be instant, grace shall bring thee to it.

Christ, from the worldly wise and great, kept back
These mysteries, which silly ones did see:
And why? his will, did this poore woman take,
To witnesse that he rose, and rose on hie:
That by his resurrection, we might rise,
To cut the clouds, and rent the azure skies.

As mines of gold and silver, still are found
On barren Hills, and scurrile fruitlesse parts:
So faith, so feare, so zeale, Religion sound!
Are chiefly plac'd, and fixt, in pooremens hearts:
Did not Christs wisedome, this foresee, and choosd
The scummes of Nature, whom the world refusd.

Lord! grant with Magdalen, I spend my teares!
With sighing sadnesse, to implore thy pittie;
That when my conscience, shall be void of feares,
I then may know, thou hast destroy'd my dittie:
Speake peace, I pray thee, to this soule of mine,
Since what I have, is all, and onely thine.

As fire reserves, two properties well mixt,

Fire hath two properties.

The one to warme, the other light to shoe:
So mercy hath two branches, better fixt,
Love to give peace, and pardon to forgoe:
For pittie rules the helme, and Mans distresse
Craves calme, in midst, of stormie wickednesse.

Like so, are troubles, th' whetstone that doth square
Stress'd hearts with prayer; humble them most low:
Why? cause adversities, they still prepare
The soule with patience, to sustaine the blow:
All crosses to the just, their well intend,
The cause being Christs, their suffrings in him end.

Thou Joy of joyes, sweeter farre than sweetnesse,
Thy mercy is that balme, which heales my sores:
Thou peace, and pittie, oynt my wounds with wetnesse,
No drouth of sinne, can chink, my weeping gores:
Why? cause each sinne, begets a source of teares,
When sinne evapourats, then grace appeares.

Then pardon, fraught with pittie, stops the Font,
Lest sorrow melt the soule, in anxious sadnesse:
Deep sobs, and windy sighes, above they mount!
Whence they returne, surchargd with godly gladnesse:
No sinne so sterne, but mercy can suppresse it,
If with repenting grief, we but confesse it.

Lord save me from presumptuous sinnes, and save
My soule from sinnes desert; mercy is thine!
All my transgressions, kinde remission crave,
They lye before thee (though the fault is mine)
Begging for pardon, pardon they implore,
And in my frailnesse, guiltinesse deplore.

A wounded conscience, who can beare that load?
O racking sting! that galles the quivring soule:
All sweet chastisements, of thy gentle rod,
Are cleansers, for, to purge our errours foule:
But this mad grief, contracts a gnawing worme,
Tempestuous whirlewindes, of an endlesse storme.

Ther'st no flying from Gods presence.

What quick evasion? shall my flight contrive?
To hide me from thy face, what way? or where?
If in the depths I drench, lo! thou canst dive:
If to the utmost coasts? lo! thou art there!
What umbrage, Cell, or Cave, the world about,
Can me nascond, but thou wilt finde me out.

Above, else deep beneath, or here below,
Thy presence is: Then whither shall I flee?
There is no point, but that point thou dost know,
Though smaller, than, the smallest haire can bee:
No rocks, nor hills, nor darknesse can me night,
Nor blacknesse vaile, from thy all-seeing sight.

Then in a word, there's no refuge for me,
But flye to thee, whose sight I can not shunne:
To beg for peace, and grace to mortifie
My sinfull lusts; before my glasse be runne:
Lord! let mine eyes distill, like melting sleet!
Or Marie-like, who washd with teares thy feet.

It is the minde, and not the Masse thou seeks,
My sprit is thine, and longs to be refinde:

God craves the heart.

By it thou knowst, my secreet wayes and creeks,
Whether I be, to good, or ill inclinde:
My soule's the Ruther, of my journey here,
Be thou my Pilot, safely loofe, and steere.

Conduct me straight, to thy Cœlestiall Port,
That in the Sabboth, of eternall rest,
My soule may reigne: And with the Angels court
Thy face, with joyes, that cannot be exprest:
Where all content, in fulnesse of rich pleasures,
Shall them attend, in overjoying measures.

Who here within, this Domicile of dust?
And boggy baggage, of a stinking lump?
Would stay to eat, the excrements of lust,
And feed on filthinesse, that rotten stump:
Nay, none but Abjects; holy Ones rejoyce,
To be dissolvd, make happynesse their choice.

But some heart-sunke, in worldly greed and cares,
Would build their Paradise, in this base life:
And by extreames, involve them selves in snares,
Hating the truth, in falshood spend their strife:
And what envy, can not accomplish? they
Will make extortion, all their hatred swey.

Can thou forgivenesse crave, for thy misdeeds?
And will not first, forgive anothers wrongs:
How can thou pray, or thinke thy prayer speeds?
When in thy heart, thou malice keeps; and long:
To be revengde: This is no Christian life,
To pray and praise, when sunke in spite and strife.

Away with envy, malice, pride and hate,
Let not the Sunne go downe, upon thy wrath:
Live to the Lord, and live in holy state,
Love one another, there's the marke of faith!
Live, and live holy, whom thou serves regard!
He'le come, and come in haste, with thy reward.

Greed breeds envie.

Then be not Spider-like, that doth exhaust
It selfe, in workes, of little use, and time:
Nor like the Indians rude, absurd, devast,
That will give gold, for glasse, rich gemmes for slime:
And precious stones, for toyes, and trifling things,
Which strangers bring; knives, whistles, beeds, brasse rings.

All smell of greed, though not of perfect wit,
Then hang not downe thy head, for lack of trash:
Let Cræsus be, thy Lydian Mappe! he'le fit
Thy greedy humours, with a falling dash:
All which are shades, of floating vanities,
Mans onely constant, in unconstancies.

Shall rich Saturnia, with her cramming gold?

A contempt of riches.

Deceive my heart, and move my minde to swell:
Or with false lookes, vaine hopes to me unfold?
To snare my thoughts, which vertue may expell:
A figge for worldly baits; a tush for greed!
For being poore, Ime rich in having need.

And why? 'cause povertie, that is so light,
As being weigh'd, in ballance with the winde,
Doth hang aloft: Then can not seeme no weight!
Nor dare to sit, as sad, on my free minde:
Say, if it should, it were some fainting thought
Would me deject; for povertie is nought.

Then all my riches, is content I see,
A stock more sure, than Wealth can Worldlings lend:
Poore was I borne, and as poore must I die,
Unlesse good luck, a chest, to death extend:
Get I a sheet, to wrappe up my dead bones,
I'me richer far than gold, or precious stones.

Seven foot of ground, and three foot deep I crave,
The passing bell, to sound mine obsequie:
Gold, lands, and rents, the living world I leave,
Else if I smart, by streames, by flouds, or sea:
Then shall some fishes belly, be my grave,
No winding sheet, my Corps shall need to have.

But stay! what passion, thus diverts my minde?
Dust shall to dust, and earth to earth returne;
If I can here, true peace of conscience finde,
What losse? what trash? what crosse? can make me mourne:
For when laid low, and having lost this frame,
My soule shall mount to Heaven, from whence it came.

The immortall substance of the soul.

The soule it is, of heavenly substance fram'd,
Breathd in at mans nostrils, by his Maker;
A sprit invisible, Gods image nam'd,
With whom of Essence, infinite partaker:
Will, mem'rie, knowledge, faculties divine,
Are my soules socialls, reason do confyne.

Will, is to rule, and knowledge to conceave,
And memorie, a locall power assumes;
Knowledge, as chief, makes understanding crave
A league with love, whose worke true blesse resumes:
Lo! there's the fruit, of this cœlestiall mould!
Which never here shall rot, nor hence grow old.

Then teach me, Lord! to count my slyding dayes,
That I to wisedome, may my heart apply:
So shall thy statutes, guyde my slipprie wayes,
And circumspection, all my actions try:
Who knew his date of life? and might attaine it?
Would learne to live well, else he would disdaine it.

We're apt to note, the lives of other men,
But not our owne; selfe-love, our sense divides;
Like two ships, under saile, and one course, ken?
Both sailers think, each other swifter glides
Than their owne ship: So we can check and show
The lives of others, and our owne misknow:

Our haires growne gray, our desires then grow greene,
And after earthly things, we hunt amaine;
We love this world so well, as oft its seene!
That we are dead with grief, ere death hath slaine
Us with destruction: Age would faine be young,
To nurse the serpent, that his soule hath stung.

Man lives like him, who fell into a pit,
Yet caught a grippe, by a branch'd tree, and hung
Above his head, a hony Combe did sit,
Whence his deep appetite, delight had wrung:
Below two gnawing wormes, razing its roote,
The tree fals downe, and greed devourd the fruit.

The pit our grave, the Tree, this mortall life,
This hony combe, vaine pleasures of the world;

The misery and shortnesse of life.

Two gnawing wormes, the speedy thiftu'ous strife,
Of night and day, wherein our dayes are hurld:
Time clouds our light, the glasse is runne, we fall,
Downe to the dust, where death triumphs o're all.

Then darknesse covers Man, he mouldring rots,
Earth gluts him in her wombe, away he goes!
His better part, resumes one, of two lots,
No shade, nor sepulchre, can it enclose:
It either mounts above, or falls beneath,
There is no midst, can stop, or stay its path.

Each course is violent, faith conquers Heaven,
By force and wrestling, in the way of light;
VVhich strait is, and few enter: Most are driven
Downe to the gulfe, of ever-sorrowing night:
That way is broad, where numbers, numberlesse,
Fall in earths Cell, plungd in cursd wofullnesse.

Such as the life's, so frequently the death,
The Divels deceit, prolongs us in delay:
Then wouldst thou flee that pestilence? set faith
Against temptation: Runne the happy way
That leads to life: Make thy confession cleare!
And beg for peace, then mercy will draw neare.

Yet ah! how fraile am I? how weak? how wretchd?
That even my conscience, trembles at my cace:
Alas! poore sleeping soule! how art thou stretchd?
In drousie dulnesse, void of good, and grace:
Pluck up thy selfe, condole, confesse, convert,
And strive to stand, although thy steps divert.

The Compasse stands not, solide to the Pole,
Though with the Loadstone, any point is touchd;
But hath some variation, we controle,
To the East or West, as hourely is avouchd:
So none of our best deeds, though touchd with grace,
Points God amaine, deflection marres our pace.

Which made Saint Paul, ingenuously confesse,

Frailtie and falling follow man.

That by himselfe, he nothing knew, nor could
Be thereby justify'd; 'cause his digresse
Was judg'd by God; the Loadstone true that would
Point forth each point; and yet forget, forgive,
The least, the maine, the guilt, for which we grieve.

The Woman for adultrie, been accusde,
Was brought to be adjudgd before our Lord:
Their thoughts he saw, and what deceit they usde;
They fled, she stood, and found misericord:
Woman (said he) thine adversars are gone,
Ile not condemne thee, mercy is my Throne.

How good and gracious, was the light of grace,
That purgd, and pardond, this Woman unrequested:
She's gone, and freed, the law could take no place,
No roome for Moses, when his Master feasted:
For why? from double death, he set her free,
The Judge was pleader, he discuss'd the pleye.

Alas! when I recall, preteriat times,
What losse finde I, in my lost dayes and deeds:
For morall slips, a world of weightier crimes,
And to condemne me, justice, judgement pleads:
Yet stay sad soule, conceive, confesse, condole,
With me my sinnes, my frailties Ile controule.

What frivole fancies, flow from my flowne minde?
Which often blinde my judgement; and divert
My better aimes; whilst reason can not finde
The cause of such delusions; for I smart
In their velocitie; abusing will,
They thrall combustion, to assist their ill.

What foolish prancks, in gesture, deed, or word?

The varieties of vanitie.

What fond conceits, in flash-flowne merryments?
What scoffing squibs, which taunting mocks afford?
What idle straines, in vaine spent complements?
Have I not done; and in such actions quick,
To foole my fellows, with a jeering trick.

This thought, that surmise, this flash, that reglance,
Of suddaine, motions, else of flowne conceats:
More voluble they were, than wide-wingd chance!
Which tops all things, all where, and at all dates:
There's nought more swift than fancie, nought more fond,
More light than winde, which flees, and is not found.

Then, Lord, ingraft in me, a constant heart,
Sound, grave, and solid, holy, wise, and just:
Prudent in much, and provident in part,
That all, my all, may in thy mercies trust:
Rule thou the Ruther of my foggy minde,
Lest in dark mists I wander, and turne blinde.

Bring me unto my selfe, from outward things,
And from my selfe, even to thy selfe, bring me;
That I in chast will, and pure desirings,
May be like Thee, as I'me in nature: see?
Lord set me wholly, on fire with thy love,
That my lights, and delights, in Thee may move.

This Worlds a Mappe, of transitorie toyes!
Which to expostulate, were labour lost;
A shaddow mask'd, with hypocritick joyes,
Fals in the face, and hollow in the cost:
And whats our love, or life? when dead, ere rotten?
Our short stay here, is presently forgotten.

Man like to vapour melts, wealth as the winde,
Doth flee away; and honour like fond dreames,
Dissolves to nought; so Parentage we finde
Unnaturall oft: Yea, children by extreames,
Rebellious grow: So mighty men grow meane,
And meane men great; this change is daily seene.

Would God mens sonnes, could learne how Storks they do!
Who, when their old growne weake, diseasde, distrest,
Their young ones beare them, on their backs; and lo!
They flee with them all where, from nest, to nest;
With care they keep them, bring them what they need,
Though they them selves, have their owne young to feed.

Its strange ætheriall love, should passe humane!

Ingratefull children to aged parents.

For our young brood, would have their Parents die;
That they might get their goods, and thereby gaine,
If poore, so want, they will them straight denie:
Nay, slight them, scorne them, raile on their distresse,
Thus they decline, and here their wretchednesse.

O lovelesse age! you might this fault amend!
And pittie Nature, gave you life to live;
Be not like Vipers, for to make an end
Of these, who did, your blood and beeing give;
If not the Turtle, play the Eagles part,
Since Parents are, your Pelicanes in heart.

All thinges runne contrare, in a head-strong change,
The world growes grim, mens hearts grow false and double;
Twixt sonne and father, this is nowayes strange,
To see each one, forsake anothers trouble:
Nay, friends, familiars, blood, kinred, mother,
Live most in strife, no love 'twixt one another.

So elements are changd, in part from nature,
But above all, the earth growes bare and old;
The Moones prest influence, failes in some Creature,
Short falls her force: The Sunne growes tyrde and cold,
And seasons frozen; the airie clouds convert
In boistrous windes: most Climes! like tributes part.

Most grounds grow barren, and their fruits are blasted,
And bestiall perish, by depressing stormes:
The aire's, intemperate, and the fields ly wasted
With nipping frosts, and canker spoiling wormes:

Elemental changes.

Nay, mens conditions change, and Christian love
Growes worse then barbarous, we hourely prove.

Mercy, good Lord! grant mercy, for thy Name
Is Mercy, mercy, Lord of kinde compunction:
Father of pittie, compassion we claime,
Lover of love, thou life of loves conjunction:
Come patient Syre! O thou long suffring God!
And slow to anger; come! spare thy threatning rod.

The present miseries of Christendome.

Looke downe on Christendome, this Westerne world,
Whose lands, (with fatall sword) are drunk with blood
Where Kings and kingdomes, in combustions hurld!
Turne spectacles of scorne, to Pagans rude:
There is no Nation, within Christian bounds,
That suffers not disasters, threats, or wounds.

The Infidell beholds, and swearing sayes,
That our Religion, is a bare profession:
For Christs dishonourd, in our ambitious wayes,
No faith we show, farre lesse of truth confession:
Pryde, puft with malice, is our Christian marke,
Deceit, despight, our daylie divelish wark.

Here wounds, there bloud, here death, and there disasters,
Here Mothers mourning, for their slaughterd sonnes:
There Widdows weeping, servants for their Masters:
Here helplesse Orphanes, bursting forth starv'd groanes:
There sisters for their brothers, sorrowing sore,
Last fatall framelings, one another gore.

This universall scourge, is grievous great,
For kindred, nor alliance, nought can swage:
Faith, for performance, breeds but greater hate:
Deep words and seales, turne reason ragg'd in rage,
Kinde honesty is fled, true love exyld,
And conscience with deceitfulnesse defyld.

Looke on this halfe Europian angry face!
And thou shalst see, the mother of mischiefe!
Point forth at Rome, that hollow hellish place,
Eye but her Prelats, hatchers of our grief!
And thou shalft finde, that Antichristian Whoore!
Would nought but Millions, for one life devoure.

She hunts her hounds abroad, and they obey,

The craftinesse and cruelty of Rome.

Some worke, some runne, some plot, some poyson Nobles;
Some treason hatch, some murder! what they say,
Is fac'd with Sophistrie; perjurie doubles
Their mentall muttrings: The Jesuites their Trumpet!
Must sound the cruelties, of that Babell Strumpet.

At home, we have at home! at home, alace!
A world of woes, and rogueries of like kinde:
I could, I would, I should, bewray this cace!
I dare, but dare not, signifie my minde:
That faction is so strong, and I so weake,
That thrice the Prison, they my lodging make.

They bragge like Butchers, of their beastly deeds,
And laugh at cruelty, as at a play?
Their hornes they push, and policie them leads,
Nought but mischief, their head-strong course can stay:
And glutting gape, to have old rotten Rome
Erect'd our Mistresse, else them selves consume.

What kinred can they claime, to Tybers banks,
(The river shallow, and in Summer dry)
We have Gods word, and they posternall blanks,
The light here shines, with them doth darknesse lye:
Or shall the truth, in foppish relicks rest,
That were to Britaine, an Egyptian pest.

But stay, O stay! long have I liv'd, and liv'd
To see their blindnesse, in dejections fall;
I know their wayes, and at their lives have griev'd,
They pierce our wills, and we their projects thrall:
Is any under Sunne, so well acquainted,
VVith them, as I, whose body they tormented.

They wish that Malaga had burnt me quick,
As doom'd I was so, by Spaines Inquisition:
Whose tortures (ah!) fast to my bones doe stick,
And vexe me sore, with pangs of requisition:
Great God avenge't, confound them; and restore
Me to my health; for Ile debord no more.

Lord, give me grace, of all things to praise Thee,
Who never leaves thine owne, left in distresse:
Thou first discoverd, then deliver'd me,
A worke of love, beyond my hopefulnesse,
I sought, thou wrought, then did enlarge my life,
Free from destruction, last, from Papall strife.

Now to observe my method, Ile returne
To square construction, with deploring Saints:
Then here's my rule, Ile both rejoyce and mourne,
For teares bring joy, when mercy crownes complaints:
The just man sinnes, seven times a day; and I
Full seventy seven times, may each houre descry.

Oh! if mine eyes! like Arathusean Springs,
(Fled Greece to Syracuse) could yeeld three Fonts:
One to bewaile originall sinne, stings
The life of nature; the other (ah!) amounts
To actuall trespasse; the last, and worst comes in,
To consuetude, a deadly dangerous sinne.

Comparisons of freedome from sin.

Yet as the Malefactour, when set free
From death and pardond; his heart is overjoyed;
Or as the Prisner, set at libertie,
Which long before, he never had enjoyed:
So Man, when freed from sinne, and Satans clawes,
His soule triumphs, and loves religious lawes.

A shipwrackt man, cast on some planke to seeke,
The safe set land; which got, how glad is he?
So shipbroke sinners, in some stormie creek,
Of sinfull seas, and sterne iniquitie:
Beene free to coast the shoare of grace, and landed,
More greater joy, than theirs, nev'r soule commanded

A wandring sonne, long forraniz'd abroad,
In Parents hopes, left desolate, or slaine:
Yet when returnd, and shaken off the load
Of strangers rites; how they rejoyce amaine?
So Saints, so Heavens, so Angels joy, when changd,
One sinner turnes, who long from God hath rangd!

These teares at Babell spent, on Tigris banks,

The Jewish tears on Babilons banks.

Where Euphrates salutes, that stately station:
Sowre-set Hebraick plaints, powr'd forth by ranks,
Of mourning Captives, banishd from their Nation,
And Sions face: O sad Judaick songs!
Wailing for sinne, and sterne Chaldean wrongs.

None of their teares were lost, they pierc'd the heavens,
Whence kinde compassion, free deliv'rance sprung,
God from his deoperculate Cherubins!
Imbracd these feares, his chosen flock had stung:
Then Mordecais sackcloth, Queene Esthers woes,
Wrought Hamans death, made Israel to rejoise.

Thus teares, and pale repentance, brought reliefe,
Though once exyld, see now, they're back-reclaimd:
The least construction, bred from godly griefe,
Begets like mercy, mercy stands proclaimd:
At Heavens court gate: for Christ the trumpet sounds!
And bids all sinners come, he'le heale their wounds.

VVho pleads for peace, shall mercie finde with God,
The oyle of grace, shall oyle their stinking gores;
All fatigating soules, griev'd with the load
Of sinne, may come, whose case remorse deplores:
For sanctify'd crosses, all just Mens troubles,
Are not prest sorrows; Mercy! comfort doubles.

I never finde affliction, fall on me,
VVithout desert; for God is true and just:
Nor shall it come, and without profit be,
For God is good, as mercifull I trust:
Then welcome all afflictions sent from God,
He whom he loves, he chastens with his rod.

Correction begets awe.

VVho loves his childe, administers correction,
And keeps him under awe, cause of complainers;
Yet notwithholds, kinde Natures best affection,
But curbes his will, to rectifie his manners:
Much more Gods love abounds, cause we are fraile,
And playes the Jayler, then becomes our baile.

He lets us fall, that he may raise us up,
And though we sinke, we can not headlong drowne,
By gentle stripes, he represents the cup
VVhich Christ drunk of; our patience for to crowne:
As Peter sunke, then shrunke, was twice recall'd,
So if we sinke, or slyde, we are not thralld.

The love of God is free, his mercy gracious,
There's no constraint, binds God, to pittie man;
But of free will, would make our soules solacious,
To glorifie his goodnesse; if we can
But apprehend by faith, what he hath done.
For us, through Christ, his onely righteous Sonne.

Man pondring on his momentany dayes,
May well conceive, the brevitie of time:
From which extract, he should contract the praise
Of him, who hastes, to short the sense of slime:
And if it were not, for his owne Elect,
He would prolong the day, and speed neglect.

What is this age of ours? much like a span;
Yea; like the water buble, shent, as swelld;
Even as the glyding shade, so fadeth Man,
Or like the morning grasse, soone sprung, soone quelld:

Short and evil are our dayes.

Nay, like the flowre which falls, then rots ere noone,
So melt our dayes, and so our dayes are done.

And yet what are our dayes, the longest liver?
As one man once, I saw, seven score yeares old:
Nay, diverse six score, health was such a giver
Of lengthning time, ere they returnd to mould:
And yet a dreame, whose larger halfe of life,
Was spent in sleep, the rest in toile and strife.

Oh! if ambitious men! their ends were showne!
That like the froth, do beat on rocks of death:
That shadow short, from a fled substance flowne,
Much like a dreame, so vanisheth their breath:
Then would their deeds, forbeare to tyranize,
The Just might live, and offer sacrifice.

But (ah!) their thundring spight! like t'a storme thuds!
And boasting men, would thereby God upbraid;
The light they scorne, and in Infernall clouds,
Would smother vertue, with a sanguine spade;
Is not this Christian world, with bloud o'rewhelmde?
Their swords with strife, their heads with hatred helmde.

See! godlesse Tyrants, tyrannizing still,
And scourging Saints, themselves they scourge with shame:
Like Nimrod they, 'gainst Heaven will have their will!
Though justice, in sad judgements plague the same:
At last, behold! where they themselves sojourne,
Their threatning swords, back in their bosome turne.

When Dionisus for tyranny had fled,
He kept a schoole, in Calabria, eight yeares:
At Montecilion, opposite indeed
To Sicilie; which he at last endeares:
A king to turne a schoolemaster, was strange!
But back to turne a King, a rarer change.

In this our age, what kings have beene dis-thrond,
Detect'd, cast downe, last banish'd from their bounds:
I could recite, and where th' injust were crownd,
And Princes headlong, hurled from their grounds:
Pryde fosterd spight, with them the Ulcer brecks,
Which gored the harmelesse, broke ambitious necks.

Would God mens choler, could with patience lurke!
To blunt the edge of anger, and to curbe
With Job their passion; let forbearance worke
The stress'd Athenian suffring: Not disturbe
Times meek-fac'd calmenesse, prosperous in peace.
With which no soile, more blest was, once than Greece.

Have I, said Athens, beene the mother nurse!

Athens made the mother and mirour of miseries.

Of lib'rall Airts, and science, Natures light;
And now my Carcase, beares the vulgar curse,
Of Spartaes scorne; and Lacedemon spight:
Shall malice tread on vertue? shall disgrace?
Of neighbours hate, on my gold tresses trace.

Though thirty one Invaders on me prey,
Each one triumphing, in anothers ill:
Yet flexe I not, though forc'd for to obey,
No pride shall presse my patience; nor good will,
Gaine me to flatter: Nor puft Tyrants shall
Bruise me in pieces, though I suffer thrall.

Yet was her Virgine body, made a Whoore
To ev'ry proud Insulter; and her fame
A Strumpets voice: Whom Mars did once defloure,
And turning Harlot, robd her Vestall name:
The Victors glutting, on her vanquishd spoyles,
Made griefe guide sorrow; Fortune fixt her foyles.

In this digression, take a morall note,
From slaughterd Athens, now a village left;
That all beginnings, (not their endings) quote,
Have floorishd faces, from their spring-tyde reft:
Their Medium is not long, the morne is all,
And then their end, in lumps of fragments fall.

What once was Ilium? Tyrus now calld Sur?

The inconstancie of worldly pride.

And Ninivie, whose ruines are ruind.
Seven ported Thebes, rich in silks and Furre,
And Carthage, Africks glory, now declind:
Nay, save of three, some monuments are showne,
The other two, their seats, are hardly knowne.

So Antioch, whence sprung the Christian name,
And Sions Dame, Judeas sacred citie:
Yea, Alexandria, famous in her fame,
With Babylon, the remaindure of pittie:
Though not like Jericho, a lumpe of stones,
They're but rent relicks, of their former ones.

A wondrous thing of Nature, I observe,
When Xerxes cross'd, the Hellespontick sea:
In greatest grandure, then begunne to swerve
From Princely courage, staid dexteritie:
Where when the Pontick waves, with troups were cled,
Of numbers, numberlesse, and he the head.

Ambitious Xerxes, bewailing the brevitie of life.

Then brust he forth in teares, and wept amaine,
(Gazing on thousands, which his puissance brought)
And said, This sight, and all this glorious traine!
Within an hundred yeares, shall come to nought:
I weep (said he) 'cause nothing here can stay,
But like full streames, they slide, and steale away.

My horse, my Chariots, Engynes, men of warre,
And Souldiers strong, shall all dissolve in dust;
My spight 'gainst Greice, and their imperious jarre,
My greed of honour, their revenge injust,
Which Sardis bore: Shall eftsoone be as they,
Had never beene, so mortall things decay.

Thus mournd this Pagan King, whose rule may learne
Most moderne Tymes, to waile like consequence:
For in which Mappe, true judgement may discerne,
That ancient dayes, had full experience
Of natures frailtie, changings, mortals being,
Whose restlesse course, was sight-lost shadows flying.

So day and night, on two extreames depend,
Either to lengthen, or to shorten prest:
The restlesse tides, like alterations spend,
By Cynthias waxing, waining is exprest:
The seasons runne, foure times the yeare about,
And are renewday, as their times go out.

No state doth solide stand; Man most mutable!
In fortune, or himselfe, each leaving other:
He carelesse fled from meanes: If disputable?
His meanes are fled from him, to court another:
Whats mine to day, to morrow may be thine,
And whats thine now, next day, it may be mine.

Nor is their health in beauty, nor in strength,
Of body soundnesse: Subject to disease,
Is ev'ry creature; young and old at length,
Shall feele infirmities; Natures worst unease,
Graft in corruption: None can sicknesse shunne,
But he must suffer, ere his glasse be runne.

Such sowre flagelloes, are the rods of nature,
To whippe the childe of lust, with sound correction:
Cause why? they're Moulds, where grace renews each creature,
And makes chastisements, signifie affection:
Nay, they're preparatives, against sterne death,
Beene fenc'd with patience, flankd about with faith.

All which denote, men should not fixe their hearts,
On transitorie things, or trash below:
All under sunne, in whole, in rest, or parts,
Are Emblemes of inconstancie I know:
Man, Beast, and Tree, Wealth, Honour, Health, and Fame,
Are but crost Changelings, of this changing Frame.

Whats heere (beholde!) but toyle, and worldlie losses?
Sinne, shame, and sorrow, trouble, griefe, and scorne,

This life is loaden with crosses:

Spight, strife, and malice, ignorance, and crosses,
Adversities sterne face; friendship forlorne:
Pryde flankd with povertie, Tyrants infliction,
Of gall'd oppression, to adde distresse affliction.

Such passive moods, are frequent growne, that now
Old crazd calamitie, begins to quiver:
Both rich and poore, live timerous, and how?
The one to keep whats got: The others feaver,
Burnes for to get, the first, fears losse, and trembles,
The seconds patience, with content dissembles.

In Citie, Court, and Countrey, here's their fall,

The flattery of Courts.

Deceit, deceives them, with deceitfull stings;
But most in royall Mansions! there's the gall!
Where Sophistrie, speaks two contrary things:
And neither thinks to do: Here flattrie stands,
To blinde the truth, there ambodextrate hands.

Then blest are they! who live at home in rest,
And neither follow Court, nor courtly toyes:
That life is sweet, and of all lives the best,
For homely Houlds, are chargd with privat joyes:
Most Courtiers mouthes, seeme kind, with hearts as hollow
As derne Sybillas Hall, which few can follow.

To day they smile, and promise what you would,
And fill stress'd suppliants, with inunding hopes:
To morrow as unkinde, and frozen cold,
And tramp in dust, their suiters sad-sought scopes:
Unlesse their palmes, you oynt, with sov'raigne ore,
Your suite is lost, and you left to deplore.

The very Dunse, that yesterday was base,
When having got an office, looks as hie
As skie-set clouds, then will cast downe his face,
And squinke acquaintance, to have courtesie:
This Ruffian, who did homage thee before,
Now thou must beck to him, and him implore.

Tell Courtiers of repentance, they will mock!
And turne their teares in taunts, and scoffing jests;
He who feares God, they hold him as a block,
Its vice and foolerie, their conceit digests:
They never dreame of judgement, nor of death,
But spend in complements, their flattering breath.

Let none mistake, nor misconstruct my minde,
I meane of Courts, in generall all where;
There's good and bad, in any hollow kinde,
Both men and beasts, in this may claime their share:
A Savage, I have found, as kinde in part,
As best thought Christians, save the noble heart.

All I desire, and what my soule can wish!

Sions prosperitie prayed for.

Is that the truth may stand, and vertue flourish;
Lo! there's the daintie, of an holy dish!
To feed poore soules, and humble ones to nourish:
And for this cause, each one should pray with other,
Gods word may prosper, and his Church our mother.

Lord spread the Mantle, of thy mercy round
About the borders, of her glorious shrine;
Enlarge her power; let earths remotest bound,
Stand for the limits, of her light divine:
That thou who on bright Cherubins doth ride,
May guide, and guard, the beauty of thy Bride.

I'le dive no more in sinne, and crooked wayes
Of rotten nature, which corruption brings:
Nor from the worlds example, draw these strayes
Of th' head-strong multitude: confusion stings:
Ile lay about the Ruther of my minde,
To keep a safer loofe, and thirle the winde.

What rapt cœlestiall, forceth my desire?
To be dissolv'd; my soule may mount aboue,
To see these joyes, that blesse, that glorious hyre?
Which Saints enjoy; lifes ever-springing love!
My hope resumes, I might as happy rest,
In pleasures there, as they are happy blest.

Now I returne (good God turne thou to me)
As Travellers, who have been long abroad;
Are forc'd by love, their soile and friends to see,
No rest, till then, their hearts, the way have trode:
So I'me estrangd, my Countrie is above,
Heaven is the place, thou Lord, my light, my love.

Great is the glory, of thy glorious face!
Enstall'd with Angels; Saints, and Martyres gone:
Set fore the Throne, with legions of each race,
Singing applauses, to that blessed One,
The Lambe of Love; our Advocate, thy Sonne,
Who by his death, wrought our Salvation.

Fixe fast my thoughts, to the tree of thy crosse,
Draw all the forces of my soule to Thee:
Lift up my heart, let me renounce the drosse,
And dregs of ill; let me aspire on hie!
And walke 'twixt feare and love, in all my deeds,
As thou 'twixt justice, and mercy proceeds.

The Sun shines on the good and bad.

Thy vertues are for us, sufficient great,
Like as the Sunne it shines, the World all where;
Yet ev'ry man, enjoyeth so much heat,,
As if it shinde to him, in proper share:
So are thy graces, infinite, and we
Enjoy the fruits of their felicitie.

But what? our lives are short, so are our dayes!
Except in troubles! miseries, alace!
Our continuance certaine, in uncertaine wayes,
No time of death is knowne, to us nor place:
Gods will is so, to have us still prepard,
And set on watch, lest that our steps be snard.

Each minutes life, steps forward to sterne death,
And ev'ry act, robs some part of our life;
Like him who sailes in ships, and action hath
In toylesome paines, yet forward flees his strife:
We can not twice returne in Natures state,
'Cause time runs post, and can make no retreat.

My Sunne of life, hath his Meridian past,
And plungd I am, in th' after-noone of age;

Our day nor time can never returne.

The night of Nature, fastens on me fast!
And death waits closse, to pull me from this stage;
But Lord, thou wilt not, leave my soule in grave,
Let ly the Corps, they'le once conjunction have.

Now having sung, of deep remorse, and teares,
Lord! save me from these weeping teares of Hell;
Which grief declares, and ever-gnashing feares!
For losse of joy; and sense of horrours fell:
Who would not here, a few spent teares disclose,
Shall there bewaile, in floods of bitter woes.

As sea-bred fishes, never saltnesse wed,
But still their bodies, stay both sweet and fresh:
So grant my soule, thats with corruption cled,
May live as pure, not medling with the flesh:
But sinne begins first, in the sillie soule,
And ends into the body, base and foule.

Christ is our Physician.

What shall I say? when mans rot in disease,
And ulserd sore, the Phisitian draws neare,
To give him pills and potions, worke his ease,
And lets him blood, he may his health endure:
Much more Christs bloud, can purge and cleanse the soule,
Of all uncleannesse, pardon what is foule.

Then to great Jove, the mighty King of kings,
Ile prostrate fall, on my low bended knees;
To beg for mercy, mercy comfort brings,
And joy of sprit, works peace from gushing eyes:
So Lord of Lords! sweet Christ, what I would have?
Is knowne, and showne, I call, I cry, I crave.

Now by these words, whom seek you, and confession,
By thy breath, made the Sergeants backward fall;
By that care rouzd thine, slumbring in digression,
By thy pangs in Gethsemane, one, and all:
By that power and patience, fore Anne exprest,
By that prophecie, of Cajaphas the Priest.

By that deep agony, of bloud and sweat,
By these sore scourgings, spittings on thy face,
By these rough nailes, piercd thy hands and feet,
By all these mockings, done thee for disgrace:
By that sharpe speare, which smote thy tender heart,
By that Viniger thou drunk, and gall of smart.

By that crowne of thornes, thrust on thy bare head,
By these blood sprinklings, downe thy face that fell:
By that heavy Crosse, on thy shoulders spread,
By thy descending downe, in earths dark Cell;
By that great power, of thy great resurrection,
By thine ascension: O profound election!

By thy five bleeding wounds, I thee implore,

The sufferings and passion of Christ.

And by the vertue, of thy death and passion;
By that purple Roabe, forc'd in scorne thou wore,
By all these taunts, these Ruffians spent for fashion:
Nay, by that superscription, wrote for news,
Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.

By thy nativitie, and incarnation,
Yea, by these words, Mother behold thy Sonne,
And Sonne, Behold there, thy consolation!
Go live, and live in peace, live both as one:
Nay, by this moode, for heavie was thy load.
Why thus forsakst thou me, my God my God:

By thy baptisme, fasting, humiliation,
By all thy miracles, and wonders done:
By these teares thou shed, and transfiguration
On Tabor seene: As thou art Christ, Gods sonne:
Save, shield, and shelter, my designes, my wayes,
For my souls health, and thine eternall praise.

Nay, by, and for, and from, thy selfe I beg,
For pittie, grace, and pardon, free remission
Of all my sinnes: O cleanse me the least dreg,
That lurkes within my Temple; thy possession:
Let all be cleane, Lo! there's the totall summe!
My soule implores, come now, Lord Jesus come.

Great King of ages! Monarch, of all times!
Thou first, and last, is, was, and ever blest!
Redeemer, unredeemd! Purger of crymes!
Thou Light, of lights, thou Mans sole-soveraigne rest:
Encrease, in me thy Sprit, infuse thy grace!
Confirme my heart, show forth thy loving face.

Sweeter than hony! or the hony Combe!
Life, light, and love, all goodnesse, peace, and grace!
Sonne of Mercy! that in blest Maries wombe
Incarnate was; left Heaven thy Mansion place;
Where now thou art, and art all where; Come see!
My heart, my help, my health, depend on Thee.

In Thee I rest, Lord! sanctifie my hope,
In Thee I trust, Lord! fortifie my faith;
In Thee I grow, Lord! fructifie my scope,
In Thee I walk, Lord! rectifie my path:
In Thee I stay, in Thee I live, and die:
In Thee I move, in Thee above I flie.

Lord! grant thy grace may make these Teares so blest!
(And blesse them all, shall them peruse for blis)
That godly griefe, may in their blessings rest,
Remorsefull soules, whose teares implore for this:
Lord! pittie me, Lord! pardon my Transgression,
Lord! cleanse my Heart; Lord blesse thou this Confession

FINIS.