Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

When as Queen Esters solemne 3. daies Fast
Had feasted heaven with a sweet repast,
Her lowly bended body she unbow'd,
And (like faire Titan breaking from a cloud)
She rose, and with her Royall Robe she clad
Her livelesse limmes, and with a face as sad
As griefe could paint, (wanting no Art to borrow
A needlesse helpe to counterfeit a sorrow,)
Softly she did direct her feeble pace
Vnto the inner Court, where for a space,
She boldly stood before the Royall Throne,
Like one that would, but durst not make her mone:

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Which when her princely husband did behold,
His heart relented, (Fortune helpes the bold)
And to expresse a welcome unexpected,
Forth to the Queene his Scepter he directed;
Whom (now imboldned to approch secur'd)
In gracious termes, he gently thus conjur'd:
What is't Queene Ester would? What sad request
Hangs on her lips, dwells in her doubtfull brest?
Say, say, (my lifes preserver) what's the thing,
That lyes in the performance of a King,
Shall be deny'd? Faire Queene, what e're is mine
Vnto the moity of my Kingdome's thine:

So Ester thus: If in thy Princely eyes
Thy loyall Servant hath obtain'd the prize
Of undeserved favor, let the King
And Haman grace my this dayes-banquetting,
To crowne the dainties of his handmaids Feast,
Humbly devoted to so great a Guest.

The motion pleas'd, and fairly well succeeded:
(To willing minds, no twice intreaty needed)
They came; but in Queene Esters troubled face,
(Robd of the sweetnesse of her wonted grace)
The King read discontent; her face divin'd
The greatnesse of some further suit behind.

Say, say, (thou bounteous harvest of my joyes)
(Said then the King) what dumpish griefe annoyes
Thy troubled soule? Speake, Lady, what's the thing
Thy heart desires? By th'onour of a King,
My Kingdomes halfe, requested, I'le divide
To faire Queene Ester, to my fairest Bride.

Lo then the tenour of my deare request,
(Repli'd the Queene,) unto a second Feast,
Thy humble Suitor doth presume to bid
The King, and Haman, as before she did:

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Now therefore if it please my gracious Lord,
To daigne his Royall presence, and afford
The peerlesse treasure of his Princely Grace,
To dry the sorrowes of his Handmaids face,
Then to my Kingly, and thrice-welcome Guest
His servant shall unbosome her Request.

Medita. 11.

He that invites his Maker to a Feast,
(Advising well the greatnesse of his Guest)
Must purge his dining chamber from infections,
And sweepe the Cobwebs of his lewd affections,
And then provide such Cates, as most delight
His Palate, and best please his Appetite:
And such are holy workes and pious deeds,
These are the dainties whereon heaven feeds:
Faith plaies the Cook, seasons, directs, and guides;
So man findes meate, so God the Cooke provides:
His drinke are teares, sprung from a midnight cry,
Heaven sips out Nectar from a sinners eye;
The dining chamber is the soule opprest;
God keepes his revells in a Sinners brest:
The musicke that attends the Feast, are grones,
Deep-sounding sighes, and loud lamenting mones:
Heav'n heares no sweeter musick, than complaints;
The Fasts of sinners, are the Feasts of Saints,
To which heav'n dains to stoop, & heav'ns hie King
Descends, whilst all the quire of Angels sing,
And with such sense-bereaving Sonets fill
The hearts of wretched men, that my rude quill
(Dazeld with too much light) it selfe addressing
To blaze them forth, obscures thē in th'expressing:

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Thrice happy man, and thrice-thrice happy Feast,
Grac'd with the presence of so great a Guest;
To him are freely giv'n the privy keyes
Of heav'n and earth, to open when he please,
And locke when e're he list; In him it lyes
To ope the showring flood-gates of the skies,
Or shut them at his pleasure; in his hand
The Host of heaven is put; if he command,
The Sunne (not daring to withstand) obeyes,
Out-runnes his equall howres, flies back, or stayes,
To him theres nought uneasie to atchieve;
Heele rouze the graves, and make the dead alive.

Lord, I'me unfit t'invite thee to my home,
My Cates are all too coorse, too meane my Roome:

Yet come and welcome: by thy pow'r Divine,
Thy Grace may turne my Water into Wine.