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 | The second book of ayres, and dialogues |  |
The following poems are scored for music in the source text. Where poems are not stanzaic, no attempt has been made to reconstruct the metrical lines. Variations for different voices have been ignored. Repetition marks have been ignored.
To the much honoured Mr. HENRY LAWES, On his Excellent Compositions in Musick.
That steady curious Agent in the whole,
The Art of Heav'n, the Order of this Frame,
Is only Musick in another name:
And as some King conqu'ring what was his own,
Hath choice of severall Titles to his Crown;
So Harmony on this score now, That, then,
Yet still is all that takes and governs Men.
Beauty is but Composure; and we find
Content is but the Concord of the mind;
Friendship the Unison of well tun'd Hearts;
Honour's the Chorus of the noblest parts:
And all the World on which we can reflect,
Musick to the Ear, or to the Intellect.
How many Worlds are coppy'd out in thee?
Who art so richly furnish'd, so compleat,
T'Epitomize all that is Good or Great;
Whose Starrs this brave advantage did impart,
Thy Nature's as Harmonious as thy Art:
Thou dost above the Poets Prayses live,
Who fetch from Thee th'Eternity they give;
And as true Reason triumph's over Sense,
Yet is subjected to Intelligence;
So Poets on the lower World look down,
But, Lavves on them, his height is all his own:
For (like Divinity it selfe) his Lyre
Reward's the Wit it did at first inspire:
And thus by double right Poets allow
Their and His Lawrells to adorn his brow.
The savage dulness of this sullen Age;
Charm us to sense; and though Experience fail,
And Reason too, thy Numbers may prevail.
Then (like those Ancients) strike, and so command
All Nature to obey thy generous hand:
None can resist, but such who needs will be
More stupid than a Fish, a Stone, a Tree:
Be it thy care our Age to new create,
What built a World, may sure repair a State.
To her most honoured Master, Mr. Henry Lavves, On his Second Book of Ayres.
That I by this forget my Sex
But Silence (even in me) were rude
When it implies Ingratitude:
Shall I from Lavves his Magazin
Harmonious Raptures steal unseen?
If I have Art, it is from Thee:
Others do teach, but (to be free)
Experience told me thou art best,
For I have learn'd of all the rest
That Fame call's Masters, and have cause
To sacrifice to none but Lavves.
'Twere weakness to suppose my breath
Could thy rich Ayres preserve from death,
That Power is thine alone, the Press
Make's happy our unhappiness.
Thy Works in Print we need not fear
Will feel Mortality; the Ear
Judicious, ravisht, will admire
Thy Chords when thou art in Heav'ns Quire.
Ther's store to treasure any in this Book:
To speak thy Noble skill is such a Theam
Would thaw a frozen Wit into a stream.
Thy spotless Heart the cozen'd World may see
Hath plotted nought these times but Harmony;
Discord ne'r reach't thy Breast, the God of Love
Has kept thy soul in tune like those above.
And now thou marchest forth, when Wars are fled,
To metamorphose Griefe and Hearts of Lead;
To mould our Chaos, and retune our Sphear,
To rank and file our Hearts as once they were:
For Musick these Felicities hath found;
Then say how much we all to Lavves are bound,
That here present's us with such Gifts as these,
You'l think they were (not his) dropt from the skies;
But all's his own: let Criticks search and scan,
They'l find this Book the Mind's Physitian.
To my beloved Friend and Fellow, Mr. HENRY LAWES, On his Book of Ayres.
And find sweet Language, Notes more fine,
And see thy Fugues wrought in the Chime,
Thy weaving far excel's the Rhyme;
And still thy choice of lines are good,
Not like to those who get their food
As Beggars Raggs from Dunghills take,
(Such as comes next) ill Songs to make;
Who by a Witty blind pretense
Take Words that creep half way to sense;
Hippocrates or Galen's feet,
And sing them too with Notes as meet;
Songs as all th'way to Gam ut tend,
But in F Fa ut make an end;
With killing Notes, which ever must
Squeez the Sphears, and intimate the Dust:
These with their brave Chromaticks bring
Noise to the Ear, but mean No-thing:
Yet These will censure, when indeed
Shew Them good lines, They cannot read;
Or read them so, that in the close
You'll hardly judge them Rhyme from Prose.
This is for shop-sale Frippery;
Thy richer store hath truly hit
The whole Age for their want of Wit:
Live freely, and thy Phansie please,
[illeg.] shall be censur'd by such Things as these.
To my much honoured Friend Mr. HENRY LAWES, On his Second Book of Ayres.
Are hardly prais'd, 'cause hardly understood:
For though at the first hearing all admire,
Yet when into the severalls men inquire,
(Which make up the Composure) they are lost,
Such Ayr, Wit, Spirit, Harmony engross'd
In every Piece, as make's each piece the best,
And yet (as good as 'tis) a Foyl to th'rest.
To hear the Repetition of thy Song?
Which they still beg in vain; for when re-sung
So much new Art and Excellence is flung
Round thy Amirers (unobserv'd before)
As make's the newly-ravisht ravish'd more:
For comprehend thee fully none can doe
Till like thy Musick th'are eternall too.
'Tis Thou hast honour'd Musick, done her right,
Fitted her for a strong and usefull Flight;
She droop'd and flaggd before, as Hawks complain
Of the sick feathers in their Wing and Train:
But thou hast imp'd the Wings she had before;
Musick does owe Thee much, the Poet more;
Thou lift'st him up, and dost new Nature bring,
Thou giv'st his noblest Verse both Feet and Wing.
The Atlas, the support of Musick's spheare,
To what a Darkness would our Art decline,
Robb'd of thy glorious and diurnall Shine?
These fixed Tapers cannot do Thee right,
Nor fully speak thy Rayes which gave them Light,
But as small starrs by night in consort met,
Would only tell the World, our Sun is set.
To the great Master of his Art my honoured F. Mr. Henry Lawes on his Book of Ayres.
Who (onely Snake or Goose) hiss at the Spheares;
Souls that consist of Seavenths and Seconds, come
(If ye can read) and be not deaf, but dumb.
Behold a Man to tune an Angel by!
Whose Phansy climbes higher than Poëtry!
One that can raise dead Words, and strike forth Wit
From Lines as low as ever W--- writ:
Who dwells not in lean Sounds, from Breath or Wyre,
(The Chamleting or Crisping of the Ayer,
The Art of Birds;) but Worded Sense pursues,
Phansies which noble Mankind ought to chuse:
Knowes the right Pulse of Wit, when it beats high,
Feel's when it hit's, then calls in Harmony,
Marryes them both, as if he would recall
How God convers'd with Man before the Fall:
Perfume's the Words, the Rise, the Turn, the Pawse,
Strikes till he touch the Heart; Then, then 'tis Lawes.
Taught'st us that Musick's more than Chords and Lungs:
Who hast liv'd famous forty Summers, where
What the best Wits have writ or spoke didst hear,
And prov'd there is for Verse a Happiness,
If it be roab'd in thy Chromatick Dress.
Nor yet art tyr'd, still, still thy Phansy pours
Faster than that great Glutton Time devours.
So vast is that Exchequer of thy Brain,
Out spends all others, yet does most retain.
Thou scorn'st their foraign Aid, who must (for fear
Of Platoisms) with Lisping mend the Air;
Who plunder Thine, new Presents for their Prince,
Which thou compos'dst full eighteen Harvests since.
They'll vote thee cheap (now they can steal no more)
And rob thy Fame, who stole thy Ayres before;
For savage Felons never think they can
Blot out the Theft till they have slain the Man.
Proving thou mak'st Musicians, They but Songs:
They are thy Eccho: But when such compose,
How meagre, how confessingly it goes!
'Tis seen quite through, as a thin Comedy
Betrays at First what the Last Scene will be.
Or else such scolding Notes the Sense confute,
Notes fitter for a Tumbrell than a Lute;
For though th'are twisted on Harmonious Chords,
There's grinning Discord 'twixt the Ayre and Words.
Thy melting Tones and Words so streaming run
As Light and Heat flow joyntly from the Sun.
No justling Noyse invades thy Symphony,
So spann'd, that all is link'd, yet all is free.
As on flat Maps a learn'd Geographer
Plant's here America, and Africk there,
Here Europe stands, there Asia is hurl'd,
Not missing one hair's breadth all the Great World:
So Thou on thy Composing-Card's broad face
Sett'st Tenor, Counter-tenor, Treble, Base,
With such a Masters han'd, such Symmetry,
Thou prov'st the World consists of Harmony.
Thou shew'st how high that Greece of Greece was grown,
Which Rome's Dictator damn'd a Fisher Town,
Reforming all to Cinders, whose best Notes
Taught but two Arts, Speeching and Cutting Throats;
When Sylla made learn'd Athens one red Blaze,
Whose Fire and Blood met in his copper face.
But thou reviv'st its Ashes, and dost show
How Greeks rejoyc'd two thousand years ago.
Not all the swelling Vowel-men with all
Their Liquids, Mutes, their Dental, Labial,
Lingual, and Guttural, new Genal too,
Can half of that thy Sharps and Flats can do.
Thou shoot'st into our Souls, thy Numbers tell
The vastness of that Gulph 'twixt Heaven and Hell,
(When pow'rfull Rapture in thy Anthem floats)
'Tis Heaven hath Voyces, Hell hath clashing Votes.
This made great Socrates his Gamut conn
(As Cato Greek) when old and wisest grown,
As if his reaching Head, e're Martyr crown'd,
By Jacob's staff had Jacob's ladder found,
Where Angels moving to and from Heav'ns Throne,
Taught the great Scale of Musick up and down.
Shook down the Choir, and strook the Organ dumb,
Till the red Lattise lift's those Bellows up
To kindle Healths, and celebrate each Cup;
Where Smoke and Minstrelsy are dealt about
To help their groats worth of Church Musick out.
How would the Druid start, and backward fling,
Though none but He that could not read did sing,
When Rome thought Britain so despis'd a Clod,
No Gentleman but scorn'd to be its
Parum est quòd Templum in Britannia habet Claudius, quòd hunc Barbari colunt, & ut Deum orant. Sen.: {Αποκολυτυνθως}
Thou stick'st as close to Virtue as to Wit.
Thy Art and Life are Unison'd, and do
Conspire to call Thee Saint and Angel too.
Thou hast strung David's Harp, as might have rouz'd
A Legion out of Saul, though twelve years hous'd;
Putt'st it as much in tune (if Man can do't)
As Rous or Robert Wisdome put it out:
And mad'st thy glorious Brother tune it too,
(Whose Coffin is each Chest of Viols now:)
O how our Passions interfere, to see
All lost in Him, yet all preserv'd in Thee!
As Jove's two Eagles flew from East and West,
Cross'd the whole Globe, yet scorn'd to stoop or rest
Till met at floating Delos: So you Two
(Strong high wing'd Souls) with different Phansies flew
Through the whole Sphear of Musick, till at last
In this our floating Isle ye set all fast.
Thy Brother then to Heaven's Great Consort fled,
That Ayre (as Light and Power) might have one Head.
Thus old Parnassus was your Type, and did
Close its two tops for thy one Pyramid.
As Orpheus, whose Harp is now a Star.
Thy Works (the Balsome of the Brain) request
The Crown of Time, as oldest Lutes sound best:
And twenty Ages hence, when Musick's driven
(Like Kings and Bishops) banish'd home to Heaven;
If Mortals then for Wit and Phansy look,
Others may spell, and read, Thou mad'st the Book.
Parting.
[1]
Deere thy face is heaven to mee,and the presence of thine eyes;
Is like that same light wee see,
which descendeth from the skies.
O then since my heav'n thou art,
and thine eyes my heav'nly light,
doe but think what 'tis to part
and to leave thy blessed sight.
2
If that Darknes still should maskeThe fair visage of the sun,
Heav'n would tell us if we ask
All things would to ruine run:
O then since my heav'n &c.
3
Sun and you like influence haveWhich give light to things below.
You likewise from death doe save,
When you doe your beams but show:
O then since my sun thou art,
And thine eyes my heav'nly light,
Doe but grieve that I did part,
And was forc't to leave thy sight.
He would not be tempted.
[1]
O turn away those cruell eyes,the stars of my undoing,
or death in such a bright disguise,
may tempt a second wooing:
punish their blind and impious pride,
who dare contemne thy Glory,
it was my fall that deifyde
thy name, and seald thy story.
2
Yet no new suffering can prepareA higher praise to crown thee,
Though my first death proclaime thee fair,
My second will unthrone thee.
Lovers will doubt thou canst intice
No other for thy fuell,
And if thou turne one victim twice
Or thinke thee poor, or cruell.
A Prayer to Cupid.
[1]
Cvpid who didst ne're see light,nor know'st the pleasure of the sight,
but ever blinded canst not say,
now it is night, or now tis day:
so captivate her sence, so blind her eye,
that still she love me, though she know not why.
2
Thou that woundest with such art,We see no bloud drop from the heart,
And subtly cruell leav'st no signe
To tell the blow, or hand was thine:
O gently, gently wound my fayre, that she
May hence beleeve the wound did come from thee.
Parting.
[1]
Such was the sorrow Cloris feltat her Amintors parting,
her heart the pain (aboad) so deal't
(perhaps to ease the smarting)
I saw what she essay'd to hide
(rays'd by her griefs devouring)
Twixt Pinks and Lillies powring.
2
Whilst Love (at fall of ev'ry tear,Weary perhaps with playing)
Sat to refresh, and bath him there,
His pointed wings displaying.
But soon the stream her fayre hand dries,
When straight you might espie him
Into the sun shine of her eyes,
Pearcht up to prune and dry him.
[Bee not proud cause fair and trim]
Bee not proud cause fair and trimBee not proud cause fair and trim, but let those lips be tasted, those eyes will hollow prove and dim; that lip and brow be wasted, and to love whole be perswaded, sullied flowr's or beauty faded. O thou art soft as is the ayre, or the words that court the faire, then let those flames by Lovers felt, that scorch'd my heart, make thine to melt.
Leander Drownd.
When as Leander (yong) was Drown'dWhen as Leander (yong) was Drown'd, no heart by love receiv'd a wound, but on a Rock himselfe sat by, there weeping superabundantly. His head upon his hand he layd, and sighing (deeply) thus he sayd: Ah cruell Fate! and looking on't wept as hee'd drown the Hellespont. And sure his tongue had more exprest, had not his tears, had not his tears forbad the rest.
Betrayd, by Beleefe.
Ah, ah! the false fatall ta'e I readAh, ah! the false fatall ta'e I read, when my heart heedlesse and unwise, first studied, and false commented on the unknown text of thy lov'd eyes, when thy glib-running lavish tongue showr'd down more oaths thy faith t'avow, then morning dews on flowr's are hung, or blossoms on the Summer bough: so was my silly truth betrayd, by a smooth tongue and winning eye, poysons by which ther's many a mayd has perisht sure as well as I.
[Know Celia, since thou art so proud]
Know Celia, since thou art so proudKnow Celia, since thou art so proud, 'twas I that gave thee thy renown, thou hadst in the forgotten crowd of common beauties liv'd unknown, had not my verse exhal'd thy name, and with it imp'd the wings of Fame. That killing pow'r is none of thine, I gave it to thy voyce and eyes, thy sweets, thy graces all are mine, thou art my star, shin'st in my skies, then dart not from thy borrow'd spheare, lighting on him that fixt thee there. Tempt me with such affrights no more, lest what I made, I uncreate: Let fooles thy mysticke forms adore, Ile know thee
[When we were parted]
[1]
When we were parted,though but for a while,
from my brest started
a post ev'ry mile:
but I feare, none were directed
from your bosome to me;
for a beauty so affected,
looks for Love custome free.
2
Tis then no marveillMy state should decay,
Brought to be servil
And kept from my pay.
But ingratefull to the giver,
Know the Sea as your King,
Can as well exhaust a river,
As you suck up a spring.
3
And though triumphingYou rowle to the Main
Small streams are something
And part of your train.
Use me gently then that follow
Made by custome so tame,
I am silent whilest you swallow
Both my tears, and my name.
[Was it a forme, a gate, a grace]
Was it a forme, a gate, a graceWas it a forme, a gate, a grace, was it their sweetnes, meerely? was it the Heav'n of a bright face, that made me love so deerly? was it a skin of silk and snow, that soule and sences wounded? was't any of these, or all of these, whereon my faith was founded? ah no! 'twas a
On his hearing her Majesty sing.
[1]
I have beene in Heav'n, I thinke,for I heard an Angell sing,
Notes my thirsty ears did drinke,
never any earthly thing
sung so true, so sweet, so cleere,
I was then in Heav'n, not heere.
2
But the blessed feele no change,So I may mistake the place,
But mine eyes would think it strange
Should that be no Angels face;
Powr's above, it seems, designe
Me still Mortall, her Divine.
3
Till I tread the Milky way,And I lose my sences quite,
All I wish is that I may
Hear that voice, and see that sight,
Then in types and outward show,
I shall have a heav'n below.
[When first I saw fair Doris eyes]
[1]
When first I saw fair Doris eyes,cheering like rising day our plains,
not envying others wealthier flocks,
I thought my selfe the happiest swain.
2
More blessed yet when my rude eareHeard her harmonious numbers flow,
No more a swain, I felt the joyes
Only victorious Princes know.
3
Since which alowd, on thy free lipTo story out my hopes, and love,
Immortall grown, I held aloft
The mansion of dethroned Jove.
4
But when rul'd by my kinder starres,Thy namelesse treasures crown my paine,
Jove and his empty joyes despis'd,
I Shepheard turn'd on earth again.
Gods, take your own, sayd I, vain altars now,
I chuse a happy fate with her below.
[And is this all? what one poor kisse?]
And is this all? what one poor kisse?And is this all? what one poor kisse? Thinkst thou my heart contented is with this gratuity? no Cloris, no: Or give me all, that Lovers love, and pleasure call, or by a free and full deny, permit me to despair, and so despairing die.
An Elegiack Song,
On the Death of Mrs. Elizabeth Sambroke, who Died at Salisbury, April 11. 1655.
Tell not me my Cælia's deadTell not me my Cælia's dead, and that (as she) our love is fled: Love (as the Soul) no change comes nigh, 'tis immortall, ne'r can die. Her love abides, though mounted high'r, (for flames ascending do'nt expire;) and my flame (like the light) which does releeve the night of the dark sepulchre, (gilding the shadowes there) shall ever wake and to my Cælia burn, constant to the cold Marble, and the Urne.
On a Pint of Sack.
[1]
Old Poets Hipocrin admire,and pray to water to inspire
their wit and Muse with heav'nly fire;
had they this heav'nly fountain seen,
Sacke both their well and Muse had beene,
and this pint-pot their Hipocrin.
2
Had they truly discoverd itThey had like me thought it unfit
To pray to water for their wit,
And had ador'd Sack as divine,
And made a Poet God of Wine,
And this pint-pot had been a shrine.
3
Sack unto them had been in steadOf Nector, and their heav'nly bread,
And ev'ry boy a Ganimed;
Or had they made a God of it,
Or stil'd it patron of their wit,
This pot had been a temple fit.
4
Well then Companions is't not fit,Since to this Jemme we ow our wit,
That we should prayse the Cabonet,
And drink a health to this divine
And bounteous pallace of our wine;
Die he with thirst that doth repine.
DIALOGUES.
A Dialogue betwene a Lover and Reason.
Weepe not, nor backward turne your beames, fond eyesLove.
Weepe not, nor backward turne your beames, fond eyes; sad sighes, locke in your breath, lest on this winde, or in those streams, my griev'd soule flie, or saile to death, Fortune destroys me if I stay, Love kils me if I goe away; since Love and Fortune both are blind, com Reason and resolve my doubtfull mind.
Reason.
Fly, fly, and blind Fortune be thy guide, and gainst the blinder God rebell; thy love sick heart shall not reside where scorn and selfe-wild Error dwell, where entrance unto truth is barr'd, where love and faith finde no reward; for my just hand may sometimes move the wheele of
Cho:
Fly, fly, and blind Fortune bee thy guide, and gainst the blinder God rebell, thy love-sick heart shall not reside where scorn and selfe-wild Error dwell.
A Dialogue between Phillida and Coridon.
Ah, Coridon, contentedly we tend our bleating flocksPhil.
Ah, Coridon, contentedly we tend our bleating flocks, but think not of our end
Coridon.
Faire Philiida, our life that's innocent, cannot be guilty of an ill event: 'tis true, but yet me thinks diseas'd old age, should make us weary of our pilgrimage: our age points to our end; in this we're
Cho:
In this w'are blest, that after all our pains, w'are neere our rest.
But wher's our rest? must we not fight with death, and gainst him lose our life for want of breath; Death hasts us to our graves, if well we die we shall have heav'n, we shall have heav'n in change for misery.
Cho:Then welcome death, obey, obey our destiny, And change our frailty our frailty for eternity.
A Pastorall Dialogue between two Nymphs Amarillis and Daphne.
Daphne , Shepheards if they knew their happines would not be KingsDaphne , Shepheards if they knew their happines would not be Kings,
DaphneTher's nothing in the world more true then that which Amarillis sings
Then Daphne tune thine Oaten Reed, and let us know this onely strife, whether thy Pipe or mine exceede in singing of a Shepheards life.
Upon our huts of Turfe without the grasse within the Ivie's sprout, the hills yeeld
The angry Thistles shed us Down to make our bed.
Lambkins bequeath us when they die, the blankets warm wherein we lie.
The morning sunne at sluggards blushes,
but lights us early through the bushes, where Philomel amongst the Roses, her sweet, her sweet melody discloses; and whilest we wash our eyes and hands in basons of some
The Wether Rings for joy his Bell,
The pretty Lambe but new awake, bridles in her pretty chin, and stretches our her curled back.
Nor are our pipes mute as they passe to nibble up the three leav'd grasse, and straine such tufts of greene as these, into their milke and silver fleece, when the high mountaines give no shade,
the woods and fountains lend their
where harmles swains doe joine their mirth, their bottles and their bags with ours,
As on the table of the Earth wee feast and sport it in the bowr's
whil'st Phœbus rages, Pan asswages, to whose ayd we sing:
and when the heat makes us retreat, upon the Downs we make a Ring,
then our fancies show in Dances.
change and chances incident to every thing
Then folde our flockes,
and to our
Ye purple Robes, and Crowned heads, upon this life the shepheard leads, could you without ambition looke, you'd change your Scepter, your Scepter for his Crook; you'd change your Scepter for his Crooke.
ANACREONS Ode Englished.
Away, away, AnacreonAway, away, Anacreon, (now women say) thou'rt old and done; Read thine owne glasse, and there thoul't see, not one haire left to credit thee: That head of thine (stript of its Robe) look's like a bald unwritten Globe. Whether my hayre doe come or goe, I cannot tell; but this I know, an old man more should cheere his heart, as hee drawes neerer to depart; That his last breath be crown'd and blest, not in a sigh, but with a jest.
Short Ayres for 1. 2. or 3. Voyces.
[Hither we come into this world of woe]
Hither we come into this world of woeHither we come into this world of woe, and feeling to what end wee come, wee cry, i'th morning of our age like flowrs we blow, and like Gods figures seeme too good to die: but let affliction touch us, and like clay we fall to what we are, and end the day.
[View Lesbia view, how my various cares doe grow]
View Lesbia viewView Lesbia view, view Lesbia view, how my various cares doe grow, I burne and from that fire does water flow. I Nilus and I Ætna am; restrain, Oh Love, my tears, or else tears quench my flame.
[Among Rose buds slept a Bee]
wak'd by Love who could not see:
His soft finger that was stung,
then away poore Cupid flung.
First hee ran, then flew a bout,
and to Venus thus cry'd out;
Help, Mother help, oh! I'm undone,
a Scorpion hath stung your son.
For't had wings as well as I;
Country swains call this a Bee
But oh this hath murthred me.
Sonne, sayd Venus, if the sting
Of a Flie such torment bring,
Think, O think, on all those hearts
Pierced by thy burning darts.
[In the non-age of a winters day]
Lavinia glorious as May,
to give the morn an easier birth,
pac'd a league of crusted earth,
where ev'ry place by which she came,
from her veins conceivd a Flame.
Things of yeerly constancy
Thus to rebell against their season,
And though a stranger to the reason,
Back returning quench'd the heat
And Winter kept its former seat.
[Call the spring with all her Flowrs]
bid the winged Syrens sing
let Loves keen Arrows from the Bowrs
be shot by ev'ry warbling string.
Her shining dart and sounding Bow,
But then as many graces flew,
And yet she is a fiel'd of snow.
[Fear not, dear Love]
[1]
Fear not, dear Love, that I'le revealthose howrs of pleasure we two steal,
no eye shall see nor yet the sun,
descry what thou and I have done.
2
No ear shall hear our Love, but weAs silent as the night will be,
The God of Love himselfe, (whose dart
Did first wound mine, and then thy heart.)
3
Shall never know that we can tell,What sweets in stoln embraces dwell;
This only means may find it out,
If when I die, Physitians doubt.
4
What caus'd my death, and then to viewOf all their judgements which was true;
Rip up my heart, O then I fear
The world will see thy picture there.
[Deare, let mee now this Ev'ning die]
[1]
Deare, let mee now this Ev'ning die;O smile not to prevent it,
But use this opportunity,
Or we shall both repent it.
2
Frown quickly then and break my heart,That so my way of dying
May (though my life were full of smart)
Be worth the worlds envying.
3
And now thou frownst, and now I die,My Corps by Lovers follow'd,
Which shall by dead Lovers lie.
For that grounds only hallow'd.
4
If Priests tak't ill I have grave,My death not well approving,
The Poets my Estate shall have
To teach them th'Art of Loving.
[Why should great Beauties vertuous Fame desire]
[1]
Why should great Beauties vertuous Fame desire,Since vertue cannot Fame protect?
Ev'n he that seems your Beauty to admire,
Your vertue gladly would suspect.
2
Men having little vertue of their owne,Urge reason for their jealousie,
That women weaker themselves have none,
So each Admirer is a spie.
Hymns to the Holy Trinity.
To God the Father.
Thou God the Father, hid from mortall sightThou God the Father, hid from mortall sight, that cloath'st thy self with circumfused light; thou King Eternall, with thy quickning raies, give life to my dead soul: clear all my daies with thy bright presence, my weak spirit fill with pow'r not subject to the Tempters will; Give mee a filiall, not a servile fear, let ev'ry sin be ransom'd with a tear; forbid me to despair, or to presume, lest too much fear should my best hopes consume; and when my body in the grave shall rest, may my cleans'd soul in Martyrs robes be drest.
To God the Sonne.
Thou God the Son, fountain of endles restThou God the Son, fountain of endles rest, with whose rare birth a Virgins wombe was blest; thou Prince of Peace, restore me with thy blood, and wash my stains in that pure crimson flood; my deep-dy'd soul make white, as unsmutch'd snow, with those mix't streams which from thy side did flow; let those sharp nayles that pierc'd thy hands and feet, thy Crown of Thorns in my Redemption meet; my sins are all by imputation thine, thy suffrings too are by translation mine; then let thy passion, death, and buriall be pledges of everlasting life to me.
To God the Holy Ghost.
Thou God the Holy Ghost, that spread'st thy wings o're wounded spiritsThou God the Holy Ghost, that spread'st thy wings o're wounded spirits Bath me in the springs of thy defusive joyes; and still impart fresh Oyle of Gilead to my bleeding heart; when I am folded in the armes of Death, drop down, drop down thy dew on my expiring breath; let not a doubt of one uncancel'd sin, dare to disturb my sweet repose within; all clouds of fear, let thy bright beames expell, that in my thoughts a serene calme may dwell: so shall my Rock of Faith unshaken stand in full assurance of the promis'd Land.
| The second book of ayres, and dialogues | |