Saint Peters complaint :: :: University of Virginia Library

Saint Peters complaint

With other Poemes [by Robert Southwell]

Southwell, Robert (1561?-1595)

[section]

The Author to the Reader.

SAINT PETERS Complaint.

MARY MAGDALENS BLVSH.

Marie Magdalens complaynt at Christes death.

Times goe by turnes.

Looke home.

Fortunes falshood.

Scorne not the least.

The Natiuitie of Christ.

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The Author to the Reader.

Deare eye that doest peruse my muses style,
With easie censure deeme of my delight:
Giue sobrest countnance leaue sometime to smyle,
And grauest wits to take a breathing flight:
Of mirth to make a trade may be a crime,
But tyred spirites for mirth must haue a time.

The lofty Eagle soares not still aboue,
High flightes will force her from the wing to stoupe,
And studious thoughtes at times men must remoue,
Least by excesse before their time they droupe.
In courser studies tis a sweete repose,
With Poets pleasing vaine to temper prose.

Prophane conceites and fayning fits I flie,
Such lawlesse stuffe doth lawlesse speeches fit:
With Dauid verse to vertue I apply,
Whose measure best with measured wordes doth fit.
It is the sweetest note that man can sing,
When grace in vertues key tunes natures string.

The Author to the Reader.

Deare eie that daynest to let fall a looke,
On these sad memories of Peters plaintes:
Muse not to see some mud in cleerest brooke,
They once were brittle mould, that now are Saintes.
Their weakeness is no warrant to offend,
Learne by their faultes; what in thine owne to mend.

If equities euen-hand the ballance held,
Where Peters sinnes and ours were made the weightes:
Ounce, for his Dramme: Pound, for his Ounce we yeeld:
His Ship would groane to feele some sinners freightes.
So ripe is vice, so greene is vertues bud:
The world doth waxe in ill, but waine in good.

This makes my mourning Muse resolue in teares,
This Theames my heauy penne to plaine in prose,
Christs Thorne is sharpe, no head his Garland weares:
Still finest wits are stilling Venus Rose.
In paynim toyes the sweetest vaines are spent:
To Christian workes, few haue their tallents lent.

Licence my single penne to seeke a pheere,
You heauenly sparkes of wit, shew natiue light:
Cloud not with mistie loues your Orient cleere,
Sweete flights you shoote; learne once to leuell right.
Fauour my wish, well-wishing workes no ill:
I mooue the Suite, the Graunt restes in your will.

SAINT PETERS Complaint.

Launche foorth my Soule into a maine of teares,
Full fraught with griefe the traffick of thy mind:
Torne sayles will serue, thoughtes rent with guilty feares:
Giue care the sterne: vse sighes in lieu of wind:
Remorse, thy Pilot: thy misdeede, the Carde?
Torment thy Hauen: Shipwracke, thy best reward.

Shun not the shelfe of most deserued shame:
Sticke in the sandes of agonizing dread:
Content thee to be stormes and billowes game:
Diuorc'd from grace thy soule to pennance wed:
Flie not from forreine euils, flie from thy hart:
Worse then the worst of euils is that thou art.

Giue vent vnto the vapours of thy brest,
That thicken in the brimmes of cloudy eies:
Where sinne was hatchd, let teares now wash the nest:
Where life was lost, recouer life with cries.
Thy trespasse foule: let not thy teares be few:
Baptize thy spotted soule in weeping dewe.

Flie mournefull plaintes, the Ecchoes of my ruth;
Whose scretches in my freighted conscience ring:
Sob out my sorrowes, fruites of mine vntruth:
Report the smart of sinnes infernall sting.
Tell hartes that languish in the soriest plight,
There is on earth a farre more sorry wight.

A sorry wight, the obiect of disgrace,
The monument of feare, the map of shame,
The mirrour of mishap, the staine of place,
The scorne of time, the infamy of fame:
An excrement of earth, to heauen hatefull,
Iniurious to man, to God vngratefull.

Ambitious heades dreame you of fortunes pride:
Fill volumes with your forged Goddesse praise.
You fancies drudges, plunge in follies tide:
Deuote your fabling wits to louers layes:
Be you ô sharpest greeues, that euer wrung,
Texte to my thoughtes, Theame to my playning tung.

Sad subiect of my sinne hath stoard my mind
With euerlasting matter of complaint:
My threnes an endlesse Alphabet do find,
Beyond the panges which Ieremy doth paint.
That eyes with errours may iust measure keepe:
Most teares I wish that haue most cause to weepe.

All weeping eies resigne your teares to me:
A sea will scantly rince my ordurde soule:
Huge horrours in high tides must drowned bee
Of euery teare my crime exacteth tole.
These staines are deepe: few drops, take out no such:
Euen salue with sore: and most, is not too much.

I fear'd with life, to die; by death to liue:
I left my guide, now left, and leauing God.
To breath in blisse, I fear'd my breath to geue:
I fear'd for heauenly raigne, an earthly rod.
These feares I fear'd, feares feeling no mishaps:
O fond, o faint, o false, o faultie lapse.

How can I liue, that thus my life denied?
What can I hope, that lost my hope in feare?
What trust to one, that truth it selfe defied?
What good in him, that did his God forsweare?
O sinne, of sinnes, of euils, the very woorst:
O matchlesse wretch: O caitife most accurst.

Vaine in my vauntes, I vow'd if frendes had fail'd
Alone Christes hardest fortunes to abide:
Gyant in talke: like dwarfe, in triall quail'd:
Excelling none, but in vntruth and pride.
Such distance is betwene high wordes and deedes:
In proofe the greatest vaunter seldome speedes.

Ah rashnesse: hastie ryce to murdering leape,
Lauish in vowing; blind, in seeing what:
Soone sowing shames, that long remorse must reape:
Nurcing with teares, that ouersight begat.
Scoute of repentance, harbinger of blame:
Treason to wisedome, mother of ill name.

The borne-blind beggar for receiued sight,
Fast in his faith and loue, to Christ remain'd:
He stouped to no feare, he fear'd no might:
No change his choyce: no threates his truth distain'd.
One wonder wrought him in his duety sure:
I, after thousands did my Lord abiure.

Cold seruile feare of rendring natures due,
Which growth in yeares was shortly like to claime,
So thrall my loue, that I should thus eschue
A vowed death and misse so faire an aime?
Die: Die: disloyall wretch, thy life detest:
For sauing thine, thou hast forsworne the best.

Ah life, sweet drop, drownd in a sea of showers,
A flying good, posting to doubtfull end,
Still loosing moenthes and yeares to gaine new howers:
Faine, time to haue, and spare, yet forst to spend.
Thy growth, decrease: a moment, all thou hast:
That gone, ere knowne: the rest: to come, or past.

Ah life the maze of countlesse straying wayes,
Open to erring steps, and strow'd with baites,
To winde weake senses into endlesse strayes,
A loofe from vertues rough vnbeaten straightes.
A flower, a play, a blast, a shade, a dreame:
A liuing death, a neuer turning streame.

And could I rate so high a life so base?
Did feare with loue cast so vneuen accompt:
That for this goale I should runne Iudas race,
And Caiphas rage in cruelty surmount?
Yet they esteem'd thirty pence his price:
I, worse then both, for nought denied him thrise.

The mother sea from ouerflowing deepes,
Sendes foorth her issue by diuided vaines:
Yet back her offspring to their mother creepes,
To pay their purest streames with added gaines.
But I that dronke, the drops of heauenly food:
Bemyred the giuer with returning mud.

Is this the haruest of his sowing toile?
Did Christ, manure thy hart to breed him bryars?
Or doth it neede this vnaccustomde soyle
With hellish doung to fertile heauens desires?
No: no: the Marle that periuries do yeeld,
May spoyle a good, not fat a barraine field.

Was this for best desertes the duest meede?
Are highest worthes well wag'de with spitefull hire?
Are stoutest vowes repeal'd in greatest neede?
Should friendship at the first affront retyre?
Blush crauen sott, lurke in eternall night:
Crouche in the darkest caues from loathed light.

Ah wretch, why was I nam'd sonne of a doue,
Whose speeches voyded spight, and breathed gall?
No kin I am vnto the bird of loue:
My stony name much better sutes my fall.
My othes, were stones: my cruell tongue the sling:
My God, the marke: at which my spight did fling.

Were all the Iewish tiranies to few,
To glut thy hungry lookes with his disgrace:
That thou more hatefull tirannies must shew:
And spit thy poyson in thy makers face?
Didst thou to spare his foes put vp thy sword:
To brandish now thy toung against thy Lord?

Ah toung, that didst his prayse and Godhead sound,
How wert thou stain'd with such detesting wordes,
That euery word was to his hart a wound,
And launst him deeper then a thousand swordes?
What rage of man, yea what infernall spirite,
Could haue disgorg'd more loathsome dregs of spite?

Why did the yeelding sea like marble way
Support a wretch more wauering then the waues?
Whome doubt did plunge, why did the water stay,
Vnkind, in kindnesse; murthering, while it saues?
O that this toung had then bene fishes food,
And I deuour'd before this cursing moode.

There surges, depthes, and seas vnfirme by kinde,
Rough gustes, and distance both from ship and shoare,
Were titles to excuse my staggering minde,
Stout feete might falter on that liquid floare.
But here, no seas, no blastes, nor billowes were,
A puffe of womans wind bred all my feare.

O coward troupes far better arm'd then harted,

Ioh.

Whom angry words, whom blowes could not prouoke,
Whome though I taught how sore my weapon smarted,
Yet none repaide me with a wounding stroake.
O no: that stroke could but one moitie kill,
I was reseru'd both halfes at once to spill.

Ah, whither was forgotten loue exilde?
Where did the truth of pledged promise sleepe?
What in my thoughtesbegat this ougly childe,
That could through rented soule thus fircely creepe?
O viper, feare their death by whome thou liuest,
All good thy ruynes wrecke, all euels thou giuest.

Threates threw me not, torments I none assayde:
My fray, with shades: conceites did make me yeeld,
Wounding my thoughtes with feares: selfely dismayde
I neyther fought, nor lost, I gaue the field.
Infamous foyle: a maidens easie breath:
Did blow me downe, and blast my soule to death.

Titles I make vntruthes: am I a rocke?
That with so soft a gayle was ouerthrowne?
And I fit pastor, for the faithfull flocke,
To guide their soules that murdred thus mine owne?
A rock, of ruine; not a rest, to stay:
A pastor, not to feede: but to betray.

Fidelitie was flowne, when feare was hatched,
Incompatible brood in vertues nest:
Courage can lesse with cowardise be matched,
Prowisse nor loue lodgde in deuided brest.
O Adams child cast by a silly Eue,
Heire to thy fathers foyles, and borne to greeue.

In Thabors ioyes I egre was to dwell,
An earnest friend while pleasures light did shine:
But when ecclipsed glory prostrate fell,
These zealous heates to sleepe I did resigne.
And now my mouth hath thrise his name defil'd,
That cryed so loud three dwellings there to build.

When Christ attending the distressefull hower
With his surcharged brest did blisse the ground,
Prostrate in panges, rayning a bleeding shower,
Me, like my selfe, a drowsie friend he found.
Thrise in his care sleepe closde my carelesse eye:
Presage, how him my tong should thrise deny.

Parting from Christ my fainting force declin'd,
With lingring foote I followed him a loofe.
Base feare out of my hart his loue vnshrinde,
Huge, in high wordes: but impotent, in proofe.
My vauntes did seeme hatcht vnder Sampsons lockes,
Yet womans wordes did giue me murdring knockes.

So fare luke-warme desires in crasie loue,
Farre off in neede with feeble foote they traine:
In tydes, they swimme: low ebbes they scornd to proue,
They seeke their friendes delightes, but shun their paine.
Hire of a hireling minde is earned shame:
Take now thy due: beare thy begotten blame.

Ah, coole remisses, vertues quartane feuer,
Pyning of loue, consumption of grace:
Old in the cradle, languor dying euer,
Soules wilfull famine, sinnes soft stealing pace,
The vndermyning euill of zealous thought,
Seeming to bring no harmes till all be brought.

O portresse of the doore of my disgrace,
Whose toung, vnlockt the trueth of vowed minde;
Whose wordes, from cowardes hart did courage chase,
And let in death-full feares my soule to blinde.
O, hadst thou bene the portresse to my tombe:
When thou wert portresse to that cursed roome.

Yet loue, was loath to part; feare, loath to die:
Stay, daunger, life, did counterplead their causes:
I fauouring stay, and life, bad daunger flie:
But daunger did except against these clauses.
Yet stay, and liue, I would, and daunger shunne:
And lost my selfe, while I my verdict wonne.

I stayed, yet did my staying farthest part:
I liu'd; but so, that sauing life, I lost it:
Daunger I shund, but to my sorer smart:
I gayned nought, but deeper domage crost it.
What daunger, distance, death is worse then this:
That runnes from God, and spoyles his soule of blisse?

O Iohn my guide into this earthly hell,
Too well acquainted in so ill a court,
Where rayling mouthes with blasphemies did swell,
VVith taynted breath infecting all resort.
VVhy didst thou lead me to this hell of euils:
To shew my selfe a feind among the diuels?

O sacred eyes, the springs of liuing light,
The earthly heauens, where Angels ioy to dwell:
How could you deigne to view my deathfull plight,
Or let your heauenly beames looke on my hell?
But those vnspotted eyes encountred mine,
As spotlesse Sunne doth on the dounghill shine.

Sweet volumes stoarde with learning fit for Saints,
Where blisfull quires imparadize their minds,
Wherein eternall studie neuer faints,
Still finding all, yet seeking all it findes.
How endlesse is your labyrinth of blisse,
Where to be lost the sweetest finding is?

Ah wretch how oft haue I sweet lessons read,
In those deare eies the registers of truth?
How oft haue I my hungrie wishes fed,
And in their happy ioyes redress'd my ruth?
Ah that they now are Heralds of disdaine:
That erst were euer pittyers of my paine.

You flames diuine that sparkle out your heats,
And kindle pleasing fires in mortall hearts:
You nectared Aumbrose of soule feeding meats,
You gracefull quiuers of loues deerest darts:
You did vouchsafe to warme, to wound, to feast:
My cold, my stony, my now famishde breast.

The matchles eies matchd onely each by other,
Were pleasd on my ill matched eyes to glaunce:
The eye of liquid pearle, the purest mother,
Brochte tears in mine to weepe for my mischaunce.
The cabinets of grace vnlockt their treasure,
And did to my misdeed their mercies measure.

These blazing comets, lightning flames of loue,
Made me their warming influence to know:
My frozen hart their sacred force did proue,
Which at their lookes did yeeld like melting snow.
They did not ioyes in former plentie carue,
Yet sweet are crums where pined thoughts do starue.

O liuing mirrours, seeing whom you shew,
Which equall shaddows worthes with shadowed things:
Ye make thinges nobler then in natiue hew,
By being shap'd in those lifegiuing springs.
Much more my image in those eyes was grac'd,
Then in my selfe whom sinne and shame defac'd.

All seeing eyes more worth then all you see,
Of which one is the others onely price:
I worthles am, direct your beames on me,
With quickning vertue cure my killing vice.
By seeing things, you make things worth the sight,
You seeing, salue, and beeing seene, delight.

O Pooles of Hesebon, the bathes of grace,
Where happy spirits dyue in sweet desires:
Where Saints reioyce to glasse theyr glorious face,
Whose banks make Eccho to the Angels quires:
An Eccho sweeter in the sole rebound,
Then Angels musick in the fullest sound.

O eies, whose glaunces are a silent speech,
In cyphred words, high misteries disclosing:
VVhich with a looke all sciences can teach,
VVhose textes to faithfull heartes need little glosing:
VVitnes vnworthy I, who in a looke,
Learnd more by rote, then all the scribes by booke.

Tough malice still possesse their hardened minds,
I, though too hard, learnd softnes in thine eye,
Which iron knots of stubborne will vnbindes,
Offring them loue, that loue with loue wil buy.
This did I learne, yet they could not discerne it,
But wo, that I had now such need to learne it.

O Sunnes, all but your selues in light excelling,
VVhose presence, day, whose absence causeth night,
Whose neighbour course, bring Sommer, cold expelling,
VVhose distant periods frieze away delight.
Ah, that I lost your bright and fostring beames,
To plundge my soule in these congealed streams.

O gracious spheres, where loue the Center is,
A natiue place for our selfe-loaden soules:
The compasse, loue, a cope that none can mis:
The motion, loue that round about vs rowles.
O Spheres of loue, whose Center, cope and motion,
Is loue of vs, loue that inuites deuotion.

O little worldes, the summes of all the best,
Where glory, heauen, God, soone: all vertues, starres:
Where fire, a loue that next to heauen doth rest,
Ayre, light of life, that no distemper marres:
The water, grace, whose seas, whose springes, whose showers,
Cloth natures earth, with euerlasting flowers.

What mixtures these sweet elements do yeeld,
Let happy worldlings of those worlds expound,
But simples are by compounds farre exceld,
Both sute a place, where all best things abound.
And if a banishd wretch gesse not amisse:
All but one compound framde of perfect blisse.

I, outcast from these worlds exiled rome,
Poore saint, from heauen, from fire,cold Salamander:
Lost fish, from those sweet waters kindly home,
From lande of life, strayed pilgrim still I wander:
I know the cause: these worldes had neuer hell,
In which my faults haue best deserude to dwell.

O Bethelem cisternes, Dauids most desire,
From which my sinnes like fierce Philistims keepe,
To fetch your drops what champion should I hire,
That I therein my withered heart may steepe.
I would not shed them like that holy king,
His were but tipes, these are the figured thing.

O Turtle twins all bath'd in virgins milke,
Vpon the margin of full flowing bankes:
Whose gracefull plume surmounts the finest silke,
Whose sight enamoreth heauens most happy rankes,
Could I forsweare this heauenly paire of doues,
That cag'd in care for me were groning loues.

Twice Moses wand did strike the stubborne rocke,
Ere stony veynes would yeeld their christall blood:
Thy eyes, one looke serud as an onely knocke,
To make my hart gush out a weeping floode.
Wherein my sinnes as fishes spawne their frye,
To shew their inward shames, and then to dye.

But O, how long demurre I on his eies,
Whose looke did pearce my heart with healing wound:
Launching impostumde sore of periurde lies,
Which these two issues of mine eyes hath found:
Where runne it must, till death the issues stop,
And penall life hath purgde the finall drop.

Like solest Swan that swimmes in silent deepe,
And neuer sings but obsequies of death,
Sigh out thy plaints, and sole in secreat weepe,
In suing pardon, spend thy periurde breath.
Attire thy soule in sorrowes mourning weede:
And at thine eies let guilty conscience bleede.

Still in the limbeck of thy dolefull breast,
These bitter fruites that from thy sinnes do grow:
For fuel, selfe accusing thoughtes be best,
Vse feare, as fire, the coales let penance blow.
And seeke none other quintessence but teares,
That eyes may shed what entred at thine eares.

Come sorrowing teares the offspring of my griefe,
Scant not your parent of a needefull aide:
In you I rest, the hope of wishde relief,
By you my sinfull debts must be defraide.
Your power preuailes, your sacrifice is gratefull,
By loue obtayning life to men most hatefull.

Come good effectes of ill deseruing cause;
Ill gotten impes, yet vertuously brought forth:
Selfe-blaming probates, of infringed lawes.
Yet blamed faults redeeming with your worth:
The signes of shame in you ech eie may reade,
Yet while you guiltie proue, you pitty pleade.

O beames of mercy beat on sorrowes cloude,
Powre suppling showers vpon my parched ground:
Bring forth the fruite to your due seruice vovde,
Let good desires with like deserts be crownde.
Water young bloming vertues tender flower,
Sinne did all grace of riper groth deuour.

Weep Balme and mirrhe you sweet Arabian trees,
With purest gummes perfume and pearle your ryue:
Shed on your hony drops you busie bees,
I barraine plaint must weep vnpleasant bryue,
Hornets I hyue, salt drops their labour plies,
Suckt out of sinne, and shed by showring eies.

If Dauid night by night did bath his bed,
Esteeming longest daies too short too moane:
Inconsolable teares if Anna shed,
Who in her sonne her solace had forgone.
Then I to daies, & weekes, to monthes & yeares,
Do owe the howrely rent of stintlesse teares.

If loue, if losse, if fault, if spotted fame,
If daunger, death, if wrath or wrecke of weale,
Entitle eyes true heires to earned blame,
That due remorse in such euents conceale,
Then want of teares might well enroll my name,
As cheefest Saint in Calender of shame.

Loue, where I lou'de, was due, and best deserude,
No loue could aime at more loue-worthie marke,
Nor loue more lou'de then mine of him I serude,
Large vse he gaue, a flame for euery sparke.
This loue I lost, this losse a life must rue,
Yea life is short to pay the ruth is due.

I lost all that I had, and had the most,
The most that will can wish, or wit deuise:
I least performd, that did most vainely boast,
I stainde my fame in most infamous wise.
what daunger then death, wrath, or wreck can moue,
More pregnant cause of teares then this I proue?

If Adam sought a veyle to scarfe his sinne,
Taught by his fall to feare a scourging hand:
If men shall wish that hils should wrap them in,
When crymes in finall doome come to be scand:
What mount, what caue, what center can conceale
My monstrous fact, which euen the birds reueale?

Come shame the liuery of offending minde,
The ougly shroud, that ouershadoweth blame:
The mulct, at which fowle faults are iustly fynde,
The dampe of sinne the common sluce of fame.
By which impostumde tongues their humors purge,
Light shame on me, I best deseru'd the scourge.

Caines murdring hand imbrude in brothers blood,
More mercy, then my impious toung may craue:
He kild a ryuall with pretence of good,
In hope Gods doubled loue alone to haue.
But feare so spoild my vanquisht thoughts of loue:
That periurde oathes my spightfull hate did proue.

Poore Agar from her phere enforc'd to flye,
Wandring in Barsabeian wildes alone:
Doubting her child throgh helples drought would die,
Laid it aloofe and set her downe to moane.
The heauens with praiers: her lap with teares she fild,
A mothers loue in losse is hardly stild.

But Agar now bequeath thy teares to me,
Feares, not effects, did set aflote thine eies:
But wretch I feele more then was feard of thee,
Ah, not my sonne: my soule it is that dies.
It dies for drought yet had a spring in sight,
worthie to die, that would not liue and might.

Faire Absolons foule faults compard with mine,
Are brightest sands, to mud of Sodome lakes.
High aymes, yong spirits, birth of royall lyne,
Made him play false, where kingdoms were the stakes.
He gazde on golden hopes, Whose lustrey winnes
Sometime the grauest wittes to grieuous sinnes.

But I whose crime cuts off the least excuse,
A kingdome lost, but hope no mite of gaine:
My highest marke, was but the worthles vse,
Of some few lingring howres of longer pain.
Vngratefull child, his parents he pursude:
I, gyants warre with God himselfe renude.

Ioy infant Saints, whom in the tender flower
A happy storme did free from feare of sinne,
Long is their life, that die in blisfull hower,
Ioyfull such ends as endles ioyes beginne.
Too long they liue, that liue till they be nought:
Life sau'de by sinne, base purchase, dearely bought,

This lot was mine, your fate was not so fearce,
Whom spotlesse death in cradle rockt a sleepe:
Sweet Roses mixt with Lillies strowd your hearce,
Death virgin white in martirs red did steepe.
Your downy heads both pearles and rubies crownde,
My hoary locks did femall feares confound.

You bleating ewes that waile this woluish spoile,
Of sucking lambs new bought with bitter throwes,
To balme your babes your eies distill their oile,
Ech hart to tombe her child wide rupture showes.
Rue not their death whom death did but reuiue:
Yeld ruth to me that liued to die aliue.

With easie losse sharpe wreackes dyd he eschew,
That Sindonles aside did naked slip:
Once naked grace no outward garment knew,
Rich are his robes whom sinne did neuer strip.
I that in vaunts displaide prides fairest flagges,
Disrobde of grace am wrapt in Adams ragges.

When traitor to the sonne in mothers eies,
I shall present my humble suit for grace:
What blush can paint the shame that will arise;
Or write my inward feeling in my face?
Might she the sorrow with the sinner see:
Though I dispisde: my griefe might pittyed bee.

But ah, how can her eares my speech endure,
Or sent, my breath still reeking hellish steeme:
Can mother like what did the sonne abiure,
Or hart deflowrde a virgins loue redeeme?
The mother nothing loues that sonne doth loth,
Ah lothsome wretch detested of them both.

O sister Nymphes the sweet renowmed paire,
That blisse Bethania bonds with your aboade:
Shall I infect that sanctified aire,
Or staine those steps where Iesus breathd and trode?
No: let your praiers perfume that sweetned place:
Turne me with Tygers to the wildest chase.

Could I reuiued Lazarus behold,
The third of that sweet Trinitie of Saints?
Would not astonish't dread my sences holde?
Ah yes, my heart euen with his naming faints.
I seeme to see a messenger from hell,
That my prepared torments comes to tell.

O Iohn, O Iames, we made a triple corde,
Of three most louing and best loued friends:
My rotten twist was broken with a worde,
Fit now to fuell fire among the fiends.
It is not euer true, though often spoken:
That tripld twisted corde is hardly broken.

The dispossessed diuels that out I threw,
In Iesus name, now impiously forsworne:
Triumph to see me caged in their mew,
Trampling my ruins with contempt and scorne.
My periury was musicke to their daunce:
And now they heap disdaines on my mischance.

Our rocke (say they) is riuen, O welcome hower,
Our Eagles wings are clipt, that wrought so hie:
Our thundering Clowde made noise but cast no shower,
He prostrate lies, that would haue scal'de the sky.
In womans tongue our runner found a rub,
Our Cedar now is shrunke into a shrub.

These scornefull wordes vpbraide my inward thought,
Proofes of their damned prompters neighbour voice:
Such vgly guesse still wait vpon the nought,
Fiends swarm to soules that swarue from vertues choise.
For breach of plighted truth, this true I trie:
Ah, that my deed thus gaue my word the lie.

Once, and but once, to deare a once to twice it,
A heauen, in earth, Saints, nere my selfe I saw:
Sweet was the sight, but sweeter loues did spice it,
But sightes and loues did my misdeeds withdraw.
From heauen and Saints to hell and Diuels estranged,
Those sights to frights, those loues, to hates are changed.

Christ, as my God, was templed in my thought,
As man, he lent mine eies their dearest light:
But sinne, his temple hath to ruine brought:
And now, he lightneth terrour from his sight,
Now of my lay vnconsecrate desires,
Prophaned wrethe I tast the earned hires.

Ah sinne, the nothing that doth all things file:
Outcast from heauen, earthes curse, the course of hell:
Parent of death, authour of our exile,
The wrecke of soules the wares that fiends do sell.
That men to monsters: Angels turnes to Diuells:
Wrong, of all rightes: selfe ruine: root of euils.

A thing most done, yet more then God can doe,
Dayly new done, yet euer done amisse:
Friended of all yet vnto all a foe,
Seeming a heauen, yet banishing from blisse.
Serued with toyle, yet paying nought but paine:
Mans deepest losse, though false esteemed gaine.

Shot, without noyse: wound without present smart:
First, seeming light; prouing in fyne a load,
Entring with ease, not easily wonne to part,
Far in effects from that the showes abode.
Endorc'd with hope, subscribed with dispaire:
Vgly in death, though life did faine it faire.

O forfeyture of heauen: eternall debt,
A moments ioy: ending in endles fires:
Our natures skumme: the worlds entangling Net:
Night of our thoughts: death of all good desires.
Worse then all this: worse then all tongue can say,
Which man could owe, but onely God defray.

This fawning viper, dumme till it had wounded,
With many mouthes doth now vpbraid my harmes:
My sight was vaild till I my selfe confounded,
Then did I see the dissenchanted charmes.
Then could I cut th' anotomy of sinne,
And search with Linxes eyes what lay within.

Bewitching euill, that hides death in deceites,
Still borrowing lying shapes to maske thy face,
Now know I the deciphering of thy sleightes,
A cunning, dearely bought with losse of grace.
Thy sugred poyson now hath wrought so well:
That thou hast made me to my selfe a hell.

My eye, reades mournfull lessons to my hart,
My hart, doth to my thought the griefe expound,
My thought, the same doth to my tounge impart,
My tounge, the message in the eares doth sound.
My eares, back to my hart their sorrowes send:
Thus circkling griefes runne round without an end.

My guilty eye still seemes to see my sinne,
All things Characters are to spell my fall,
What eye doth read without, hart rues within,
What hart doth rue, to pensiue thought is gall.
Which when the thought would by the tounge disgest:
The eare conuayes it backe into the brest.

Thus gripes in all my partes do neuer fayle,
Whose onely league is now in bartring paines:
What I, in grosse: they trafficke by retayle:
Making each others miseries their gaines.
All bound for euer prentizes to care:
While I in shop of shame trade sorrowes ware.

Pleasd with displeasing lot I seeke no change,
I wealthiest am when richest in remorce:
To fetch my ware no seas nor lands I range,
For customers to buy I nothing force.
My home-bred goods at home are bought and sold,
And still in me the interest I hold.

My comfort now is comfortlesse to liue,
In Orphian seate deuoted to mishap:
Rent from the roote, that sweetest fruit did giue,
I scorn'd to grasse in stocke of meaner sap.
No iuice can ioy me but of Iesse flower,
Whose heauenly roote hath true reuiuing power.

At sorrowes dore I knockt, they crau'de my name;
I aunswered one, vnworthy to be knowne:
What one, say they? one worthiest of blame.
But who? a wretch, not Gods, nor yet his owne.
A man? O no, a beast: much worse, what creature:
A rocke: how cald? the rocke of scandale, Peter.

From whence? from Caiphas howse, ah dwell thou there,
Sinnes farme I rented, there, but now would leaue it:
What rent? my soule: what gaine? vnrest, and feare,
Deare purchase. Ah to deare. will you receiue it?
What shall we giue? fit teares, and times, to plaine me,
Come in, say they; thus griefes did entertaine me.

Euill president, the tyde that wast to vice,
Dumme Orator, that woes with silent deedes,
Writing in workes lessons of euill aduise,
The doing tale that eye in practize reades:
Taster of ioyes: to vnacquainted hunger:
With leauen of the old seasoning the yonger.

It seemes no fault to doe that all haue done:
The nomber of offenders hides the sinne:
Coatch drawne with many horse doth easely runne.
Soone followeth one where multitudes begin.
O, had I in that court much stronger bene:
Or not so strong as first to enter in.

Sharpe was the weather in that stormy place,
Best suting hearts benumd with hellish frost,
Whose crusted malice could admit no grace,
Where coales were kindled to the warmers cost.
Where feare, my thoughtes canded with ysie colde:
Heate, did my tounge to periuries vnfold.

O hatefull fire (ah that I euer saw it)
Too hard my hart was frozen for thy force,
Farre hotter flames it did require to thawe it,
Thy hell resembling heate did frize it worse.
O that I rather had congeal'de to yse:
Then bought thy warm'th at such a dauncing price.

O wakefull bird, proclaymer of the day,
Whose piersing note doth daunt the Lyons rage:
Thy crowing did my selfe to me bewray,
My frightes, and brutish heates it did asswage.
But O, in this alone vnhappy cocke:
That thou to count my foyles wert made the clocke.

O bird, the iust rebuker of my crime,
The faithfull waker of my sleeping feares:
Be now the dayly clocke to strike the time,
When stinted eyes shall pay their taske of teares.
Vpbraide mine eares with thine accusing crow:
To make me rue that first it made me know.

O milde reuenger of aspiring pride,
Thou canst dismount high thoughtes to low effectes:
Thou madest a cocke me for my fault to chide,
My lofty boastes this lowly bird correctes.
Well might a cocke correct me with a crow:
VVhome hennish cackling first did ouerthrow.

VVeake weapons did Golias fumes abate,
VVhose scortching rage did thunder threates in vaine:
His body huge harnest with massie plate,
Yet Dauids stone brought death into his braine.
VVith staffe and sling as to a dog he came:
And with contempt did boasting fury tame.

Yet Dauid had with Beare and Lyon fought,
His skillfull might excusde Golias foyle:
The death is easde that worthy hand hath wrought,
Some honour liues in honorable spoyle.
But, I on whom all infamies must light:
Was hisde to death with wordes of womens spite.

Small gnats enforst th'Egyptian king to stoupe,
Yet they in swarmes and arm'd with piercing stings:
Smart, noyse, annoyance, made his courage droupe,
No small incombrance such small vermine brings:
I quayld at wordes that neither bit nor stonge,
And those deliuered from a womans tounge.

Ah feare, abortiue ympe of drouping mind:
Selfe ouerthrow: false friend: root of remorce:
Sighted, in seeing euils: in shunning, blind:
Foyld without field: by fansy, not by force:
Ague of valor: phrensie of the wise:
True honors staine: loues frost: the minte of lies.

Can vertue, wisedome, strength by woemen spild
In Dauids, Salomons and Sampsons fals,
With semblance of excuse my errour guild,
Or lend a marble glose to muddy walles?
O no their fault had show of some pretence.
No vayle can hide the shame of my offence.

The blaze of beauties beames allured their lookes,
Their lookes, by seeing oft, conceiued loue:
Loue, by affecting, swallowed pleasures hookes:
Thus beauty, loue, and pleasure them did mooue.
These Syrens sugred tunes rockt them a sleepe:
Enough, to damne, yet not to damme so deepe.

But gratious features dasled not mine eies,
Two homely droyles were authors of my death:
Not loue, but feare, my sences did surprize:
Not feare of force, but feare of womans breath.
And those vnarm'd, ill grac'd, despisde, vnknowne:
So base a blast my truthe hath ouerthrowne.

O women, woe to men: traps for their falls,
Still actors in all tragicall mischaunces:
Earthes necessarie euils, captiuing thralles,
Now murdring with your tongs, now with your glāces,
Parents of life, and loue: spoylers of both,
The theefes of Harts: false do you loue or loth.

In time, O Lord, thine eyes with mine did meet,
In them I read the ruines of my fall:
Their chearing raies that made misfortune sweet,
Into my guilty thoughts powrde flouds of gall,
Their heauenly lookes that blest where they beheld,
Darts of disdaine, and angry checks did yeeld.

With them I rest true prisoner to theyr yaile,
Chain'd in the yron linkes of basest thrall,
Till grace vouchsafing captiue soule to bayle,
In wonted sea degraded loues enstal.
Dayes, passe in plaintes: the nightes without repose:
I wake, to weepe: I sleepe in waking woes.

Sleepe, deaths allye: obliuion of teares:
Silence of passions: balme of angry sore:
Suspence of loues: securitie of feares:
Wrathes lenitiue: harts ease: stormes calmest shore:
Senses and soules repriuall from all cumbers:
Benumming sence of ill, with quiet slumbers.

Not such my sleepe: but whisperer of dreames:
Creating straunge chymeraes: fayning frights:
Of day discourses giuing fansie theames,
To make dumme shewes with worlds of anticke sightes:
Casting true griefes in fansies forging mold:
Brokenly telling tales rightly foretold.

This sleepe most fitly suteth sorrowes bed,
Sorrow the smart of euill, Sinnes eldest child:
Best, when vnkind in killing who it bred,
A racke, for guilty thoughtes: a bit, for wild.
The scourge, that whips: the salue that cures offence:
Sorrow, my bed, and home, while life hath sence.

Heere solitary muses nurse my griefes,
In silent lonenesse burying worldly noyse,
Attentiue to rebukes, deafe to reliefes,
Pensiue to foster cares, carelesse of ioyes:
Ruing lifes losse vnder deathes dreary roofes,
Solemnizing my funerall behoofes.

A selfe contempt, the shroud: my soule, the corse:
The beere, an humble hope: the hersecloth, feare:
The mourners, thoughtes, in blackes of deepe remorse:
The herse, grace, pittie, loue, and merry beare.
My teares, my dole: the priest, a zealous will:
Pennance, the tombe: and dolefull sighes, the knill.

Christ, health of feuerd soule, heauen of the minde,
Force of the feeble, nurse of Infant loues,
Guide to the wandring foote, light of the blind,
Whom weeping winnes, repentant sorrow moues.
Father in care, mother in tender hart:
Reuiue and saue me slaine with sinnefull dart.

If king Manasses sunke in depth of sinne,
With plaintes and teares recouered grace and crowne:
A worthlesse worme some milde regard may winne,
And lowly creepe, where flying threw it downe.
A poore desire I haue to mend my ill:
I should, I would, I dare not say, I will.

I dare not say, I will; but wish, I may:
My pride is checkt, high wordes the speaker spilt:
My good; O Lord, thy gift; thy strength my stay:
Giue what thou bidst, and then bid what thou wilt.
Worke with me what thou of me doest request:
Then will I dare the most, and vow the best.

Prone looke, crost armes, bent knee, and contrite hart,
Deepe sighes, thicke sobs, deepe eyes & prostrate prayers,
Most humbly beg reliefe of earned smart,
And sauing shroud in mercies sweete repaires.
If iustice should my wrongs with rigor wage:
Feares, would dispaires: ruth, breed a hopelesse rage.

Lazar at pitties gate I vlcered lie,
Crauing the reffues crummes of childrens plate:
My sores, I lay in view to mercies eye,
My rags, beare witnesse of my poore estate.
The wormes of conscience that within me swarme:
Proue that my plaintes are lesse then is my harme,

With mildnesse, Iesu, measure my offence:
Let true remorse thy due reuenge abate:
Let teares appease when trespasse doth incense:
Let pittie temper thy deserued hate.
Let grace forgiue, let loue forget my fall:
VVith feare I craue, with hope I humbly call.

Redeeme my lapse with raunsome of thy loue,
Trauerse th' inditement, rigorous dome suspend:
Let frailtie fauour, sorrowes succour moue:
Be thou thy selfe, though chaungling I offend.
Tender my suite, clense this defiled denne,
Cancell my debtes, sweete Iesu, say Amen.

The ende of Saint Peters Complaint.

MARY MAGDALENS BLVSH.

The signes of shame that staine my blushing face,
Rise from the feeling of my rauing fits,
Whose ioy, annoy: whose guerdon, is disgrace:
Whose solace, flyes: whose sorrow, neuer flits:
Bad seede I sow'd: worse fruite is now my gaine:
Soone dying mirth begat long liuing paine.

Now pleasure ebbes: reuenge beginnes to flow:
One day doth wreake the wrath that many wrought:
Remorse doth teach my guiltie thoughts to know,
How cheape I sould, that Christ so deerely bought.
Faults long vnfelt doth conscience now bewraye,
VVhich cares must cure, and teares must wash awaye.

All ghostly dynts that grace at me did dart,
Like stubborne rocke I forced to recoyle;
To other flights an ayme I made my hart,
Whose wounds, then wel-come, now haue wrought my foyle.
Woe worth the bow, who worth the archers might,
That draue such arrowes to the marke so right.

To pull them out, to leaue them in, is death:
One, to this world: one, to the world to come:
Wounds may I weare, and draw a doubtfull breath:
But then my wounds will worke a dreadfull dome.
And for a world, whose pleasures passe away:
I lose a world, whose ioyes are past decay.

O sence, O soule, O had, O hoped blisse,
You wooe, you weane, you draw, you driue me back.
Your crosse-encountring, like their combate is,
That neuer end but with some deadly wrack.
When sense doth winne, the soule doth loose the field,
And present happes, make future hopes to yeeld.

O heauen, lament: sense robbeth thee of Saints:
Lament O soules, sense spoyleth you of grace.
Yet sence doth scarse deserue these hard complaints,
Loue is the thiefe, sense but the entring place.
Yet graunt I must, sense is not free from sinne,
For theefe he is that theefe admitteth in.

Marie Magdalens complaynt at Christes death.

Sith my life from life is parted:
Death come take thy portion.
VVho suruiues, when life is murdred,
Liues by meere extortion.
All that liue, and not in God:
Couch their life in deaths abod.

Seely starres must needes leaue shining,
VVhen the sunne is shaddowed.
Borrowed streames refraine their running,
VVhen head springs are hindered.
One that liues by others breath,
Dieth also by his death.

O true life, since thou hast left me,
Mortall life is tedious.
Death it is to liue without thee,
Death, of all most odious.
Turne againe or take me to thee,
Let me dye or liue thou in mee.

Where the truth once was, and is not,
Shaddowes are but vanitie:
Shewing want, that helpe they cannot:
Signes, not salues of miserie.
Paynted meate no hunger feedes,
Dying life each death exceedes.

VVith my loue, my life was nestled
In the sonne of happinesse;
From my loue, my life is wrested
To a world of heauinesse.
O, let loue my life remoue,
Sith I liue not where I loue.

O my soule, what did vnloose thee
From thy sweete captiuitie?
God, not I, did still possesse thee:
His, not mine, thy libertie.
O, two happie thrall thou wart,
When thy prison, was his hart.

Spightfull speare, that breakest this prison,
Seate of all felicitie,
Working this, with double treason,
Loues and liues deliuerie:
Though my life thou drau'st away,
Maugre thee my loue shall stay.

Times goe by turnes.

The lypped tree in time may grow againe,
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower:
The soriest wight may finde release of paine,
The dryest soyle sucke in some moystning shower.
Times goe by turnes, and chaunces chaunge by course:
From fowle to faire: from better happe, to worse.

The sea of fortune doth not euer flowe,
She drawes her fauours to the lowest ebbe:
Her tydes hath equall times to come and goe,
Her Loome doth weaue the fine and coursest webbe.
No ioye so great, but runneth to an end:
No hap so hard, but may in fine amend.

Not alwaies fall of leafe, nor euer spring,
No endles night, yet not eternall day:
The saddest birds a season find to sing,
The roughest storme a calme may soone alay.
Thus with succeeding turnes God tempereth all:
That man may hope to rise, yet feare to fall.

A chaunce may winne that by mischaunce was lost,
The net that holdes no great, takes little fish:
In some things all, in all things none are crost,
Fewe, all they neede: but none, haue all they wish,
Vnmedled ioyes here to no man befall,
Who least, hath some, who most hath neuer all.

Looke home.

Retyred thoughts enioy their owne delights,
As beawtie doth in selfe beholding eye:
Mans mind a myrrour is of heauenly sights,
A breefe wherein all maruailes summed lye.
Of fayrest formes, and sweetest shapes the store,
Most gracefull all, yet thought may grace them more.

The mind a creature is, yet can create,
To natures paterns adding higher skill:
Of finest workes wit better could the state,
If force of wit had equall power of will.
Deuise of man in working hath no end,
VVhat thought can think an other thought can mend.

Mans soule of endlesse beauties image is,
Drawne by the worke of endlesse skill and might;
This skilfull might gaue many sparkes of blisse,
And to discerne this blisse a natiue light,
To frame Gods image as his worthes requirde,
His might, his skill, his word, and will conspirde.

All that he had his image should present,
All that it should present he could afford:
To that he could afford his will was bent,
His will was followed with performing word.
Let this suffice, by this conceiue the rest,
He should, he could, he would, he did the best.

Fortunes falshood.

In worldly meriments lurketh much miserie,
Slie fortunes subtilties in baites of happinesse
Shrowde hookes, that swallowed, without recouerie
Murder the innocent with mortall heauinesse.

She soweth appetites with pleasing vanities,
Till they be conquered with cloaked tyrannie,
Than, chaunging countenance, with open enmities,
She triumphes ouer them, scorning their slauerie.

With fawning flatterie deaths doore she openeth,
Alluring passengers to bloodie destenie:
In offers bountifull, in proofe shee beggereth;
Mens ruines registring her false felicitie.

Her hopes are fastened in blisse that vanisheth,
Her smart inherited with sure possession,
Constant in crueltie, shee neuer altereth,
But from one violence, to more oppression.

To those that follow her, fauours are measured
As easie premises to hard conclusions;
With bitter corrosiues her ioyes are seasoned,
Her highest benefits are but illusions.

Her waies, a laberinth of wandring passages:
Fooles common pilgrimage, to cursed deieties:
VVhose fond deuotion and idle menages
Are wagde with wearinesse in fruitlesse drudgeries.

Blinde in her fauorites foolish election,
Chaunce is her arbiter in geuing dignities:
Her choyse of visions, shewes most discretion,
Sith welth the vertuous might wrest from pietie.

To humble suppliants tyrant most obstinate:
She suters aunswereth with contrarieties:
Proud with petition, vntaught to mitigate
Rigour with clemencie in hardest cruelties.

Like Tygre fugitiue from the ambitious,
Like weeping Crodocile to scornefull enemies
Suing for amitie where shee is odious,
But to her followers forswearing curtesies.

No mind so changeable, no sea so wauering,
As giddie Fortune in reeling varieties;
Now mad, now mercifull, now fearce, now fauoring:
In all things mutable, but mutabilities.

Scorne not the least.

Where wards are weake, & foes encountring strong:
Where mightier doe assault, then doe defend:
The feebler part puts vp enforced wrong,
And silent sees, that speech could not amend.
Yet higher powers must thinke, though they repine,
When sunne is set: the little starres will shine.

While Pike doth range, the silly Tench doth flie,
And crouch in priuie creekes, with smaller fish;
Yet Pikes are caught when little fish goe bie:
These, fleet a flote; while those, doe fill the dish.
There is a time euen for the wormes to creepe:
And sucke the dew while all their foes doe sleepe.

The Marlyne cannot euer sore on high,
Nor greedy Grey-hound still pursue the chase:
The tender Larke will finde a time to flie,
And fearefull Hare to runne a quiet race.
He that high growth on Ceders did bestow:
Gaue also lowly Mush-rumpts leaue so grow.

In A mans pompe poore Mardocheus wept;
Yet God did turne his fate vpon his foe.
The Lazar pinde, while Dives feast was kept,
Yet he, to heauen; to hell, did Diues goe.
We trample grasse, and prize the flowers of May:
Yet grasse is greene, when flowers doe fade away.

The Natiuitie of Christ.

Beholde the father, is his daughters sonne:
The bird that built the nest, is hatched therein:
The olde of yeares, an houre hath not out runne:
Eternall life, to liue doth now beginne.
The word is dumme: the mirth of heauen doth weepe:
Might feeble is: and force doth faintly creepe.

O dying soules, beholde your liuing spring:
O dasled eyes, behold your sonne of grace:
Dull eares, attend what word this word doth bring:
Vp heauie hartes; with ioye your ioye embrace.
From death, from darke, from deafenesse, from dispaires:
This life, this light, this word, this ioye repaires.

Gift better then him selfe, God doth not know:
Gift better then his God, no man can see;
This gift doth here the geuer geuen bestow;
Gift to this gift let each receiuer bee.
God is my gift, himselfe he freely gaue me;
Gods gift am I, and none but God shall haue me.

Man altered was by sinne from man to beast;
Beastes foode is haye, haye is all mortall flesh;
Now God is flesh, and lies in Manger prest;
As haye, the brutest sinner to refresh.
O happie fielde wherein this fodder grew,
Whose tast, doth vs from beasts to men renew.

Christs childhood.

Till twelue yeres age, how Christ his childhood spent,
All earthly pennes vnworthy were to write,
Such acts, to mortall eyes hee did present:
Whose worth, not men, but Angels must recite.
No natures blots, no childish faults defilde,
Where grace was guide, and God did play the childe.

In springing lockes, laye couched hoary wit,
In semblance young, a graue and auncient port,
In lowly lookes, high Maiestie did sit:
In tender tongue, sound sense of sagest sort,
Nature imparted all that shee could teach,
And God supplied, where nature could not reach.

His mirth, of modest meane a mirrour was,
His sadnesse, tempered with a milde aspect:
His eye, to trie each action was a glasse:
Whose lookes, did good approue, and bad correct.
His natures gifts, his grace, his word and deede,
Well shewed that all did from a God proceede.

A child my choyse.

Let folly praise that fancie loues, I praise and loue that child,
Whose hart, no thought: whose tong, no word: whose hand no deed defiled.
I praise him most, I loue him best, all praise and loue is his:
While him I loue, in him I liue, and cannot liue amisse.

Loues sweetest mark, Lawdes highest theme, mans most desired light,
To loue him, life: to leaue him, death: to liue in him, delight.
He mine, by gift: I his, by debt: thus each, to others due:
First friend he was: best friend he is: all times will try him true.

Though young, yet wise: though smal, yet strong: though man, yet God he is:
As wise, he knowes: as strong, he can: as God, he loues to blisse,
His knowledge rules: his strength, defends: his loue, doth cherish all:
His birth, our Ioye: his life, our light: his death, our end of thrall.

Alas, he weepes, he sighes, he pants, yet doo his Angels sing:
Out of his teares, his sighes and throbs, doth bud a ioyfull spring.
Almightie babe, whose tender armes can force all foes to flie:
Correct my faultes, protect my life, direct me when I die.

Content and rich.

I Dwell in graces courte,
Enrichde with vertues rights:
Faithe, guides my wit: loue, leades my will:
Hope; all my minde delights.

In lowlie vales I mounte
To pleasures highest pich:
My seely shrowde true honor brings,
My poore estate is rich.

My conscience, is my crowne:
Contented thoughts, my rest:
My hart is happie in it selfe:
My blisse is in my brest.

Enough, I reckon welth:
A meane, the surest lot,
That lies too high, for base contempt;
To low, for enuies shot.

My wishes are but few,
All easie to fulfill:
I make the Limites of my power,
The bondes vnto my will.

I haue no hopes but one,
VVhich is of heauenly raigne:
Effects attainde, or not desired,
All lower hopes refraine.

I feele no care of coyne,
Weldoing is my welth:
My minde to me an empire is:
While grace affordeth health.

I clippe high-clyming thoughts,
The wings of swelling pride:
Their fall is worst that from the hight,
Of greatest honor slide.

Sith sayles of largest size
The storme doth soonest teare:
I beare so low and small a sayle
As freeth me from feare.

I wrastle not with rage
While furies flame doth burne:
It is in vaine to stop the streme
Vntill the tide doth turne.

But when the flame is out,
And ebbing wrath doth end:
I turne a late enraged foe
Into a quiet frend.

And taught with often proofe,
A tempered calme I finde:
To be most solace, to it selfe:
Best cure, for angrie minde.

Spare diet, is my fare:
My clothes, more fit, then fine:
I know I feede and cloth a foe:
That pampered, would repine.

I enuie not their happe,
VVhom fauour doth aduance:
I take no pleasure in their paine,
That haue lesse happie chance.

To rise by others fall,
I deeme a loosing gaine:
All states with others ruines built,
To ruine runne amaine.

No change of fortunes calmes,
Can cast my comforts downe:
When fortune smiles, I smile to thinke,
How quickly shee will frowne.

And when in froward moode
She proues an angrie foe:
Smale gaine I found to let her come,
Lesse losse to let her goe.

Losse in delayes.

Shun delaies, they breed remorse:
Take thy time while time doth serue thee,
Creeping Snailes haue weakest force;
Flie their fault least thou repent thee:
Good is best when soonest wrought,
Lingring labours come to nought.

Hoise vp saile, while gale doth last;
Tide and wind stay no mans pleasure:
Seeke not time, when time is past,
Sober speede is wisedomes leasure:
After wits are dearely bought,
Let thy forewit guide thy thought.

Time weares all his lockes before,
Take thou hold vpon his fore head,
When he flies he turnes no more,
And behind his scalpe is naked,
Workes aiournd haue many stayes,
Long demurres breede new delaies.

Seeke thy salue while sore is greene,
Festred wounds aske deeper launcing;
After cures are seeldome seene,
Often sought scarce euer chauncing,
Time and place giue best aduise,
Out of season out of prise.

Crush the Serpent in the head,
Breake ill egges ere they be hatched:
Kill bad Chickins in the tread,
Fligge, they hardly can be catched.
In the rysing, stifle ill,
Least it grow against thy will.

Drops doe pierce the stubborne flint,
Not by force but often falling:
Custome kils with feeble dint,
More by vse then strength preuailing.
Single sandes haue little waight,
Many make a drowning fraight.

Tender twigges are bent with ease,
Aged trees doe breake with bending:
Young desires make little prease,
Grought doth make them past amending.
Happie man that soone can nocke,
Bable babes against the rocke.

Loues seruile Lot.

Loue, mistris is of many minds,
Yet few know whom they serue:
They reckon least how little loue,
Their seruice doth deserue.

The will shee robbeth from the wit:
The sence from reasons lore,
Shee is delightfull in the rine,
Corrupted in the core.

Shee shroudeth vice in vertues vaile,
Pretending much good will:
Shee offereth ioy, affoordeth griefe,
A kisse where shee doth kill.

A honnie shower raines from her lippes,
Sweete lights shine in her face:
Shee hath the blush of virgine mild,
The mind of Vipers race.

She makes thee seeke, yet feare to find:
To find, but not enioy.
In many frounes some gliding smiles,
Shee yeeldes to more anoy.

She wooes thee to come neere her fire:
Yet doth shee draw it from thee:
Farre off she makes thy hart to frie,
And yet to freeze within thee.

Shee letteth fall some luring baites:
For fooles to gather vp.
Too sweete to some to euery tast,
Shee tempereth her cup.

Soft soules she bindes in tender twist,
Small Flees in spinners webbe,
Shee sets a floote some luring streames,
But makes them soone to ebbe.

Her watrie eyes haue burning force:
Her floods and flames conspire.
Teares kindle sparkes, sobbes fuell are:
And sighes doe blow her fire.

May neuer was the Month of loue,
For May is full of flowers,
But rather Aprill wet by kind,
For loue is full of showers.

Like tyrant cruell wounds she geues,
Like Surgeon salue shee lends,
But salue and sore haue equall force,
For death is both their ends.

With soothed wordes, inthralled soules:
Shee chaines in seruile bands,
Her eye in silence hath a speach,
Which eye best vnderstands.

Their leaues are stained in beauties die,
And blassed with their beames,
Their stalkes inameld with delight:
And limed with glorious gleames.

Life giuing iuice of liuing loue;
Their sugered vaines doe fill,
And watred with eternall showers,
They nectared droppes distill.

These flowers doe spring from fertill soile,
Though from vnmanu'rd fielde.
Most glittering golde in lew of gleebe,
The fragrant flowers doe yeelde.

Whose Soueraigne sent surpassing sense,
So rauisheth the mind.
That worldly weedes needes must he lothe,
That can these flowers find.

FINIS.