Steps to the temple sacred poems, with other delights of the muses / by Richard Crashaw ...
         Crashaw, Richard, 1613?-1649.
      
       
         
           1646
        
      
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             Steps to the temple sacred poems, with other delights of the muses / by Richard Crashaw ...
             Crashaw, Richard, 1613?-1649.
          
           [10], 138, [4] p.
           
             Printed by T.W. for Humphrey Moseley, and are to be sold at his shop ...,
             London :
             1646.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
             Second part has special t.p.: The delights of the muses, or, Other poems written on severall occasions.
             Poems in English and Latin.
             Table of contents: p. [1]-[4] at end.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Religious poetry -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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               STEPS
               TO
               THE
               TEMPLE
               .
               Sacred
               Poems
               ,
               With
               other
               Delights
               of
               the
               MUSES
               .
               By
               
                 RICHARD
                 CRASHAW
              
               ,
               sometimes
               of
               Pembroke
               Hall
               ,
               and
               late
               Fellow
               of
               S.
               Peters
               Coll.
               in
               Cambridge
               .
            
             
               Printed
               and
               Published
               according
               to
               Order
               .
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               by
               T.W.
               for
               
                 Humphrey
                 Moseley
              
               ,
               and
               are
               to
               be
               sold
               at
               his
               shop
               at
               the
               Princes
               Armes
               in
               St.
               Pauls
               Church-yard
               .
               1646
            
          
           
             
             
             
               The
               Preface
               to
               the
               Reader
               .
            
             
               
                 Learned
                 Reader
                 ,
              
            
             
               THe
               Authors
               friend
               ,
               will
               not
               usurpe
               much
               upon
               thy
               eye
               :
               This
               is
               onely
               for
               those
               ,
               whom
               the
               name
               of
               our
               Divine
               Poet
               hath
               not
               yet
               seized
               into
               admiration
               ,
               I
               dare
               undertake
               ,
               that
               what
               
                 Jamblicus
                 (
                 in
                 vita
                 Pythagorae
              
               )
               affirmeth
               of
               his
               Master
               ,
               at
               his
               Contemplations
               ,
               these
               Poems
               can
               ,
               viz.
               They
               shal
               lift
               thee
               Reader
               ,
               some
               yards
               above
               the
               ground
               :
               and
               ,
               as
               in
               Pythagoras
               Schoole
               ,
               every
               temper
               was
               first
               tuned
               into
               a
               height
               by
               severall
               proportions
               of
               Musick
               ;
               and
               spiritualiz'd
               for
               one
               of
               his
               weighty
               Lectures
               ;
               S●
               maist
               
               thou
               take
               a
               Poem
               hence
               ,
               and
               tune
               thy
               soule
               by
               it
               ,
               into
               a
               heavenly
               pitch
               ;
               and
               thus
               refined
               and
               borne
               up
               upon
               the
               wings
               of
               meditation
               .
               In
               these
               Poems
               thou
               maist
               talke
               freely
               of
               God
               ,
               and
               of
               that
               other
               state
               .
            
             
               Here
               's
               Herbert's
               second
               ,
               but
               equall
               ,
               who
               hath
               retriv'd
               Poetry
               of
               late
               ,
               and
               return'd
               it
               up
               to
               its
               Primitive
               use
               ;
               Let
               it
               bound
               back
               to
               heaven
               gates
               ,
               whence
               it
               came
               .
               Thinke
               yee
               ,
               St.
               Augustine
               would
               have
               steyned
               his
               graver
               Learning
               with
               a
               booke
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               had
               he
               fancied
               their
               dearest
               end
               to
               be
               the
               vanity
               of
               Love-Sonnets
               ,
               and
               Epithalamiums
               ?
               No
               ,
               no
               ,
               he
               thought
               with
               this
               ,
               our
               Poet
               ,
               that
               every
               foot
               in
               a
               high-borne
               verse
               ,
               might
               helpe
               to
               measure
               the
               soule
               into
               that
               better
               world
               :
               
                 Divine
                 Poetry
              
               ;
               I
               dare
               hold
               it
               ,
               in
               position
               against
               Suarez
               on
               the
               subject
               ,
               to
               be
               the
               Language
               of
               the
               Angels
               ;
               it
               is
               the
               Quintessence
               of
               Phantasie
               and
               discourse
               center'd
               in
               Heaven
               ;
               't
               is
               the
               very
               Out-goings
               of
               the
               soule
               ;
               't
               is
               what
               alone
               our
               Author
               is
               able
               to
               tell
               you
               ,
               and
               
               that
               in
               his
               owne
               verse
               .
            
             
               It
               were
               prophane
               but
               to
               mention
               here
               in
               the
               Preface
               those
               under-headed
               Poets
               ,
               Retainers
               to
               seven
               shares
               and
               a
               halfe
               ;
               Madrigall
               fellowes
               ,
               whose
               onely
               businesse
               in
               verse
               ,
               is
               to
               rime
               a
               poore
               six-penny
               soule
               ,
               a
               Subburd
               sinner
               into
               hell
               ;
               —
               May
               such
               arrogant
               pretenders
               to
               Poetry
               vanish
               ,
               with
               their
               prodigious
               issue
               of
               tumorous
               heats
               and
               flashes
               of
               their
               adulterate
               braines
               ,
               and
               for
               ever
               after
               ,
               may
               this
               our
               Poet
               fill
               up
               the
               better
               roome
               of
               man
               ,
               Oh!
               when
               the
               generall
               arraignment
               of
               Poets
               shall
               be
               ,
               to
               give
               an
               accompt
               of
               their
               higher
               soules
               ,
               with
               what
               a
               triumphant
               brow
               ,
               shall
               our
               divine
               Poet
               sit
               above
               ,
               and
               looke
               downe
               upon
               poore
               
                 Homer
                 ,
                 Virgil
                 ,
                 Horace
                 ,
                 Claudian
                 ?
                 &c.
              
               who
               had
               amongst
               them
               the
               ill
               lucke
               to
               talke
               out
               a
               great
               part
               of
               their
               gallant
               Genius
               upon
               Bees
               ,
               Dung
               ,
               froggs
               ,
               and
               Gnats
               ,
               &c.
               and
               not
               as
               himselfe
               here
               ,
               upon
               Scriptures
               ,
               divine
               Graces
               ,
               Martyrs
               and
               Angels
               .
            
             
               Reader
               ,
               we
               stile
               his
               Sacred
               Poems
               ,
               
                 Stepps
                 to
                 the
                 Temple
              
               ,
               and
               aptly
               ,
               for
               
               in
               the
               Temple
               of
               God
               ,
               under
               his
               wing
               ,
               he
               led
               his
               life
               in
               St.
               Maries
               Church
               neere
               St.
               Peters
               Colledge
               :
               There
               be
               lodged
               under
               
               Tertullian's
               roofe
               of
               Angels
               :
               There
               he
               made
               his
               nest
               more
               gladly
               then
               David's
               Swallow
               neere
               the
               house
               of
               God
               :
               where
               like
               a
               primitive
               Saint
               ,
               he
               offered
               more
               prayers
               in
               the
               night
               ,
               then
               others
               usually
               offer
               in
               the
               day
               ;
               There
               ,
               he
               penned
               these
               Poems
               ,
               Stepps
               for
               happy
               soules
               to
               ●limbe
               heaven
               by
               .
            
             
               And
               those
               other
               of
               his
               pieces
               intituled
               ,
               
                 The
                 Delights
                 of
                 the
                 Muses
              
               ,
               (
               though
               of
               a
               more
               humane
               mixture
               )
               are
               as
               sweet
               as
               they
               are
               innocent
               .
            
             
               The
               praises
               that
               follow
               are
               but
               few
               of
               many
               that
               might
               be
               conferr'd
               on
               him
               ,
               hee
               was
               excellent
               in
               five
               Languages
               (
               besides
               his
               Mother
               tongue
               )
               vid.
               Hebrew
               ,
               Greek
               ,
               Latine
               ,
               Italian
               ,
               Spanish
               ,
               the
               two
               last
               whereof
               hee
               had
               little
               helpe
               in
               they
               were
               of
               his
               owne
               acquisition
               .
            
             
               Amongst
               his
               other
               accomplishments
               in
               Accademick
               (
               as
               well
               pious
               as
               harmlesse
               arts
               )
               hee
               made
               his
               skill
               in
               Poetry
               
               Musicke
               ,
               Drawing
               ,
               Limming
               ,
               graving
               ,
               (
               exercises
               of
               his
               curious
               invention
               and
               sudden
               fancy
               )
               to
               bee
               but
               his
               subservient
               recreations
               for
               vacant
               houres
               ,
               not
               the
               grand
               businesse
               of
               his
               soule
               .
            
             
               To
               the
               former
               Qualifications
               I
               might
               adde
               that
               which
               would
               crowne
               them
               all
               ,
               his
               rare
               moderation
               in
               diet
               (
               almost
               Lessian
               temperance
               )
               hee
               never
               created
               a
               Muse
               out
               of
               dist●mpers
               ,
               nor
               with
               our
               Canary
               scribblers
               )
               cast
               any
               strange
               mists
               of
               surfets
               before
               the
               Intelectuall
               beames
               of
               his
               mind
               or
               memory
               ,
               the
               latter
               of
               which
               ,
               hee
               was
               so
               much
               a
               master
               of
               ,
               that
               hee
               had
               there
               under
               locke
               and
               key
               in
               readinesse
               ,
               the
               richest
               treasures
               of
               the
               best
               Greeke
               and
               Latine
               Poets
               ,
               some
               of
               which
               Authors
               hee
               had
               more
               at
               his
               command
               and
               by
               heart
               ,
               then
               others
               that
               onely
               read
               their
               workes
               ,
               to
               retaine
               little
               ,
               and
               understand
               lesse
               .
            
             
               Enough
               Reader
               ,
               I
               intend
               not
               a
               volume
               of
               praises
               ,
               larger
               then
               his
               booke
               ,
               nor
               need
               I
               longer
               transport
               thee
               to
               thinke
               over
               his
               vast
               perfections
               ,
               I
               will
               
               conclude
               all
               that
               I
               have
               impartially
               writ
               of
               this
               Learned
               young
               Gent.
               (
               now
               dead
               to
               us
               )
               as
               hee
               himselfe
               doth
               ,
               with
               the
               last
               line
               of
               his
               Poem
               upon
               Bishop
               Andrews
               Picture
               before
               his
               Sermons
               
                 Verte
                 paginas
              
               .
            
             
               
                 —
                 Look
                 on
                 his
                 following
                 leaves
                 ,
                 and
                 see
                 him
                 breath
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               Authors
               Motto
               .
            
             
               
                 Live
                 Jesus
                 ,
                 Live
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 it
                 bee
              
               
                 My
                 life
                 to
                 dye
                 ,
                 for
                 love
                 of
                 thee
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               REader
               ,
               there
               was
               a
               sudden
               mistake
               (
               't
               is
               too
               late
               to
               recover
               it
               )
               thou
               wilt
               quickly
               find
               it
               out
               ,
               and
               I
               hope
               as
               soone
               passe
               it
               over
               ,
               some
               of
               the
               humane
               Poems
               are
               misplaced
               amongst
               the
               Divine
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               The
               Weeper
               .
            
             
               
                 1
              
               
                 HAile
                 
                   Sister
                   Springs
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Parents
                 of
                 Silver-forded
                 rills
                 !
              
               
                 Ever
                 bubling
                 things
                 !
              
               
                 Thawing
                 Christall
                 ●
                 Snowy
                 Hills
                 !
              
               
                 Still
                 spending
                 ,
                 never
                 spent
                 ;
                 I
                 meane
              
               
                 Thy
                 faire
                 Eyes
                 sweet
                 Magdalene
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2
              
               
                 Heavens
                 thy
                 faire
                 Eyes
                 bee
                 ,
              
               
                 Heavens
                 of
                 ever-falling
                 stars
                 ,
              
               
                 T
                 is
                 seed-time
                 still
                 with
                 thee
              
               
                 And
                 stars
                 thou
                 sow'st
                 whose
                 harvest
                 dares
              
               
                 Promise
                 the
                 earth
                 ;
                 to
                 countershine
              
               
                 What
                 ever
                 makes
                 Heavens
                 fore-head
                 fine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3
              
               
                 But
                 wee
                 are
                 deceived
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 Stars
                 they
                 are
                 indeed
                 too
                 true
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 they
                 but
                 seeme
                 to
                 fall
              
               
                 As
                 Heavens
                 other
                 spangles
                 doe
                 :
              
               
                 It
                 is
                 not
                 for
                 our
                 Earth
                 and
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 shine
                 in
                 things
                 so
                 pretious
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4
              
               
                 Vpwards
                 thou
                 dost
                 weepe
                 ,
              
               
                 Heavens
                 bosome
                 drinks
                 the
                 gentle
                 streame
                 .
              
               
                 Where
                 th'
                 milky
                 rivers
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 Thine
                 Crawles
                 above
                 and
                 is
                 the
                 Creame
                 .
              
               
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 of
                 such
                 faire
                 floods
                 as
                 this
                 ,
              
               
                 Heaven
                 the
                 Christall
                 Ocean
                 is
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 5
              
               
                 Every
                 morne
                 from
                 hence
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 briske
                 Cherub
                 something
                 sips
              
               
                 Whose
                 soft
                 influence
              
               
                 Adds
                 sweetnesse
                 to
                 his
                 sweetest
                 lips
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 to
                 his
                 Musicke
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 song
              
               
                 Tastes
                 of
                 this
                 breakefast
                 all
                 day
                 long
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 ●
              
               
                 When
                 some
                 new
                 bright
                 guest
              
               
                 Takes
                 up
                 among
                 the
                 stars
                 a
                 roome
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Heaven
                 will
                 make
                 a
                 feast
                 ,
              
               
                 Angels
                 with
                 their
                 Bottles
                 come
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 draw
                 from
                 these
                 full
                 Eyes
                 of
                 thine
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Masters
                 water
                 ,
                 their
                 owne
                 Wine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 7
              
               
                 The
                 dew
                 no
                 more
                 will
                 weepe
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Primroses
                 pale
                 cheeke
                 to
                 decke
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 deaw
                 no
                 more
                 will
                 sleepe
                 ,
              
               
                 Nuzzel'd
                 in
                 the
                 Lillies
                 necke
                 .
              
               
                 Much
                 rather
                 would
                 it
                 tremble
                 heere
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 leave
                 them
                 both
                 to
                 bee
                 thy
                 Teare
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 8
              
               
                 Not
                 the
                 soft
                 Gold
                 which
              
               
                 Steales
                 from
                 the
                 Amber-weeping
                 Tree
                 ,
              
               
                 Makes
                 sorrow
                 halfe
                 so
                 Rich
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 the
                 drops
                 distil'd
                 from
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 Sorrowes
                 best
                 Iewels
                 lye
                 in
                 these
              
               
                 Caskets
                 ,
                 of
                 which
                 Heaven
                 keeps
                 the
                 Keyes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 9
              
               
                 When
                 sorrow
                 would
                 be
                 seene
              
               
                 In
                 her
                 brightest
                 Majesty
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 shee
                 ●s
                 a
                 Queen
                 )
              
               
                 Then
                 is
                 shee
                 drest
                 by
                 none
                 but
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 and
                 onely
                 then
                 shee
                 weares
              
               
                 Her
                 richest
                 Pearles
                 ,
                 I
                 meane
                 thy
                 Tea●es
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 10
              
               
                 Not
                 in
                 the
                 Evenings
                 Eyes
              
               
                 When
                 they
                 red
                 with
                 weeping
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 the
                 Sun
                 that
                 dyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Si●s
                 sorrow
                 with
                 a
                 face
                 so
                 faire
                 .
              
               
               
                 Nowhere
                 but
                 heere
                 did
                 ever
                 meet
              
               
                 Sweetnesse
                 so
                 sad
                 ,
                 sadnes
                 so
                 sweet
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 11
              
               
                 Sadnesse
                 all
                 the
                 while
              
               
                 Shee
                 sits
                 in
                 such
                 a
                 Throne
                 as
                 this
                 ,
              
               
                 Can
                 doe
                 nought
                 but
                 smile
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 beleeves
                 shee
                 sadnesse
                 is
              
               
                 Gladnesse
                 it selfe
                 would
                 bee
                 more
                 glad
              
               
                 To
                 bee
                 made
                 so
                 sweetly
                 sad
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 12
              
               
                 There
                 is
                 no
                 need
                 at
                 all
              
               
                 That
                 the
                 Balsame-sweating
                 bough
              
               
                 So
                 coyly
                 should
                 let
                 fall
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 med'cinable
                 Teares
                 ;
                 for
                 now
              
               
                 Nature
                 hath
                 learn't
                 t'
                 extract
                 a
                 dew
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 soveraigne
                 and
                 sweet
                 from
                 you
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 13
              
               
                 Yet
                 let
                 the
                 poore
                 drops
                 weepe
                 ,
              
               
                 Weeping
                 is
                 the
                 case
                 of
                 woe
                 ,
              
               
                 Softly
                 let
                 them
                 creepe
              
               
                 Sad
                 that
                 they
                 are
                 vanquish't
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 ,
                 though
                 to
                 others
                 no
                 releife
              
               
                 May
                 Balsame
                 bee
                 for
                 their
                 own
                 grief
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 14
              
               
                 Golden
                 though
                 hee
                 bee
                 ,
              
               
                 Golden
                 Tagus
                 murmurs
                 though
                 ,
              
               
                 Might
                 hee
                 flow
                 from
                 thee
              
               
                 Content
                 and
                 quiet
                 would
                 he
                 goe
                 ,
              
               
                 Richer
                 far
                 does
                 he
                 esteeme
              
               
                 Thy
                 silver
                 ,
                 then
                 his
                 golden
                 streame
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 15
              
               
                 Well
                 does
                 the
                 May
                 that
                 lyes
              
               
                 Smiling
                 in
                 thy
                 cheekes
                 ,
                 confesse
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 April
                 in
                 thine
                 eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Mutuall
                 sweetnesse
                 they
                 expresse
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 April
                 e're
                 lent
                 softer
                 showres
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 May
                 returned
                 fairer
                 flowers
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 16
              
               
                 Thus
                 dost
                 thou
                 melt
                 the
                 yeare
              
               
                 Into
                 a
                 weeping
                 motion
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 minute
                 waiteth
                 heere
                 ;
              
               
                 Takes
                 his
                 teare
                 and
                 gets
                 him
                 gone
                 ;
              
               
                 By
                 thine
                 eyes
                 tinct
                 enobled
                 thus
              
               
                 Time
                 layes
                 him
                 up
                 :
                 he
                 's
                 pretious
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 17
              
               
                 Time
                 as
                 by
                 thee
                 he
                 passes
                 ,
              
               
                 Makes
                 thy
                 ever-watry
                 eyes
              
               
                 His
                 Hower-Glasses
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 them
                 his
                 steps
                 he
                 rectifies
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 sands
                 he
                 us'd
                 no
                 longer
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 his
                 owne
                 sands
                 hee
                 'l
                 use
                 thy
                 seas
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 18
              
               
                 Does
                 thy
                 song
                 lull
                 the
                 Ayre
                 ?
              
               
                 Thy
                 teares
                 just
                 Cadence
                 still
                 keeps
                 time
                 .
              
               
                 Does
                 thy
                 sweet
                 breath'd
                 Prayer
              
               
                 Vp
                 in
                 clouds
                 of
                 Incense
                 climbe
                 ?
              
               
                 Still
                 at
                 each
                 sigh
                 ,
                 that
                 is
                 each
                 stop
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 bead
                 ,
                 that
                 is
                 a
                 teare
                 doth
                 drop
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 19
              
               
                 Does
                 the
                 Night
                 arise
                 ?
              
               
                 Still
                 thy
                 teares
                 doe
                 fall
                 ,
                 and
                 fall
                 .
              
               
                 Does
                 night
                 loose
                 her
                 eyes
                 ?
              
               
                 Still
                 the
                 fountaine
                 weeps
                 for
                 all
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 night
                 or
                 day
                 doe
                 what
                 they
                 will
              
               
                 Thou
                 hast
                 thy
                 taske
                 ,
                 thou
                 weepest
                 still
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 20
              
               
                 Not
                 ,
                 so
                 long
                 she
                 liv'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Will
                 thy
                 tombe
                 report
                 of
                 thee
              
               
                 But
                 
                   so
                   long
                   she
                   greiv'd
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 must
                 we
                 date
                 thy
                 memory
                 .
              
               
                 Others
                 by
                 Dayes
                 ,
                 by
                 Monthes
                 ,
                 by
                 Yeares
              
               
                 Measure
                 their
                 Ages
                 ,
                 Thou
                 by
                 Teares
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 21
              
               
                 Say
                 watry
                 Brothers
              
               
                 Yee
                 simpering
                 sons
                 of
                 those
                 faire
                 eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 fertile
                 Mothers
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 hath
                 our
                 world
                 that
                 can
                 entice
              
               
                 You
                 to
                 be
                 borne
                 ?
                 what
                 is
                 't
                 can
                 borrow
              
               
                 You
                 from
                 her
                 eyes
                 swolne
                 wombes
                 of
                 sorrow
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 22
              
               
                 Whither
                 away
                 so
                 fast
                 ?
              
               
                 O
                 whither
                 ?
                 for
                 the
                 sluttish
                 Earth
              
               
                 Your
                 sweetnesse
                 cannot
                 tast
              
               
                 Nor
                 does
                 the
                 dust
                 deserve
                 your
                 Birth
                 .
              
               
                 Whither
                 hast
                 ye
                 then
                 ?
                 o
                 say
              
               
                 Why
                 yee
                 trip
                 so
                 fast
                 away
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 23
              
               
                 We
                 goe
                 not
                 to
                 seeke
              
               
                 The
                 darlings
                 of
                 Aurora's
                 bed
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Roses
                 modest
                 cheeke
              
               
                 Nor
                 the
                 Violets
                 humble
                 head
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 such
                 thing
                 ;
                 we
                 goe
                 to
                 meet
              
               
                 A
                 worthier
                 object
                 ,
                 
                   Our
                   Lords
                
                 feet
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               Teare
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 WHat
                 bright
                 soft
                 thing
                 is
                 this
                 ?
              
               
                 Sweet
                 Mary
                 thy
                 faire
                 Eyes
                 expence
                 ?
              
               
                 A
                 moist
                 sparke
                 it
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 watry
                 Diamond
                 ;
                 from
                 whence
              
               
                 The
                 very
                 Terme
                 ,
                 I
                 think
                 ,
                 was
                 found
              
               
                 The
                 water
                 of
                 a
                 Diamond
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2
              
               
                 O
                 't
                 is
                 not
                 a
                 Teare
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 a
                 starre
                 about
                 to
                 drop
              
               
                 From
                 thine
                 eye
                 its
                 spheare
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Sunne
                 will
                 stoope
                 and
                 take
                 it
                 up
                 .
              
               
                 Proud
                 will
                 his
                 sister
                 be
                 to
                 weare
              
               
                 This
                 thine
                 eyes
                 Iewell
                 in
                 her
                 Eare.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 3
              
               
                 O
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 Teare
                 ,
              
               
                 Too
                 true
                 a
                 Teare
                 ;
                 for
                 no
                 sad
                 eyne
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 sad
                 so
                 e're
              
               
                 Raine
                 so
                 true
                 a
                 Teare
                 as
                 thine
                 ;
              
               
                 Each
                 Drop
                 leaving
                 a
                 place
                 so
                 deare
                 ,
              
               
                 Weeps
                 for
                 it selfe
                 ,
                 is
                 its
                 owne
                 Teare
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4
              
               
                 Such
                 a
                 Pearle
                 as
                 this
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Slipt
                 from
                 
                 Aurora's
                 dewy
                 Brest
                 )
              
               
                 The
                 Rose
                 buds
                 sweet
                 lip
                 kisses
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 such
                 the
                 Rose
                 its
                 selfe
                 when
                 vext
              
               
                 With
                 ungentle
                 flames
                 ,
                 does
                 shed
                 ,
              
               
                 Sweating
                 in
                 too
                 warme
                 a
                 Bed.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 5
              
               
                 Such
                 the
                 Maiden
                 Gemme
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 wanton
                 Spring
                 put
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 Peeps
                 from
                 her
                 Parent
                 stemme
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 blushes
                 on
                 the
                 watry
                 Sun
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 watry
                 Blossome
                 of
                 thy
                 Eyne
              
               
                 Ripe
                 ,
                 will
                 make
                 the
                 richer
                 Wine
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 6
              
               
                 Faire
                 Drop
                 ,
                 why
                 quak'st
                 thou
                 so
                 ?
              
               
                 'Cause
                 thou
                 streight
                 must
                 lay
                 thy
                 Head
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 Dust
                 ?
                 ô
                 no
                 ▪
              
               
                 The
                 Dust
                 shall
                 never
                 bee
                 thy
                 Bed
                 ▪
              
               
                 A
                 pillow
                 for
                 thee
                 will
                 I
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 Stuft
                 with
                 Downe
                 of
                 Angels
                 wing
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 7
              
               
                 Thus
                 carryed
                 up
                 on
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 to
                 Heaven
                 thou
                 must
                 goe
                 )
              
               
                 Sweetly
                 shalt
                 thou
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 soft
                 slumbers
                 bath
                 thy
                 woe
                 ;
              
               
                 Till
                 the
                 singing
                 Orbes
                 awake
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 one
                 of
                 their
                 bright
                 Chorus
                 make
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 8
              
               
                 There
                 thy selfe
                 shalt
                 bee
              
               
                 An
                 eye
                 ,
                 but
                 not
                 a
                 weeping
                 one
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 I
                 doubt
                 of
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Whither
                 th'hadst
                 rather
                 there
                 have
                 shone
              
               
                 An
                 eye
                 of
                 Heaven
                 ;
                 or
                 still
                 shine
                 here
              
               
                 In
                 th'
                 Heaven
                 of
                 Mary's
                 eye
                 ,
                 a
                 Teare
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Divine
               Epigrams
               .
               On
               the
               water
               of
               our
               Lords
               Baptisme
               .
            
             
               
                 EAch
                 blest
                 drop
                 ,
                 on
                 each
                 blest
                 limme
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 washt
                 it selfe
                 ,
                 in
                 washing
                 him
                 :
              
               
                 T
                 is
                 a
                 Gemme
                 while
                 it
                 stayes
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 it
                 falls
                 hence
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 Teare
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Act.
                 8
                 On
                 the
                 baptized
                 Aethiopian
                 .
              
               
                 LEt
                 it
                 no
                 longer
                 be
                 a
                 forlorne
                 hope
              
               
                 To
                 wash
                 an
                 Aethiope
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 's
                 washt
                 ,
                 His
                 gloomy
                 skin
                 a
                 peacefull
                 shade
              
               
                 For
                 his
                 white
                 soule
                 is
                 made
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 ,
                 I
                 doubt
                 not
                 ,
                 the
                 Eternall
                 Dove
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 black-fac'd
                 house
                 will
                 love
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 the
                 miracle
                 of
                 multiplyed
                 loaves
                 .
              
               
                 SEe
                 here
                 an
                 easie
                 Feast
                 that
                 knowes
                 no
                 wound
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 under
                 Hungers
                 Teeth
                 will
                 needs
                 be
                 sound
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 subtle
                 Harvest
                 of
                 unbounded
                 bread
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 would
                 ye
                 more
                 ?
                 Here
                 food
                 it selfe
                 is
                 fed
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 Sepulchre
                 of
                 our
                 Lord.
                 
              
               
                 HEre
                 ,
                 where
                 our
                 Lord
                 once
                 laid
                 his
                 Head
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 the
                 Grave
                 lies
                 buried
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Widowes
                 Mites
                 .
              
               
                 TWo
                 Mites
                 ,
                 two
                 drops
                 ,
                 (
                 yet
                 all
                 her
                 house
                 and
                 land
                 )
              
               
                 Falls
                 from
                 a
                 steady
                 Heart
                 ,
                 though
                 trembling
                 hand
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 others
                 wanton
                 wealth
                 foams
                 high
                 ,
                 and
                 brave
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 other
                 cast
                 away
                 ,
                 she
                 onely
                 gave
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Luk.
                 15.
                 
                 On
                 the
                 Prodigall
                 .
              
               
                 TEll
                 me
                 bright
                 Boy
                 ,
                 tell
                 me
                 my
                 golden
                 Lad
                 ,
              
               
                 Whither
                 away
                 so
                 frolick
                 ?
                 why
                 so
                 glad
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 all
                 thy
                 Wealth
                 in
                 counsaile
                 ?
                 all
                 thy
                 state
                 ?
              
               
                 Are
                 Husks
                 so
                 deare
                 ?
                 troth
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 mighty
                 rate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 the
                 still
                 surviving
                 markes
                 of
                 our
                 Saviours
                 wounds
                 .
              
               
                 WHat
                 ever
                 story
                 of
                 their
                 crueltie
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Naile
                 ,
                 or
                 Thorne
                 ,
                 or
                 Speare
                 have
                 writ
                 in
                 Thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 in
                 another
                 sence
              
               
                 Still
                 legible
                 ;
              
               
                 Sweet
                 is
                 the
                 difference
                 :
              
               
                 Once
                 I
                 did
                 spell
                 .
              
               
                 Every
                 red
                 letter
              
               
                 A
                 wound
                 of
                 thine
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 (
                 what
                 is
                 better
                 )
              
               
                 Balsome
                 for
                 mine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Act.
                 5.
                 
                 The
                 sicke
                 implore
                 St.
                 
                 Peter's
                 shadow
                 .
              
               
                 VNder
                 thy
                 shadow
                 may
                 I
                 lurke
                 a
                 while
                 ,
              
               
                 Death's
                 busie
                 search
                 I
                 'le
                 easily
                 beguile
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 shadow
                 Peter
                 ,
                 must
                 shew
                 me
                 the
                 Sun
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 light
                 's
                 thy
                 shadowes
                 shadow
                 ,
                 or
                 't
                 is
                 done
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Mar.
                 7.
                 
                 The
                 dumbe
                 healed
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 people
                 enjoyned
                 silence
                 .
              
               
                 CHrist
                 bids
                 the
                 dumbe
                 tongue
                 speake
                 ,
                 it
                 speakes
                 ,
                 the
                 sound
              
               
                 Hee
                 charges
                 to
                 be
                 quiet
                 ,
                 it
                 runs
                 round
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 in
                 the
                 first
                 he
                 us'd
                 his
                 fingers
                 Touch
                 :
              
               
                 His
                 hands
                 whole
                 strength
                 here
                 ,
                 could
                 not
                 be
                 too
                 much
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mat.
                 28.
                 
                 Come
                 see
                 the
                 place
                 where
                 the
                 Lord
                 lay
                 .
              
               
                 SHow
                 me
                 himselfe
                 ,
                 himselfe
                 (
                 bright
                 Sir
                 )
                 O
                 show
              
               
                 Which
                 way
                 my
                 poore
                 Tears
                 to
                 himselfe
                 may
                 goe
                 ,
              
               
                 Were
                 it
                 enough
                 to
                 show
                 the
                 place
                 ,
                 and
                 say
                 ,
              
               
                 Looke
                 ,
                 Mary
                 ,
                 here
                 see
                 ,
                 where
                 thy
                 Lord
                 once
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 could
                 I
                 show
                 these
                 armes
                 of
                 mine
                 ,
                 and
                 say
              
               
                 Looke
                 ,
                 Mary
                 ,
                 here
                 see
                 ,
                 where
                 thy
                 Lord
                 once
                 lay
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 Pontius
                 washing
                 his
                 hands
                 .
              
               
                 THy
                 hands
                 are
                 washt
                 ,
                 but
                 ô
                 the
                 waters
                 spilt
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 labour'd
                 to
                 have
                 washt
                 thy
                 guilt
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 flood
                 ,
                 if
                 any
                 can
                 that
                 can
                 suffice
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 have
                 its
                 Fountaine
                 in
                 thine
                 Eyes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 the
                 Infant
                 Martyrs
                 .
              
               
                 GOe
                 smiling
                 soules
                 ,
                 your
                 new
                 built
                 Cages
                 breake
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Heav'n
                 you
                 'l
                 learne
                 to
                 sing
                 ere
                 here
                 to
                 speake
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 let
                 the
                 milky
                 fonts
                 that
                 bath
                 your
                 thirst
                 ,
              
               
                 Bee
                 your
                 delay
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 place
                 that
                 calls
                 you
                 hence
                 ,
                 is
                 at
                 the
                 worst
              
               
                 Milke
                 all
                 the
                 way
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 the
                 Miracle
                 of
                 Loaves
                 .
              
               
                 NOw
                 Lord
                 ,
                 or
                 never
                 ,
                 they
                 'l
                 beleeve
                 on
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 to
                 their
                 Teeth
                 hast
                 prov'd
                 thy
                 Deity
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Marke
                 4.
                 
                 Why
                 are
                 yee
                 afraid
                 ,
                 O
                 yee
                 of
                 little
                 faith
                 ?
              
               
                 
                   AS
                   if
                   the
                   storme
                   meant
                   him
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   'cause
                   Heavens
                   face
                   is
                   dim
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   needs
                   a
                   cloud
                   .
                
                 
                   Was
                   ever
                   froward
                   wind
                
                 
                   That
                   could
                   be
                   so
                   unkind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   wave
                   so
                   proud
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Wind
                   had
                   need
                   be
                   angry
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Water
                   black
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   to
                   the
                   mighty
                   
                   Neptune's
                   self
                   dare
                   threaten
                   wrack
                   ▪
                
              
               
                 
                   There
                   is
                   no
                   storme
                   but
                   this
                
                 
                   Of
                   your
                   owne
                   Cowardise
                
                 
                   That
                   braves
                   you
                   out
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   are
                   the
                   storme
                   that
                   mocks
                
                 
                   Your selves
                   ;
                   you
                   are
                   the
                   Rocks
                
                 
                   Of
                   your
                   owne
                   doubt
                   :
                
                 
                   Besides
                   this
                   feare
                   of
                   danger
                   ,
                   there
                   's
                   no
                   danger
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   that
                   here
                   feares
                   Danger
                   ,
                   does
                   deserve
                   his
                   Feare
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 On
                 the
                 Blessed
                 Virgins
                 bashfulnesse
                 .
              
               
                 THat
                 on
                 her
                 lap
                 she
                 casts
                 her
                 humble
                 Eye
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 the
                 sweet
                 pride
                 of
                 her
                 Humility
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 faire
                 starre
                 is
                 well
                 fixt
                 ,
                 for
                 where
                 ,
                 ô
                 where
              
               
                 Could
                 she
                 have
                 fixt
                 it
                 on
                 a
                 fairer
                 Spheare
                 ?
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Heav'n
                 't
                 is
                 Heaven
                 she
                 sees
                 ,
                 Heavens
                 God
                 there
                 lyes
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 can
                 see
                 heaven
                 ,
                 and
                 ne're
                 lift
                 up
                 her
                 eyes
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 new
                 Guest
                 to
                 her
                 Eyes
                 new
                 Lawes
                 hath
                 given
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 once
                 
                   looke
                   up
                
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 now
                 
                   looke
                   downe
                
                 to
                 Heaven
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Vpon
                 Lazarus
                 his
                 Teares
                 .
              
               
                 RIch
                 Lazarus
                 !
                 richer
                 in
                 those
                 Gems
                 ,
                 thy
                 Teares
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 Dives
                 in
                 the
                 Roabes
                 he
                 weares
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 scornes
                 them
                 now
                 ,
                 but
                 ô
                 they
                 'l
                 sute
                 full
                 well
              
               
                 With
                 th'
                 Purple
                 he
                 must
                 weare
                 in
                 Hell.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Two
                 went
                 up
                 into
                 the
                 Temple
                 to
                 pray
                 .
              
               
                 
                   TWo
                   went
                   to
                   pray
                   ?
                   ô
                   rather
                   say
                
                 
                   One
                   went
                   to
                   brag
                   ,
                   th'
                   other
                   to
                   pray
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   One
                   stands
                   up
                   close
                   and
                   treads
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   th'
                   other
                   dares
                   not
                   send
                   his
                   eye
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   One
                   neerer
                   to
                   Gods
                   Altar
                   trod
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   other
                   to
                   the
                   Altars
                   God.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 Asse
                 that
                 bore
                 our
                 Saviour
                 .
              
               
                 HAth
                 onely
                 Anger
                 an
                 Omnipotence
              
               
                 In
                 Eloquence
                 ?
              
               
                 Within
                 the
                 lips
                 of
                 Love
                 and
                 Ioy
                 doth
                 dwell
              
               
                 No
                 miracle
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Why
                 else
                 had
                 Baalams
                 Asse
                 a
                 tongue
                 to
                 chide
              
               
                 His
                 Masters
                 pride
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 (
                 Heaven-burthen'd
                 Beast
                 )
                 hast
                 ne're
                 a
                 word
              
               
                 To
                 praise
                 thy
                 Lord
                 ?
              
               
                 That
                 he
                 should
                 find
                 a
                 Tongue
                 and
                 vocall
                 Thunder
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 a
                 great
                 wonder
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 ô
                 me
                 thinkes
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 farre
                 greater
                 one
              
               
                 That
                 thou
                 find'st
                 none
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Matthew
                 8.
                 
                 I
                 am
                 not
                 worthy
                 that
                 thou
                 should'st
                 come
                 under
                 my
                 roofe
                 .
              
               
                 THy
                 God
                 was
                 mak●ng
                 hast
                 into
                 thy
                 roofe
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 humble
                 faith
                 and
                 feare
                 keepes
                 him
                 aloofe
                 :
              
               
                 Hee
                 'l
                 be
                 thy
                 Guest
                 ,
                 because
                 he
                 may
                 not
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Hee
                 'l
                 come
                 —
                 into
                 thy
                 house
                 ?
                 no
                 ,
                 into
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 Powder
                 Day
                 .
              
               
                 HOw
                 fit
                 our
                 well-ra●k'd
                 Feasts
                 doe
                 follow
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 misch●efe
                 comes
                 after
                 
                   All
                   Hallow
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 am
                 the
                 Doore
                 .
              
               
                 ANd
                 nowth'art
                 set
                 wide
                 ope
                 ,
                 The
                 Speare's
                 sad
                 Art
                 ,
              
               
                 Lo
                 !
                 hath
                 unlockt
                 thee
                 at
                 the
                 very
                 Heart
                 :
              
               
                 Hee
                 to
                 himselfe
                 (
                 I
                 feare
                 the
                 worst
                 )
              
               
                 And
                 h●s
                 owne
                 hope
              
               
                 Hath
                 shut
                 these
                 Doores
                 of
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 that
                 durst
              
               
                 Thus
                 set
                 them
                 ope
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Matthew
                 .
                 10.
                 
                 The
                 blind
                 cured
                 by
                 the
                 word
                 of
                 our
                 Saviour
                 .
              
               
                 
                   THou
                   speak'st
                   the
                   word
                   (
                   thy
                   word
                   's
                   a
                   Law
                   )
                
                 
                   Thou
                   spak'st
                   and
                   stre●ght
                   the
                   blind
                   man
                   saw
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   speake
                   and
                   make
                   the
                   bl●nd
                   man
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   never
                   man
                   Lord
                   spak●
                   l●ke
                   Thee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   speake
                   thus
                   ,
                   was
                   to
                   speake
                   (
                   say
                   I
                   )
                
                 
                   Not
                   to
                   his
                   Eare
                   ,
                   but
                   to
                   his
                   Eye
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Matthew
                 .
                 27.
                 
                 And
                 he
                 answered
                 them
                 nothing
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 Mighty
                 Nothing
                 !
                 unto
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Nothing
                 ,
                 wee
                 owe
                 all
                 things
                 that
                 bee
                 .
              
               
                 God
                 spake
                 once
                 when
                 hee
                 all
                 things
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 Hee
                 sav'd
                 all
                 when
                 hee
                 Nothing
                 said
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 world
                 was
                 made
                 of
                 Nothing
                 then
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 made
                 by
                 Nothyng
                 now
                 againe
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 our
                 Lord
                 ,
                 upon
                 the
                 Water
                 made
                 Wine
                 .
              
               
                 THou
                 water
                 turn'st
                 to
                 Wine
                 (
                 faire
                 friend
                 of
                 Life
                 )
              
               
                 Thy
                 foe
                 to
                 crosse
                 the
                 sweet
                 Arts
                 of
                 thy
                 Reigne
                 ,
              
               
                 Distills
                 from
                 thence
                 the
                 Teares
                 of
                 wrath
                 and
                 strife
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 turnes
                 wine
                 to
                 Water
                 backe
                 againe
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Matthew
                 .
                 22.
                 
                 Neither
                 durst
                 any
                 man
                 from
                 that
                 Day
                 aske
                 him
                 any
                 more
                 Questions
                 .
              
               
                 Midst
                 all
                 the
                 darke
                 and
                 knotty
                 Snares
                 ,
              
               
                 Blacke
                 wit
                 or
                 malice
                 can
                 or
                 dares
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 glorious
                 wisdome
                 breakes
                 the
                 Nets
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 treads
                 with
                 uncontrouled
                 steps
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 quel'd
                 foes
                 are
                 not
                 onely
                 now
              
               
                 Thy
                 triumphes
                 ,
                 but
                 thy
                 Trophies
                 t●o
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 ,
                 both
                 at
                 once
                 thy
                 Conquests
                 bee
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thy
                 Conquests
                 memorye
                 .
              
               
                 Stony
                 amazement
                 makes
                 them
                 stand
              
               
                 Waiting
                 on
                 thy
                 victorious
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 statues
                 fixed
                 to
                 the
                 fame
              
               
                 Of
                 thy
                 renoune
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 owne
                 shame
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 they
                 onely
                 meant
                 to
                 breath
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 bee
                 the
                 L●fe
                 of
                 their
                 owne
                 Death
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 time
                 to
                 hold
                 their
                 Peace
                 when
                 they
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 nere
                 another
                 word
                 to
                 say
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 is
                 their
                 silence
                 unto
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 full
                 sound
                 of
                 thy
                 victory
                 .
              
               
                 Their
                 silence
                 speakes
                 aloud
                 ,
                 and
                 is
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 well
                 pronounc'd
                 Panegyris
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 they
                 speake
                 nothing
                 ,
                 they
                 speake
                 all
              
               
                 Their
                 share
                 ,
                 in
                 thy
                 Memoriall
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 they
                 speake
                 nothing
                 ,
                 they
                 proclaime
              
               
                 Thee
                 ,
                 with
                 the
                 shrillest
                 Trumpe
                 of
                 fame
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 hold
                 their
                 peace
                 is
                 all
                 the
                 waies
                 ,
              
               
                 These
                 wretches
                 have
                 to
                 speake
                 thy
                 praise
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Vpon
                 our
                 Saviours
                 Tombe
                 wherein
                 never
                 man
                 was
                 laid
                 .
              
               
                 HOw
                 Life
                 and
                 Death
                 in
                 Thee
              
               
                 Agree
                 ?
              
               
                 Thou
                 had'st
                 a
                 virgin
                 Wombe
              
               
                 And
                 Tombe
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Ioseph
                 did
                 betroth
              
               
                 Them
                 both
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 It
                 is
                 better
                 to
                 go
                 into
                 Heaven
                 with
                 one
                 eye
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
               
                 ONe
                 Eye
                 ?
                 a
                 thousand
                 rather
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 Thousand
                 more
              
               
                 To
                 fix
                 those
                 full-fac't
                 Glories
                 ,
                 ô
                 he
                 's
                 poore
              
               
                 Of
                 Eyes
                 that
                 has
                 but
                 Argus
                 store
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 if
                 thou
                 'lt
                 fill
                 one
                 poore
                 Eye
                 ,
                 with
                 thy
                 Heaven
                 and
                 Thee
                 ,
              
               
                 O
                 grant
                 (
                 sweet
                 Goodnesse
                 )
                 that
                 one
                 Eye
                 may
                 be
              
               
                 All
                 ,
                 and
                 every
                 whit
                 of
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Luk.
                 11.
                 
                 Vpon
                 the
                 dumbe
                 Devill
                 cast
                 out
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 slanderous
                 Iewes
                 put
                 to
                 silence
                 .
              
               
                 TWo
                 Devills
                 at
                 one
                 blow
                 thou
                 hast
                 laid
                 flat
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 speaking
                 Divell
                 this
                 ,
                 a
                 dumbe
                 one
                 that
                 .
              
               
                 Wa'
                 st
                 thy
                 full
                 victories
                 fairer
                 increase
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 th'
                 one
                 spake
                 ,
                 or
                 that
                 th'
                 other
                 held
                 his
                 peace
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Luke
                 10.
                 
                 And
                 a
                 certaine
                 Priest
                 comming
                 that
                 way
                 looked
                 on
                 him
                 and
                 passed
                 by
                 .
              
               
                 Why
                 dost
                 Thou
                 wound
                 my
                 wounds
                 ,
                 ô
                 Thou
                 that
                 passest
                 by
              
               
                 Handling
                 &
                 turning
                 them
                 with
                 an
                 unwounded
                 eye
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 calm
                 that
                 cools
                 thine
                 eye
                 does
                 shipwrack
                 mine
                 ,
                 for
                 ô
                 !
              
               
                 Vnmov'd
                 to
                 see
                 one
                 wretched
                 ,
                 is
                 to
                 make
                 him
                 so
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Luke
                 11.
                 
                 Blessed
                 be
                 the
                 paps
                 which
                 Thou
                 hast
                 sucked
                 .
              
               
                 SVppose
                 he
                 had
                 been
                 Tabled
                 at
                 thy
                 Teates
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 hunger
                 feeles
                 not
                 what
                 he
                 eates
                 :
              
               
                 Hee
                 'l
                 have
                 his
                 Teat
                 e're
                 long
                 (
                 a
                 bloody
                 one
                 )
              
               
                 The
                 Mother
                 then
                 must
                 suck
                 the
                 Son.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 Pontius
                 washing
                 his
                 blood-stained
                 hands
                 .
              
               
                 ●S
                 murther
                 no
                 sin
                 ?
                 or
                 a
                 sin
                 so
                 cheape
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 thou
                 need'st
                 heape
              
               
                 ●
                 Rape
                 upon
                 't
                 ?
                 till
                 thy
                 Adult'rous
                 touch
              
               
                 Taught
                 her
                 these
                 sullied
                 cheeks
                 this
                 blubber'd
                 face
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 was
                 a
                 Nimph
                 ,
                 the
                 meadowes
                 knew
                 none
                 such
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 honest
                 Parentage
                 of
                 unstain'd
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Daughter
                 of
                 a
                 faire
                 and
                 well-fam'd
                 Fountaine
              
               
                 As
                 ever
                 Silver-tipt
                 ,
                 the
                 side
                 of
                 shady
                 mountaine
                 .
              
               
                 See
                 how
                 she
                 weeps
                 ,
                 and
                 weeps
                 ,
                 that
                 she
                 appeares
              
               
                 Nothing
                 but
                 Teares
                 ;
              
               
                 Each
                 drop's
                 a
                 Teare
                 that
                 weeps
                 for
                 her
                 own
                 wast
                 ;
              
               
                 Harke
                 how
                 at
                 every
                 Touch
                 she
                 does
                 complaine
                 her
                 :
              
               
                 Harke
                 how
                 she
                 bids
                 her
                 frighted
                 Drops
                 make
                 hast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 sad
                 murmurs
                 ,
                 chides
                 the
                 Hands
                 that
                 stain
                 her
                 .
              
               
                 Leave
                 ,
                 leave
                 ,
                 for
                 shame
                 ,
                 or
                 else
                 (
                 Good
                 judge
                 )
                 decree
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 water
                 shal
                 wash
                 this
                 ,
                 when
                 this
                 hath
                 washed
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Matthew
                 23.
                 
                 Yee
                 build
                 the
                 Sepulchres
                 of
                 the
                 Prophets
                 .
              
               
                 THou
                 trim'st
                 a
                 Prophets
                 Tombe
                 ,
                 and
                 dost
                 bequeath
              
               
                 The
                 life
                 thou
                 took'st
                 from
                 him
                 unto
                 his
                 Death
                 .
              
               
                 Vaine
                 man
                 !
                 the
                 stones
                 that
                 on
                 his
                 Tombe
                 doe
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 Keepe
                 but
                 the
                 score
                 of
                 them
                 that
                 made
                 him
                 dye
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 Infant
                 Martyrs
                 .
              
               
                 TO
                 see
                 both
                 blended
                 in
                 one
                 flood
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Mothers
                 Milke
                 ,
                 the
                 Childrens
                 blood
                 ,
              
               
                 Makes
                 me
                 doubt
                 if
                 Heaven
                 will
                 gather
                 ,
              
               
                 Roses
                 hence
                 ,
                 or
                 Lillies
                 rather
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Joh.
                 16.
                 
                 Verily
                 I
                 say
                 unto
                 you
                 ,
                 yee
                 shall
                 weep
                 and
                 lament
                 .
              
               
                 WElcome
                 my
                 Grife
                 ,
                 my
                 Ioy
                 ;
                 how
                 deare's
              
               
                 To
                 me
                 my
                 Legacy
                 of
                 Teares
                 !
              
               
                 I
                 'le
                 weepe
                 ,
                 and
                 weepe
                 ,
                 and
                 will
                 therefore
              
               
                 Weepe
                 ,
                 'cause
                 I
                 can
                 weepe
                 no
                 more●
              
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 thou
                 (
                 Deare
                 Lord
                 )
                 even
                 thou
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 Giv'st
                 joy
                 ,
                 even
                 when
                 thou
                 givest
                 none
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Joh.
                 15.
                 
                 Vpon
                 our
                 Lords
                 last
                 comfortable
                 discourse
                 with
                 his
                 Disciples
                 .
              
               
                 ALL
                 
                 Hybla's
                 honey
                 ,
                 all
                 that
                 sweetnesse
                 can
              
               
                 Flowes
                 in
                 thy
                 Song
                 (
                 ô
                 faire
                 ,
                 ô
                 dying
                 Swan
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 Yet
                 is
                 the
                 joy
                 I
                 take
                 in
                 't
                 small
                 or
                 none
                 ;
              
               
                 It
                 is
                 too
                 sweet
                 to
                 be
                 a
                 long-liv'd
                 one
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Luke
                   16.
                   
                   Dives
                
                 asking
                 a
                 drop
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Drop
                 ,
                 one
                 drop
                 ,
                 how
                 sweetly
                 one
                 faire
                 drop
              
               
                 Would
                 tremble
                 on
                 my
                 pearle-tipt
                 fingers
                 top
                 ?
              
               
                 My
                 wealth
                 is
                 gone
                 ,
                 ô
                 goe
                 it
                 where
                 it
                 will
                 ,
              
               
                 Spare
                 this
                 one
                 Iewell
                 ;
                 I
                 'le
                 be
                 Dives
                 still
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Marke
                 12.
                 
                 (
                 Give
                 to
                 Caesar
                 —
                 )
                 (
                 And
                 to
                 God
                 —
                 )
              
               
                 ALL
                 we
                 have
                 is
                 God's
                 ,
                 and
                 yet
              
               
                 Caesar
                 challenges
                 a
                 debt
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 hath
                 God
                 a
                 thinner
                 share
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 ever
                 
                 Caesar's
                 payments
                 are
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 is
                 God's
                 ;
                 and
                 yet
                 't
                 is
                 true
              
               
                 All
                 wee
                 have
                 is
                 
                 Caesar's
                 too
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 is
                 
                 Caesar's
                 ;
                 and
                 what
                 ods
              
               
                 So
                 long
                 as
                 Caesar's
                 selfe
                 is
                 Gods
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 now
                 they
                 have
                 seen
                 ,
                 and
                 hated
                 .
              
               
                 SEene
                 ?
                 and
                 yet
                 hated
                 thee
                 ?
                 they
                 did
                 not
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 saw
                 Thee
                 not
                 ,
                 that
                 saw
                 and
                 hated
                 thee
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 no
                 ,
                 they
                 saw
                 the
                 not
                 ,
                 ô
                 Life
                 ,
                 ô
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 saw
                 ought
                 in
                 thee
                 ,
                 that
                 their
                 hate
                 could
                 move
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 Thornes
                 taken
                 downe
                 from
                 our
                 Lords
                 head
                 bloody
                 .
              
               
                 KNow'st
                 thou
                 this
                 Souldier
                 ?
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 much
                 chang'd
                 plant
                 ,
                 which
                 yet
              
               
                 Thy selfe
                 did'st
                 set
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 chang'd
                 indeed
                 ,
                 did
                 Autumn
                 e're
                 such
                 beauties
                 bring
              
               
                 To
                 shame
                 his
                 Spring
                 ?
              
               
                 O!
                 who
                 so
                 hard
                 an
                 husbandman
                 could
                 ever
                 find
              
               
                 A
                 soyle
                 so
                 kind
                 ?
              
               
                 Is
                 not
                 the
                 soile
                 a
                 kind
                 one
                 (
                 thinke
                 ye
                 )
                 that
                 returnes
              
               
                 Roses
                 for
                 Thornes
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 Luc.
                 7.
                 
                 She
                 began
                 to
                 wash
                 his
                 feet
                 with
                 teares
                 and
                 wipe
                 them
                 with
                 the
                 haires
                 of
                 her
                 head
                 .
              
               
                 HEer
                 eyes
                 flood
                 lickes
                 his
                 feets
                 faire
                 sta●ne
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 haires
                 flame
                 lickes
                 up
                 that
                 againe
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 flame
                 thus
                 quench't
                 hath
                 brighter
                 beames
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 flood
                 thus
                 stained
                 fairer
                 streames
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 St.
                 Peter
                 cutting
                 of
                 Malchus
                 his
                 eare
                 .
              
               
                 WEll
                 Peter
                 dost
                 thou
                 wield
                 thy
                 active
                 sword
                 ,
              
               
                 Well
                 for
                 thy selfe
                 (
                 I
                 meane
                 )
                 not
                 for
                 thy
                 Lord.
              
               
                 To
                 strike
                 at
                 eares
                 ,
                 is
                 to
                 take
                 heed
                 there
                 bee
              
               
                 No
                 witnesse
                 Peter
                 of
                 thy
                 perjury
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Joh.
                 3.
                 
                 But
                 men
                 loved
                 darknesse
                 rather
                 then
                 Light.
                 
              
               
                 THe
                 worlds
                 light
                 shines
                 ,
                 shine
                 as
                 it
                 will
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 world
                 will
                 love
                 its
                 Darknesse
                 still
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 doubt
                 though
                 when
                 the
                 World
                 's
                 in
                 Hell
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 will
                 not
                 love
                 its
                 Darknesse
                 halfe
                 so
                 well
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Act.
                 21.
                 
                 I
                 am
                 ready
                 not
                 onely
                 to
                 be
                 bound
                 but
                 to
                 dye
                 .
              
               
                 COme
                 death
                 ,
                 come
                 bands
                 ,
                 nor
                 do
                 you
                 shrink
                 ,
                 my
                 eares
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 those
                 hard
                 words
                 mans
                 cowardise
                 calls
                 feares
                 .
              
               
                 Save
                 those
                 of
                 feare
                 ,
                 no
                 other
                 bands
                 feare
                 I
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 other
                 death
                 then
                 this
                 ;
                 the
                 feare
                 to
                 dye
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 St.
                 Peter
                 casting
                 away
                 his
                 Nets
                 at
                 our
                 Saviours
                 call
                 .
              
               
                 THou
                 hast
                 the
                 art
                 on
                 't
                 Peter
                 ;
                 and
                 canst
                 tell
              
               
                 To
                 cast
                 thy
                 Nets
                 on
                 all
                 occasions
                 well
                 .
              
               
               
                 When
                 Christ
                 calls
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Nets
                 would
                 have
                 thee
                 st●●
              
               
                 To
                 cast
                 them
                 well's
                 to
                 cast
                 them
                 quite
                 away
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Our
               Lord
               in
               his
               Circumcision
               to
               his
               Father
               .
            
             
               TO
               thee
               these
               first
               fruits
               of
               my
               growing
               death
            
             
               (
               For
               what
               else
               is
               my
               life
               ?
               )
               ●o
               I
               bequeath
               .
            
             
               Tast
               this
               ,
               and
               as
               thou
               lik'st
               this
               lesser
               flood
            
             
               Expect
               a
               Sea
               ,
               my
               heart
               shall
               make
               it
               good
               .
            
             
               Thy
               wrath
               that
               wades
               heere
               now
               ,
               e're
               long
               shall
               swim
            
             
               The
               flood-gate
               shall
               be
               set
               wide
               ope
               for
               him
               .
            
             
               Then
               let
               him
               drinke
               ,
               and
               drinke
               ,
               and
               doe
               his
               worst
               ,
            
             
               To
               drowne
               the
               wantonnesse
               of
               his
               wild
               thirst
               .
            
             
               No'ws
               but
               the
               Nonage
               of
               my
               paines
               ,
               my
               feares
            
             
               Are
               yet
               both
               in
               their
               hopes
               ,
               not
               come
               to
               yeares
               .
            
             
               The
               day
               of
               my
               darke
               woes
               is
               yet
               but
               morne
               ,
            
             
               My
               teares
               but
               tender
               and
               my
               death
               new-borne
               .
            
             
               Yet
               may
               these
               unfledg'd
               griefes
               give
               fate
               some
               guesse
               ,
            
             
               These
               Cradle-torments
               have
               their
               towardnesse
               .
            
             
               These
               purple
               buds
               of
               blooming
               death
               may
               bee
               ,
            
             
               Erst
               the
               full
               stature
               of
               a
               fatall
               tree
               .
            
             
               And
               till
               my
               riper
               woes
               to
               age
               are
               come
               ,
            
             
               This
               knife
               may
               be
               the
               speares
               Praeludium
               .
            
          
           
             
               On
               the
               wounds
               of
               our
               crucified
               Lord.
               
            
             
               
                 O
                 These
                 wakefull
                 wounds
                 of
                 thine
                 !
              
               
                 Are
                 they
                 Mouthes
                 ?
                 or
                 are
                 they
                 eyes
                 ?
              
               
                 Be
                 they
                 Mouthes
                 ,
                 or
                 be
                 they
                 eyne
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 bleeding
                 part
                 some
                 one
                 supplies
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Lo
                 !
                 a
                 mouth
                 ,
                 whose
                 full-bloom'd
                 lips
              
               
                 At
                 two
                 deare
                 a
                 rate
                 are
                 roses
                 .
              
               
                 Lo
                 !
                 a
                 blood-shot
                 eye
                 !
                 that
                 weepes
              
               
                 And
                 many
                 a
                 cruell
                 teare
                 discloses
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 O
                 thou
                 that
                 on
                 this
                 foot
                 hast
                 laid
              
               
                 Many
                 a
                 kisse
                 ,
                 and
                 many
                 a
                 Teare
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 thou
                 shal't
                 have
                 all
                 repaid
                 ,
              
               
                 Whatsoe're
                 thy
                 charges
                 were
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 This
                 foot
                 hath
                 got
                 a
                 Mouth
                 and
                 lippes
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 pay
                 the
                 sweet
                 summe
                 of
                 thy
                 kisses
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 pay
                 thy
                 Teares
                 ,
                 an
                 Eye
                 that
                 weeps
              
               
                 In
                 stead
                 of
                 Teares
                 Such
                 Gems
                 as
                 this
                 is
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 difference
                 onely
                 this
                 appeares
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Nor
                 can
                 the
                 change
                 offend
                 )
              
               
                 The
                 debt
                 is
                 paid
                 in
                 
                 Ruby-Teares
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 thou
                 in
                 Pearles
                 did'st
                 lend
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               On
               our
               crucified
               Lord
               Naked
               ,
               and
               bloody
               .
            
             
               Th'
               have
               left
               thee
               naked
               Lord
               ,
               O
               that
               they
               had
               ;
            
             
               This
               Garment
               too
               I
               would
               they
               had
               deny'd
               .
            
             
               Thee
               w●th
               thy selfe
               they
               have
               too
               richly
               clad
               ,
            
             
               Opening
               the
               purple
               wardrobe
               of
               thy
               side
               .
            
             
               O
               never
               could
               bee
               found
               Garments
               too
               good
            
             
               For
               thee
               to
               weare
               ,
               but
               these
               ,
               of
               thine
               owne
               blood
               .
            
          
           
             
               Easter
               day
               .
            
             
               
                 RIse
                 ,
                 Heire
                 of
                 fresh
                 Eternity
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 thy
                 V●rgin
                 Tombe
                 :
              
               
                 Rise
                 mighty
                 man
                 of
                 wonders
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 world
                 with
                 thee
              
               
                 Thy
                 Tombe
                 ,
                 the
                 universall
                 East
                 ,
              
               
                 Natures
                 new
                 wombe
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Tombe
                 ,
                 faire
                 Immortalities
                 perfumed
                 Nest
                 ,
              
            
             
               
               
                 Of
                 all
                 the
                 Gloryes
                 Make
                 Noone
                 gay
              
               
                 This
                 is
                 the
                 Morne
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 rocke
                 buds
                 forth
                 the
                 fountaine
                 of
                 the
                 streames
                 of
                 Day
              
               
                 In
                 joyes
                 white
                 Annals
                 live
                 this
                 houre
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 life
                 was
                 borne
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 cloud
                 scoule
                 on
                 his
                 radiant
                 lids
                 no
                 tempest
                 lowre
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Life
                 ,
                 by
                 this
                 light
                 's
                 Nativity
              
               
                 All
                 creatures
                 have
                 .
              
               
                 Death
                 onely
                 by
                 this
                 Dayes
                 just
                 Doome
                 is
                 forc't
                 to
                 Dye
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 Death
                 forc't
                 ;
                 for
                 may
                 hee
                 ly
              
               
                 Thron'd
                 in
                 thy
                 Grave
                 ;
              
               
                 Death
                 will
                 on
                 this
                 condition
                 be
                 content
                 to
                 Dy.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               On
               the
               bleeding
               wounds
               of
               our
               crucified
               Lord.
               
            
             
               
                 IEsu
                 ,
                 no
                 more
                 ,
                 it
                 is
                 full
                 tide
              
               
                 From
                 thy
                 hands
                 and
                 from
                 thy
                 feet
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 thy
                 head
                 ,
                 and
                 from
                 thy
                 side
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 thy
                 
                   Purple
                   Rivers
                
                 meet
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thy
                 restlesse
                 feet
                 they
                 cannot
                 goe
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 us
                 and
                 our
                 eternall
                 good
              
               
                 As
                 they
                 are
                 wont
                 ;
                 what
                 though
                 ?
              
               
                 They
                 swim
                 ,
                 alas
                 !
                 in
                 their
                 owne
                 flood
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thy
                 hand
                 to
                 give
                 thou
                 canst
                 not
                 lift
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 will
                 thy
                 hand
                 still
                 giving
                 bee
                 ;
              
               
                 It
                 gives
                 ,
                 but
                 ô
                 itself
                 's
                 the
                 Guift
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 drops
                 though
                 bound
                 ,
                 though
                 bound
                 't
                 is
                 free
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 ô
                 thy
                 side
                 !
                 thy
                 deepe
                 dig'd
                 side
              
               
                 That
                 hath
                 a
                 double
                 Nilus
                 going
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 ever
                 was
                 the
                 Pharian
                 t●de
              
               
                 Halfe
                 so
                 fruitfull
                 ,
                 halfe
                 so
                 flowing
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 What
                 need
                 thy
                 faire
                 head
                 beare
                 a
                 part
              
               
                 In
                 Teares
                 ?
                 as
                 if
                 thine
                 eyes
                 had
                 none
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 need
                 they
                 helpe
                 to
                 drowne
                 thine
                 heart
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 strives
                 in
                 Torrents
                 of
                 its
                 owne
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Water'd
                 by
                 the
                 showres
                 they
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 thornes
                 that
                 thy
                 blest
                 browes
                 encloses
              
               
                 (
                 A
                 cruell
                 and
                 a
                 costly
                 spring
                 )
              
               
                 Conceive
                 proud
                 hopes
                 of
                 proving
                 Roses
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Not
                 a
                 haire
                 but
                 payes
                 his
                 River
              
               
                 To
                 this
                 
                   Red
                   Sea
                
                 of
                 thy
                 blood
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 little
                 channels
                 can
                 deliver
              
               
                 Something
                 to
                 the
                 generall
                 flood
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 while
                 I
                 speake
                 ,
                 whither
                 are
                 run
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 Rivers
                 nam'd
                 before
                 ?
              
               
                 I
                 counted
                 wrong
                 ;
                 there
                 is
                 but
                 one
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 ô
                 that
                 one
                 is
                 one
                 all'ore
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Raine-swolne
                 Rivers
                 may
                 rise
                 proud
              
               
                 Threatning
                 all
                 to
                 overflow
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 indeed
                 all
                 's
                 overflow'd
              
               
                 They
                 themselves
                 are
                 drowned
                 too
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 This
                 thy
                 Bloods
                 deluge
                 (
                 a
                 dire
                 chance
              
               
                 Deare
                 Lord
                 to
                 thee
                 )
                 to
                 us
                 is
                 found
              
               
                 A
                 deluge
                 of
                 deliverance
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 deluge
                 least
                 we
                 should
                 be
                 drown'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Nere
                 was
                 't
                 thou
                 in
                 a
                 sence
                 so
                 sadly
                 true
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 well
                 of
                 living
                 Waters
                 ,
                 Lord
                 ,
                 till
                 now
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Sampson
               to
               his
               Dalilah
               .
            
             
               COuld
               not
               once
               blinding
               me
               ,
               cruell
               ,
               suff●ce
               ?
            
             
               When
               first
               I
               look't
               on
               thee
               ,
               I
               lost
               mine
               eyes
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Psalme
               23.
               
            
             
               HAppy
               me
               !
               ô
               happy
               sheepe
               !
            
             
               Whom
               my
               God
               vouchsafes
               to
               keepe
               ;
            
             
               Even
               my
               God
               ,
               even
               he
               it
               is
            
             
               That
               points
               me
               to
               these
               wayes
               of
               blisse
               ;
            
             
               One
               whose
               pastures
               cheerefull
               spring
               ,
            
             
               All
               the
               yeare
               doth
               sit
               and
               sing
               ,
            
             
               And
               rejoycing
               smiles
               to
               see
            
             
               Their
               greene
               backs
               were
               his
               liverie
               ▪
            
             
               Pleasure
               sings
               my
               soule
               to
               rest
               ,
            
             
               Plenty
               weares
               me
               at
               her
               brest
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               sweet
               temper
               teaches
               me
            
             
               Nor
               wanton
               ,
               nor
               in
               want
               to
               be
               .
            
             
               At
               my
               feet
               the
               blubb'ring
               Mountaine
            
             
               Weeping
               ,
               melts
               into
               a
               Fountaine
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               soft
               silver-sweating
               streames
            
             
               Make
               high
               Noone
               forget
               his
               beames
               :
            
             
               When
               my
               waiward
               breath
               is
               flying
               ,
            
             
               Hee
               calls
               home
               my
               soule
               from
               dying
               ,
            
             
               Strokes
               and
               tames
               my
               rabid
               Griefe
               ,
            
             
               And
               does
               woe
               me
               into
               life
               :
            
             
               When
               my
               simple
               weaknesse
               strayes
               ,
            
             
               (
               Tangled
               in
               forbidden
               wayes
               )
            
             
               Hee
               (
               my
               Shepheard
               )
               is
               my
               Guide
               ,
            
             
               Hee
               's
               before
               me
               ,
               on
               my
               side
               ,
            
             
               And
               behind
               me
               ,
               he
               beguiles
            
             
               Craft
               in
               all
               her
               knotty
               wiles
               :
            
             
               Hee
               expounds
               the
               giddy
               wonder
            
             
               Of
               my
               weary
               steps
               ,
               and
               under
            
             
               Spreads
               a
               Path
               cleare
               as
               the
               Day
               ,
            
             
               Where
               no
               churlish
               rub
               saies
               nay
            
             
               To
               my
               joy-conducted
               Feet
               ,
            
             
               Whil'st
               they
               Gladly
               goe
               to
               meet
            
             
             
               Grace
               and
               peace
               ,
               to
               meet
               new
               laies
            
             
               Tun'd
               to
               my
               great
               Shepheards
               praise
               .
            
             
               Come
               now
               all
               yee
               terrors
               ,
               sally
            
             
               Muster
               forth
               into
               the
               valley
               ,
            
             
               Where
               triumphant
               darknesse
               hovers
            
             
               With
               a
               sable
               wing
               ,
               that
               covers
            
             
               Brooding
               Horror
               .
               Come
               thou
               Death
               ,
            
             
               Let
               the
               damps
               of
               thy
               dull
               Breath
            
             
               Overshadow
               even
               the
               shade
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               darknesse
               selfe
               afraid
               ;
            
             
               There
               my
               feet
               ,
               even
               there
               shall
               find
            
             
               Way
               for
               a
               resolved
               mind
               .
            
             
               Still
               my
               Shepheard
               ,
               still
               my
               God
            
             
               Thou
               art
               with
               me
               ,
               Still
               thy
               rod
               ,
            
             
               And
               thy
               staffe
               ,
               whose
               influence
            
             
               Gives
               direction
               ,
               gives
               defence
               .
            
             
               At
               the
               whisper
               of
               thy
               Word
            
             
               Crown'd
               abundance
               spreads
               my
               Bord
               :
            
             
               While
               I
               feast
               ,
               my
               foes
               doe
               feed
            
             
               Their
               rank
               malice
               not
               their
               need
               ,
            
             
               So
               that
               with
               the
               self-same
               bread
            
             
               They
               are
               starv'd
               ,
               and
               I
               am
               fed
               .
            
             
               How
               my
               head
               in
               ointment
               swims
               !
            
             
               How
               my
               cup
               orelooks
               her
               Brims
               !
            
             
               So
               ,
               even
               so
               still
               may
               I
               move
            
             
               By
               the
               Line
               of
               thy
               deare
               Love
               ;
            
             
               Still
               may
               thy
               sweet
               mercy
               spread
            
             
               A
               shady
               Arme
               above
               my
               head
               ,
            
             
               About
               my
               Paths
               ,
               so
               shall
               I
               find
            
             
               The
               faire
               Center
               of
               my
               mind
            
             
               Thy
               Temple
               ,
               and
               those
               lovely
               walls
            
             
               Bright
               ever
               with
               a
               beame
               that
               falls
            
             
               Fresh
               from
               the
               pure
               glance
               of
               thine
               eye
               ,
            
             
               Lighting
               to
               Eternity
               .
            
             
               There
               I
               'le
               dwell
               for
               ever
               ,
               there
            
             
               Will
               I
               find
               a
               purer
               aire
            
             
             
               To
               feed
               my
               Life
               with
               ,
               there
               I
               'le
               sup
            
             
               Balme
               and
               Nectar
               in
               my
               Cup
               ,
            
             
               And
               thence
               my
               ripe
               soule
               will
               I
               breath
            
             
               Warme
               into
               the
               Armes
               of
               Death
               .
            
          
           
             
               Psalme
               137.
               
            
             
               
                 ON
                 the
                 proud
                 bankes
                 of
                 great
                 Euphrates
                 flood
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 we
                 sate
                 ,
                 and
                 there
                 we
                 wept
                 :
              
               
                 Our
                 Harpes
                 that
                 now
                 no
                 Musicke
                 understood
                 ,
              
               
                 Nodding
                 on
                 the
                 Willowes
                 slept
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 unhappy
                 captiv'd
                 wee
              
               
                 Lovely
                 Sion
                 thought
                 on
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 They
                 ,
                 they
                 that
                 snatcht
                 us
                 from
                 our
                 Countries
                 brest
              
               
                 Would
                 have
                 a
                 Song
                 carv'd
                 to
                 their
                 Eares
              
               
                 In
                 Hebrew
                 numbers
                 ,
                 then
                 (
                 ô
                 cruell
                 jest
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 When
                 Harpes
                 and
                 hearts
                 were
                 drown'd
                 in
                 Teares
                 :
              
               
                 Come
                 ,
                 they
                 cry'd
                 ,
                 come
                 sing
                 and
                 play
              
               
                 On
                 of
                 Sions
                 songs
                 to
                 day
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sing
                 ?
                 play
                 ?
                 to
                 whom
                 (
                 ah
                 )
                 shall
                 we
                 sing
                 or
                 play
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 not
                 Ierusalem
                 to
                 thee
                 ?
              
               
                 Ah
                 thee
                 Ierusalem
                 !
                 ah
                 sooner
                 may
              
               
                 This
                 hand
                 forget
                 the
                 mastery
              
               
                 Of
                 Musicks
                 dainty
                 touch
                 ,
                 then
                 I
              
               
                 The
                 Musicke
                 of
                 thy
                 memory
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Which
                 when
                 I
                 lose
                 ,
                 ô
                 may
                 at
                 once
                 my
                 Tongue
              
               
                 Lose
                 this
                 same
                 busie
                 speaking
                 art
              
               
                 Vnpearcht
                 ,
                 her
                 vocall
                 Arteries
                 unst●ung
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 acquainted
                 with
                 my
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 my
                 dry
                 pallats
                 roofe
                 to
                 rest
              
               
                 A
                 wither'd
                 Leafe
                 ,
                 an
                 idle
                 Guest
                 ▪
              
            
             
               
               
                 No
                 ,
                 no
                 ,
                 thy
                 good
                 ,
                 Sion
                 ,
                 alone
                 must
                 crowne
              
               
                 The
                 head
                 of
                 all
                 my
                 hope-nurst
                 joyes
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 Edom
                 cruell
                 thou
                 !
                 thou
                 cryd'st
                 ddowne
                 ,
                 downe
              
               
                 Sinke
                 Sion
                 ,
                 downe
                 and
                 never
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 falling
                 thou
                 did'st
                 urge
                 and
                 thrust
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 haste
                 to
                 dash
                 her
                 into
                 dust
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Dost
                 laugh
                 ?
                 proud
                 Babels
                 Daughter
                 !
                 do
                 ,
                 laugh
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 thy
                 ruine
                 teach
                 thee
                 Teares
                 ,
              
               
                 Even
                 such
                 as
                 these
                 ,
                 laugh
                 ,
                 till
                 a
                 venging
                 throng
              
               
                 Of
                 woes
                 ,
                 too
                 late
                 doe
                 rouze
                 thy
                 feares
                 .
              
               
                 Laugh
                 ,
                 till
                 thy
                 childrens
                 bleeding
                 bones
              
               
                 Weepe
                 pretious
                 Teares
                 upon
                 the
                 stones
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               A
               Hymne
               of
               the
               Nativity
               ,
               sung
               by
               the
               Shepheards
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Chorus
                   .
                
                 COme
                 wee
                 Shepheards
                 who
                 have
                 seene
              
               
                 Dayes
                 King
                 deposed
                 by
                 Nights
                 Queene
                 .
              
               
                 Come
                 lift
                 we
                 up
                 our
                 lofty
                 song
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 wake
                 the
                 Sun
                 that
                 sleeps
                 too
                 long
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hee
                 in
                 this
                 our
                 generall
                 joy
                 ,
              
               
                 Slept
                 ,
                 and
                 dreampt
                 of
                 no
                 such
                 thing
              
               
                 While
                 we
                 found
                 out
                 the
                 fair-ey'd
                 Boy
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 kist
                 the
                 Cradle
                 of
                 our
                 King
                 ;
              
               
                 Tell
                 him
                 hee
                 rises
                 now
                 too
                 late
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 shew
                 us
                 ought
                 worth
                 looking
                 at
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Tell
                 him
                 wee
                 now
                 can
                 shew
                 him
                 more
              
               
                 Then
                 hee
                 e're
                 shewd
                 to
                 mortall
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 hee
                 himselfe
                 e're
                 saw
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 to
                 be
                 seene
                 needs
                 not
                 his
                 light
                 :
              
               
                 Tell
                 him
                 Tityrus
                 where
                 th'
                 hast
                 been
                 ,
              
               
                 Tell
                 him
                 Thyrsis
                 what
                 th'
                 hast
                 seen
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Tytirus
                 .
              
               
                 Gloomy
                 Night
                 embrac't
                 the
                 place
              
               
                 Where
                 the
                 noble
                 Infant
                 lay
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Babe
                 lookt
                 up
                 ,
                 and
                 shew'd
                 his
                 face
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 spight
                 of
                 Darknesse
                 it
                 was
                 Day
                 .
              
               
                 It
                 was
                 thy
                 Day
                 ,
                 Sweet
                 ,
                 and
                 did
                 r●se
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 from
                 the
                 East
                 ,
                 but
                 from
                 thy
                 eyes
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Thyrsis
                 .
              
               
                 Winter
                 chid
                 the
                 world
                 ,
                 and
                 sent
              
               
                 The
                 angry
                 North
                 to
                 wage
                 his
                 warres
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 North
                 forgot
                 his
                 fierce
                 intent
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lest
                 perfumes
                 ,
                 in
                 stead
                 of
                 scarres
                 :
              
               
                 By
                 those
                 sweet
                 Eyes
                 persuasive
                 Powers
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 he
                 meant
                 frosts
                 ,
                 he
                 scattered
                 Flowers
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 B●th
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 saw
                 thee
                 in
                 thy
                 Balmy
                 Nest
                 ,
              
               
                 Bright
                 Dawne
                 of
                 our
                 
                   Eternall
                   Day
                
                 ;
              
               
                 Wee
                 saw
                 thine
                 Eyes-break
                 from
                 the
                 East
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 chase
                 the
                 trembling
                 shades
                 away
                 :
              
               
                 Wee
                 saw
                 thee
                 (
                 and
                 wee
                 blest
                 the
                 sight
                 )
              
               
                 Wee
                 saw
                 thee
                 by
                 thine
                 owne
                 sweet
                 Light.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Tityrus
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 saw
                 the
                 curl'd
                 drops
                 ,
                 soft
                 and
                 slow
              
               
                 Come
                 hovering
                 o're
                 the
                 places
                 head
                 ,
              
               
                 Offring
                 their
                 whitest
                 sheets
                 of
                 snow
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 furnish
                 the
                 faire
                 Infants
                 Bed.
              
               
                 Forbeare
                 (
                 said
                 I
                 )
                 be
                 not
                 too
                 bold
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 fleece
                 is
                 white
                 ,
                 but
                 't
                 is
                 too
                 cold
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thyrsis
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 saw
                 th'officious
                 Angels
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 downe
                 that
                 their
                 soft
                 brests
                 did
                 strow
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 well
                 they
                 now
                 can
                 spare
                 their
                 wings
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Heaven
                 it selfe
                 lyes
                 here
                 below
                 .
              
               
                 Faire
                 Youth
                 (
                 said
                 I
                 )
                 be
                 not
                 too
                 rough
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Downe
                 though
                 soft's
                 not
                 soft
                 enough
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Tityrus
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Babe
                 no
                 sooner
                 'gan
                 to
                 seeke
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 to
                 lay
                 his
                 lovely
                 head
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 streight
                 his
                 eyes
                 advis'd
                 his
                 Cheeke
                 ,
              
               
                 'Twixt
                 Mothers
                 Brests
                 to
                 goe
                 to
                 bed
                 .
              
               
                 Sweet
                 choise
                 (
                 said
                 I
                 )
                 no
                 way
                 but
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 to
                 lye
                 cold
                 ,
                 yet
                 sleepe
                 in
                 snow
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 All.
                 
              
               
                 Welcome
                 to
                 our
                 wondring
                 sight
              
               
                 Eternity
                 shut
                 in
                 a
                 span
                 !
              
               
                 Summer
                 in
                 Winter
                 !
                 Day
                 in
                 Night
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Chorus
                   .
                
                 Heaven
                 in
                 Earth
                 !
                 and
                 God
                 in
                 Man
                 !
              
               
                 Great
                 litle
                 one
                 ,
                 whose
                 glorious
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 Lifts
                 Earth
                 to
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 stoops
                 heaven
                 to
                 earth
                 ▪
              
            
             
               
                 Welcome
                 ,
                 though
                 not
                 to
                 Gold
                 ,
                 nor
                 Silke
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 more
                 then
                 Caesars
                 Birthright
                 is
                 .
              
               
                 Two
                 sister-Seas
                 of
                 virgins
                 Milke
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 many
                 a
                 rarely-temper'd
                 kisse
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 breathes
                 at
                 once
                 both
                 Maid
                 and
                 Mother
                 ,
              
               
                 Warmes
                 in
                 the
                 one
                 ,
                 cooles
                 in
                 the
                 other
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Shee
                 sings
                 thy
                 Teares
                 asleepe
                 ,
                 and
                 dips
              
               
                 Her
                 Kisses
                 in
                 thy
                 weeping
                 Eye
                 ,
              
               
                 Shee
                 spreads
                 the
                 red
                 leaves
                 of
                 thy
                 Lips
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 in
                 their
                 Buds
                 yet
                 blushing
                 lye
                 .
              
               
                 Shee
                 'gainst
                 those
                 Mother-Diamonds
                 tryes
              
               
                 The
                 points
                 of
                 her
                 young
                 Eagles
                 Eyes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Welcome
                 ,
                 (
                 though
                 not
                 to
                 those
                 gay
                 flyes
              
               
                 Guilded
                 i'
                 th'
                 Beames
                 of
                 Earthly
                 Kings
              
               
                 Slippery
                 soules
                 in
                 smiling
                 eyes
                 )
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 poore
                 Shepheards
                 ,
                 simple
                 things
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 use
                 no
                 varnish
                 ,
                 no
                 oyl'd
                 Arts
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 lift
                 clean
                 hands
                 full
                 of
                 cleare
                 hearts
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Yet
                 when
                 young
                 Aprils
                 husband
                 showres
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 blesse
                 the
                 fruitfull
                 
                 Maia's
                 Bed
                 ,
              
               
                 Wee
                 'l
                 bring
                 the
                 first-borne
                 of
                 her
                 flowers
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 kisse
                 thy
                 feet
                 ,
                 and
                 crowne
                 thy
                 head
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 thee
                 (
                 Dread
                 Lambe
                 )
                 whose
                 Love
                 must
                 keepe
              
               
                 The
                 Shepheards
                 ,
                 while
                 they
                 feed
                 their
                 sheepe
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 thee
                 meeke
                 Majesty
                 ,
                 soft
                 King
              
               
                 Of
                 simple
                 Graces
                 ,
                 and
                 sweet
                 Loves
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 of
                 us
                 his
                 Lamb
                 will
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 his
                 payre
                 of
                 silver
                 Doves
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 last
                 ,
                 in
                 fire
                 of
                 thy
                 faire
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Wee
                 'l
                 burne
                 ,
                 our
                 owne
                 best
                 sacrifice
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Vpon
               the
               Death
               of
               a
               Gentleman
               .
            
             
               FAithlesse
               and
               fond
               Mortality
               ,
            
             
               Who
               will
               ever
               credit
               thee
               ?
            
             
               Fond
               and
               faithlesse
               thing
               !
               that
               thus
               ,
            
             
               In
               our
               best
               hopes
               beguilest
               us
               .
            
             
               What
               a
               reckoning
               hast
               thou
               made
               ,
            
             
               Of
               the
               hopes
               in
               him
               we
               laid
               ?
            
             
               For
               Life
               by
               volumes
               lengthened
               ,
            
             
               A
               Line
               or
               two
               ,
               to
               speake
               him
               dead
               .
            
             
               For
               the
               Laurell
               in
               his
               verse
               ,
            
             
               The
               sullen
               Cypresse
               o're
               his
               Herse
               .
            
             
               For
               a
               silver-crowned
               Head
               ,
            
             
               A
               durty
               pillow
               in
               Death's
               Bed.
            
             
               For
               so
               deare
               ,
               so
               deep
               a
               trust
               ,
            
             
               Sad
               requitall
               ,
               thus
               much
               dust
               !
            
             
               Now
               though
               the
               blow
               that
               snatcht
               him
               hence
               ,
            
             
               Stopt
               the
               Mouth
               of
               Eloquence
               ,
            
             
               Though
               shee
               be
               dumbe
               e're
               since
               his
               Death
               ,
            
             
               Not
               us'd
               to
               speake
               but
               in
               his
               Breath
               ,
            
             
             
               Yet
               if
               at
               least
               shee
               not
               denyes
               ,
            
             
               The
               sad
               language
               of
               our
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               Wee
               are
               contented
               :
               for
               then
               this
            
             
               Language
               none
               more
               fluent
               is
               .
            
             
               Nothing
               speakes
               our
               Griefe
               so
               well
            
             
               As
               to
               speake
               Nothing
               ,
               Come
               then
               tell
            
             
               Thy
               mind
               in
               Teares
               who
               e're
               Thou
               be
               ,
            
             
               That
               ow'st
               a
               Name
               to
               misery
               .
            
             
               Eyes
               are
               vocall
               ,
               Teares
               have
               Tongues
               ,
            
             
               And
               there
               be
               words
               not
               made
               with
               lungs
               ;
            
             
               Sententious
               showers
               ,
               ô
               let
               them
               fall
               ,
            
             
               Their
               cadence
               is
               Rhetoricall
               .
            
             
               Here
               's
               a
               Theame
               will
               drinke
               th'
               expence
               ,
            
             
               Of
               all
               thy
               watry
               Eloquence
               ,
            
             
               Weepe
               then
               ,
               onely
               be
               exprest
            
             
               Thus
               much
               ,
               
               Hee
               's
               Dead
               ,
               and
               weepe
               the
               rest
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vpon
               the
               Death
               of
               Mr.
               Herrys
               .
            
             
               A
               Plant
               of
               noble
               stemme
               ,
               forward
               and
               faire
               ,
            
             
               As
               ever
               whisper'd
               to
               the
               Morning
               Aire
            
             
               Thriv'd
               in
               these
               haphy
               Grounds
               ,
               the
               Earth's
               just
               pride
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               rising
               Glories
               made
               such
               haste
               to
               hide
            
             
               His
               head
               in
               Cloudes
               ,
               as
               if
               in
               him
               alone
            
             
               Impatient
               Nature
               had
               taught
               motion
            
             
               To
               start
               from
               Time
               ,
               and
               cheerfully
               to
               fly
            
             
               Before
               ,
               and
               seize
               upon
               Maturity
               .
            
             
               Thus
               grew
               this
               gratious
               plant
               ,
               in
               whose
               sweet
               shade
            
             
               The
               Sunne
               himselfe
               oft
               wisht
               to
               sit
               ,
               and
               made
            
             
               The
               Morning
               Muses
               perch
               like
               Birds
               ,
               and
               sing
            
             
               Among
               his
               Branches
               :
               yea
               ,
               and
               vow'd
               to
               bring
            
             
               His
               owne
               delicious
               Phoenix
               from
               the
               blest
            
             
               Arabia
               ,
               there
               to
               build
               her
               Virgin
               nest
               ,
            
             
               To
               hatch
               her selfe
               in
               ,
               'mongst
               his
               leaves
               the
               Day
            
             
               Fresh
               from
               the
               Rosie
               East
               rejoyc't
               to
               play
               .
            
             
             
               To
               them
               shee
               gave
               the
               first
               and
               fairest
               Beame
            
             
               That
               waited
               on
               her
               Birth
               ▪
               she
               gave
               to
               them
            
             
               The
               purest
               Pearles
               ,
               that
               wept
               her
               Evening
               Death
               ,
            
             
               The
               balmy
               Zephirus
               got
               so
               sweet
               a
               Breath
            
             
               By
               often
               kissing
               them
               ,
               and
               now
               begun
            
             
               Glad
               Time
               to
               ripen
               expectation
               .
            
             
               The
               timourous
               Maiden-Blossomes
               on
               each
               Bough
               ,
            
             
               Peept
               forth
               from
               their
               first
               blushes
               :
               so
               that
               now
            
             
               A
               Thousand
               ruddy
               hopes
               smil'd
               in
               each
               Bud
               ,
            
             
               And
               flatter'd
               every
               greedy
               eye
               that
               stood
            
             
               Fixt
               in
               Delight
               ,
               as
               if
               already
               there
            
             
               Those
               rare
               fruits
               dangled
               ,
               whence
               the
               Golden
               Yeare
            
             
               His
               crowne
               expected
               ,
               when
               (
               ô
               Fate
               ,
               ●
               Time
            
             
               That
               seldome
               lett'st
               a
               blushing
               youthfull
               Prime
            
             
               Hide
               his
               hot
               Beames
               in
               shade
               of
               silver
               Age
               ;
            
             
               So
               rare
               is
               hoary
               vertue
               )
               the
               dire
               rage
            
             
               Of
               a
               mad
               storme
               these
               bloomy
               joyes
               all
               tore
               ,
            
             
               Ravisht
               the
               Maiden
               Blossoms
               ,
               and
               downe
               bore
            
             
               The
               trunke
               .
               Yet
               in
               this
               Ground
               his
               pretious
               Root
            
             
               Still
               lives
               ,
               which
               when
               weake
               Time
               shall
               be
               pour'd
               out
            
             
               Into
               Eternity
               ,
               and
               circular
               joyes
            
             
               Dance
               in
               an
               endlesse
               round
               ,
               againe
               shall
               rise
            
             
               The
               faire
               son
               of
               an
               ever-youthfull
               Spring
               ,
            
             
               To
               be
               a
               shade
               for
               Angels
               while
               they
               sing
               ,
            
             
               Meane
               while
               who
               e're
               thou
               art
               that
               ●assest
               here
               ,
            
             
               O
               doe
               thou
               water
               it
               with
               one
               kind
               Teare
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vpon
               the
               Death
               of
               the
               most
               desired
               Mr.
               Herrys
               .
            
             
               DEath
               ,
               what
               dost
               ?
               ô
               hold
               thy
               Blow
               ,
            
             
               What
               thou
               dost
               ,
               thou
               dost
               not
               know
               .
            
             
               Death
               thou
               must
               not
               here
               be
               cruell
               ,
            
             
               This
               is
               Natures
               choycest
               Iewell
               .
            
             
             
               This
               is
               hee
               in
               whose
               rare
               frame
               ,
            
             
               Nature
               labour'd
               for
               a
               Name
               ,
            
             
               And
               meant
               to
               leave
               his
               pretious
               feature
               ,
            
             
               The
               patterne
               of
               a
               perfect
               Creature
               .
            
             
               Ioy
               of
               Goodnesse
               ,
               Love
               of
               Art
               ,
            
             
               Vertue
               weares
               him
               next
               her
               heart
               .
            
             
               Him
               the
               Muses
               love
               to
               follow
               ,
            
             
               Him
               they
               call
               their
               vice
               -
               Apollo
               .
            
             
               Apollo
               golden
               though
               thou
               bee
               ,
            
             
               Th'
               art
               not
               fairer
               then
               is
               hee
               .
            
             
               Nor
               more
               lovely
               lift'st
               thy
               head
               ,
            
             
               Blushing
               from
               thine
               Easterne
               Bed.
            
             
               The
               Gloryes
               of
               thy
               Youth
               ne're
               knew
               ,
            
             
               Brighter
               hopes
               then
               he
               can
               shew
               .
            
             
               Why
               then
               should
               it
               e're
               be
               seene
               ,
            
             
               That
               his
               should
               fade
               ,
               while
               thine
               is
               Greene
               ▪
            
             
               And
               wilt
               Thou
               ,
               (
               ô
               cruell
               boast
               !
               )
            
             
               Put
               poore
               Nature
               to
               such
               cost
               ?
            
             
               O
               't
               will
               undoe
               our
               common
               Mother
               ,
            
             
               To
               be
               at
               charge
               of
               such
               another
               .
            
             
               What
               ?
               thinke
               we
               to
               no
               other
               end
               ,
            
             
               Gracious
               Heavens
               do
               use
               to
               send
            
             
               Earth
               her
               best
               perfection
               ,
            
             
               But
               to
               vanish
               and
               be
               gone
               ?
            
             
               Therefore
               onely
               give
               to
               day
               ,
            
             
               To
               morrow
               to
               be
               snatcht
               away
               ?
            
             
               I
               've
               seen
               indeed
               the
               hopefull
               bud
               ,
            
             
               Of
               a
               ruddy
               Rose
               that
               stood
            
             
               Blushing
               ,
               to
               behold
               the
               Ray
            
             
               Of
               the
               new-saluted
               Day
               ;
            
             
               (
               His
               tender
               toppe
               not
               fully
               spread
               )
            
             
               The
               sweet
               dash
               of
               a
               shower
               now
               shead
               ,
            
             
               Invited
               him
               no
               more
               to
               hide
               .
            
             
               Within
               himselfe
               the
               purple
               pride
            
             
               Of
               his
               forward
               flower
               ,
               when
               ●o
            
             
               While
               he
               sweetly
               'gan
               to
               show
            
             
             
               His
               swelling
               Gloryes
               ,
               Auster
               spide
               him
               ,
            
             
               Cruell
               Auster
               thither
               hy'd
               him
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               the
               rush
               of
               one
               rude
               blast
               ,
            
             
               Sham'd
               not
               spitefully
               to
               wast
            
             
               All
               his
               leaves
               ,
               so
               fresh
               ,
               so
               sweet
               ,
            
             
               And
               lay
               them
               trembling
               at
               his
               feet
               .
            
             
               I
               've
               seene
               the
               Mornings
               lovely
               Ray
               ,
            
             
               Hover
               o're
               the
               new-borne
               Day
               :
            
             
               With
               rosie
               wings
               so
               richly
               Bright
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               he
               scorn'd
               to
               thinke
               of
               Night
               ,
            
             
               When
               a
               ruddy
               storme
               whose
               scoule
               ,
            
             
               Made
               Heavens
               radiant
               face
               looke
               foule
               ▪
            
             
               Call'd
               for
               an
               untimely
               Night
               ,
            
             
               To
               blot
               the
               newly
               blossom'd
               Light.
            
             
               But
               were
               the
               Roses
               blush
               so
               rare
               ,
            
             
               Were
               the
               Mornings
               smile
               so
               faire
            
             
               As
               is
               he
               ,
               nor
               cloud
               ,
               nor
               wind
            
             
               But
               would
               be
               courteous
               ,
               would
               be
               kind
               .
            
             
               Spare
               him
               Death
               ,
               ô
               spare
               him
               then
               ,
            
             
               Spare
               the
               sweetest
               among
               men
               .
            
             
               Let
               not
               pitty
               with
               her
               Teares
               ,
            
             
               Keepe
               such
               distance
               from
               thine
               Eares
               ,
            
             
               But
               ô
               thou
               wilt
               not
               ,
               canst
               not
               spare
               ,
            
             
               Haste
               hath
               never
               time
               to
               heare
               .
            
             
               Therefore
               if
               hee
               needs
               must
               go
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               Fates
               will
               have
               it
               so
               ,
            
             
               Softly
               may
               he
               be
               possest
               ,
            
             
               Of
               his
               monumentall
               rest
               .
            
             
               Safe
               ,
               thou
               darke
               home
               of
               the
               dead
               ,
            
             
               Safe
               ô
               hide
               his
               loved
               head
               .
            
             
               For
               Pitties
               sake
               ô
               hide
               him
               quite
               ,
            
             
               From
               his
               Mother
               Natures
               sight
               :
            
             
               Lest
               for
               Griefe
               his
               losse
               may
               move
               ,
            
             
               All
               her
               Births
               abortive
               prove
               ,
            
          
           
             
             
               Another
               .
            
             
               IF
               ever
               Pitty
               were
               acquainted
            
             
               With
               sterne
               Death
               ,
               if
               e're
               he
               fainted
               ,
            
             
               Or
               forgot
               the
               cruell
               vigour
               ,
            
             
               Of
               an
               Adamantine
               rigour
               ,
            
             
               Here
               ,
               ô
               here
               we
               should
               have
               knowne
               it
               ,
            
             
               Here
               or
               no
               where
               hee
               'd
               have
               showne
               it
               .
            
             
               For
               hee
               whose
               pretious
               memory
               ,
            
             
               Bathes
               in
               Teares
               of
               every
               eye
               ▪
            
             
               Hee
               to
               whom
               our
               sorrow
               brings
               ,
            
             
               All
               the
               streames
               of
               all
               her
               springs
               ▪
            
             
               Was
               so
               rich
               in
               Grace
               and
               Nature
               ,
            
             
               In
               all
               the
               gifts
               that
               blesse
               a
               Creature
               .
            
             
               The
               fresh
               hopes
               of
               his
               lovely
               Youth
               ,
            
             
               Flourisht
               in
               so
               faire
               a
               grouth
               .
            
             
               So
               sweet
               the
               Temple
               was
               ,
               that
               shrin'd
            
             
               The
               Sacred
               sweetnesse
               of
               his
               mind
               .
            
             
               That
               could
               the
               Fates
               know
               to
               relent
               ?
            
             
               Could
               they
               know
               what
               mercy
               meant
               ;
            
             
               Or
               had
               ever
               learnt
               to
               beare
               ,
            
             
               The
               soft
               tincture
               of
               a
               Teare
               :
            
             
               Teares
               would
               now
               have
               flow'd
               so
               deepe
               ,
            
             
               As
               might
               have
               taught
               Griefe
               how
               to
               weepe
               .
            
             
               Now
               all
               their
               steely
               operation
               ,
            
             
               Would
               quite
               have
               lost
               the
               cruell
               fashion
               .
            
             
               Sicknesse
               would
               have
               gladly
               been
               ,
            
             
               Sick
               himselfe
               to
               have
               sav'd
               him
               :
            
             
               And
               his
               Feaver
               wish'd
               to
               prove
            
             
               Burning
               ,
               onely
               in
               his
               Love.
            
             
               Him
               when
               wrath
               it selfe
               had
               seene
               ,
            
             
               Wrath
               its
               selfe
               had
               lost
               his
               spleene
               .
            
             
               Grim
               Destruction
               here
               amaz'd
               ,
            
             
               In
               stead
               of
               striking
               would
               have
               gaz'd
               .
            
             
             
               Even
               the
               Iron-pointed
               pen
               ,
            
             
               That
               notes
               the
               Tragicke
               Doomes
               of
               men
            
             
               Wet
               with
               teares
               still'd
               from
               the
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               Of
               the
               flinty
               Destinyes
               ;
            
             
               Would
               have
               learn't
               a
               softer
               style
               ,
            
             
               And
               have
               been
               asham'd
               to
               spoyle
            
             
               His
               lives
               sweet
               stoty
               ,
               by
               the
               hast
               ,
            
             
               Of
               a
               cruell
               stop
               ill
               plac't
               .
            
             
               In
               the
               darke
               volume
               of
               our
               fate
               ,
            
             
               Whence
               each
               leafe
               of
               Life
               hath
               date
               ,
            
             
               Where
               in
               sad
               particulars
               ,
            
             
               The
               totall
               summe
               of
               Man
               appeares
               .
            
             
               And
               the
               short
               clause
               of
               mortall
               Breath
               ,
            
             
               Bound
               in
               the
               period
               of
               Death
               ,
            
             
               In
               all
               the
               Booke
               if
               any
               where
            
             
               Such
               a
               tearme
               as
               this
               ,
               
                 spare
                 here
              
            
             
               Could
               have
               been
               found
               't
               would
               have
               been
               read
               ,
            
             
               Writ
               in
               white
               Letters
               o're
               his
               head
               :
            
             
               Or
               close
               unto
               his
               name
               annext
               ,
            
             
               The
               faire
               glosse
               of
               a
               fairer
               Text.
            
             
               In
               briefe
               ,
               if
               any
               one
               were
               free
               ,
            
             
               Hee
               was
               that
               one
               ,
               and
               onely
               he
               .
            
             
               But
               he
               ,
               alas
               !
               even
               hee
               is
               dead
            
             
               And
               our
               hopes
               faire
               harvest
               spread
            
             
               In
               the
               dust
               .
               Pitty
               now
               spend
            
             
               All
               the
               teares
               that
               griefe
               can
               lend
               .
            
             
               Sad
               mortality
               may
               hide
               ,
            
             
               In
               his
               ashes
               all
               her
               pride
               ;
            
             
               With
               this
               inscription
               o're
               his
               head
            
             
               All
               hope
               of
               never
               dying
               ,
               here
               lyes
               dead
            
          
           
             
             
               His
               Epitaph
               .
            
             
               PAssenger
               who
               e're
               thou
               art
               ,
            
             
               Stay
               a
               while
               ,
               and
               let
               thy
               Heart
            
             
               Take
               acquaintance
               of
               this
               stone
               ,
            
             
               Before
               thou
               passest
               further
               on
               .
            
             
               This
               stone
               will
               tell
               thee
               that
               beneath
               ,
            
             
               Is
               entomb'd
               the
               Crime
               of
               Death
               ;
            
             
               The
               ripe
               endowments
               of
               whose
               mind
               ,
            
             
               Left
               his
               Yeares
               so
               much
               behind
               ,
            
             
               That
               numbring
               of
               his
               vertuos
               praise
               ,
            
             
               Death
               lost
               the
               reckoning
               of
               his
               Dayes
               ;
            
             
               And
               believing
               what
               they
               told
               ,
            
             
               Imagin'd
               him
               exceeding
               old
               .
            
             
               In
               him
               perfection
               did
               set
               forth
               ,
            
             
               The
               strength
               of
               her
               united
               worth
               .
            
             
               Him
               his
               wisdomes
               pregnant
               growth
            
             
               Made
               so
               reverend
               ,
               even
               in
               Youth
               ,
            
             
               That
               in
               the
               Center
               of
               his
               Brest
            
             
               (
               Sweet
               as
               is
               the
               Phaenix
               nest
               )
            
             
               Every
               reconciled
               Grace
               ,
            
             
               Had
               their
               Generall
               meeting
               place
            
             
               In
               him
               Goodnesse
               joy'd
               to
               see
            
             
               Learning
               ,
               learne
               Humility
               .
            
             
               The
               splendor
               of
               his
               Birth
               and
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               Was
               but
               the
               Glosse
               of
               his
               owne
               Good
               :
            
             
               The
               flourish
               of
               his
               sober
               Youth
               ,
            
             
               Was
               the
               Pride
               of
               Naked
               Truth
               .
            
             
               In
               composure
               of
               his
               face
               ,
            
             
               Liv'd
               a
               faire
               ,
               but
               manly
               Grace
               .
            
             
               His
               Mouth
               was
               Rhetoricks
               best
               mold
               ,
            
             
               His
               Tongue
               the
               Touchstone
               of
               her
               Gold.
            
             
               What
               word
               so
               e're
               his
               Breath
               kept
               warme
               ,
            
             
               Was
               no
               word
               now
               but
               a
               charme
               .
            
             
             
               For
               all
               persuasive
               Graces
               thence
            
             
               Suck't
               their
               sweetest
               Influence
               .
            
             
               His
               vertue
               that
               within
               had
               root
               ,
            
             
               Could
               not
               chuse
               but
               shine
               without
               .
            
             
               And
               th'heart-bred
               lustre
               of
               his
               worth
               ,
            
             
               At
               each
               corner
               peeping
               forth
               ,
            
             
               Pointed
               him
               out
               in
               all
               his
               wayes
               ,
            
             
               Circled
               round
               in
               his
               owne
               Rayes
               :
            
             
               That
               to
               his
               sweetnesse
               ,
               all
               mens
               eyes
            
             
               Were
               vow'd
               Loves
               flaming
               Sacrifice
               .
            
             
               Him
               while
               fresh
               and
               fragrant
               Time
            
             
               Cherisht
               in
               his
               Golden
               Prime
               ;
            
             
               E're
               
               Hebe's
               hand
               had
               overlaid
            
             
               His
               smooth
               cheekes
               ,
               with
               a
               downy
               shade
               :
            
             
               The
               rush
               of
               Death's
               unruly
               wave
               ,
            
             
               Swept
               him
               off
               into
               his
               Grave
               .
            
             
               Enough
               ,
               now
               (
               if
               thou
               canst
               )
               passe
               on
               ,
            
             
               For
               now
               (
               alas
               )
               not
               in
               this
               stone
            
             
               (
               Passenger
               who
               e're
               thou
               art
               )
            
             
               Is
               he
               entomb'd
               ,
               but
               in
               thy
               Heart
               .
            
          
           
             
               An
               Epitaph
               Vpon
               Husband
               and
               Wife
               ,
               which
               died
               ,
               and
               were
               buried
               together
               .
            
             
               TO
               these
               ,
               Whom
               Death
               again
               did
               wed
               ,
            
             
               This
               Grave
               's
               the
               second
               Marriage-Bed
               .
            
             
               For
               though
               the
               hand
               of
               Fate
               could
               force
               ,
            
             
               'Twixt
               Soule
               and
               body
               a
               Divorce
               :
            
             
               It
               could
               not
               sever
               Man
               and
               Wife
               ,
            
             
               Because
               they
               both
               liv'd
               but
               one
               Life
               .
            
             
             
               Peace
               ,
               good
               Reader
               ,
               doe
               not
               weepe
               ;
            
             
               Peace
               ,
               the
               Lovers
               are
               asleepe
               :
            
             
               They
               (
               sweet
               Turtles
               )
               folded
               lye
               ,
            
             
               In
               the
               last
               knot
               that
               love
               could
               tye
               .
            
             
               Let
               them
               sleepe
               ,
               let
               them
               sleepe
               on
               ,
            
             
               Till
               this
               stormy
               night
               be
               gone
               .
            
             
               And
               th'
               eternall
               morrow
               dawne
               ,
            
             
               Then
               the
               Curtaines
               will
               bee
               drawne
               ,
            
             
               And
               they
               waken
               with
               that
               Light
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               day
               shall
               never
               sleepe
               in
               Night
               .
            
          
           
             
               An
               Epitaph
               .
               Vpon
               Doctor
               Brooke
               .
            
             
               A
               Brooke
               whose
               streame
               so
               great
               ,
               so
               good
               ,
            
             
               Was
               lov'd
               was
               honour'd
               as
               a
               flood
               :
            
             
               Whose
               Bankes
               the
               Muses
               dwelt
               upon
               ,
            
             
               More
               then
               their
               owne
               Helicon
               ;
            
             
               Here
               at
               length
               ,
               hath
               gladly
               found
            
             
               A
               quiet
               passage
               under
               ground
               ;
            
             
               Meane
               while
               his
               loved
               bankes
               now
               dry
               ,
            
             
               The
               Muses
               with
               their
               teares
               supply
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vpon
               Mr.
               Staninough's
               Death
               .
            
             
               DEare
               reliques
               of
               a
               dislodg'd
               soule
               ,
               whose
               lacke
            
             
               Makes
               many
               a
               mourning
               Paper
               put
               on
               blacke
               ;
            
             
               O
               stay
               a
               while
               e're
               thou
               draw
               in
               thy
               Head
               ,
            
             
               And
               wind
               thy selfe
               up
               close
               in
               thy
               cold
               Bed
               :
            
             
               Stay
               but
               a
               little
               while
               ,
               untill
               I
               call
            
             
               A
               summons
               ,
               worthy
               of
               thy
               Funerall
               .
            
             
               Come
               then
               youth
               ,
               Beauty
               ,
               and
               Blood
               ,
               all
               ye
               soft
               powers
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               silken
               flatteryes
               swell
               a
               few
               fond
               hou●es
               .
            
             
             
               Into
               a
               false
               Eternity
               ,
               come
               man
               ,
            
             
               (
               Hyperbolized
               nothing
               !
               )
               know
               thy
               span
               .
            
             
               Take
               thine
               owne
               measure
               here
               ,
               downe
               ,
               downe
               ,
               and
               bow
            
             
               Before
               thy selfe
               in
               thy
               Idaea
               ,
               thou
            
             
               Huge
               emptinesse
               contract
               thy
               bulke
               ,
               and
               shrinke
            
             
               All
               thy
               wild
               Circle
               to
               a
               point
               !
               ô
               sinke
            
             
               Lower
               ,
               and
               lower
               yet
               ;
               till
               thy
               small
               size
               ,
            
             
               Call
               Heaven
               to
               looke
               on
               thee
               with
               narrow
               eyes
               ▪
            
             
               Lesser
               and
               lesser
               yet
               ,
               till
               thou
               begin
            
             
               To
               show
               a
               face
               ,
               fit
               to
               confesse
               thy
               kin
            
             
               Thy
               neighbour-hood
               to
               nothing
               !
               here
               put
               on
            
             
               Thy selfe
               in
               this
               unfeign'd
               reflection
               ;
            
             
               Here
               gallant
               Ladyes
               ,
               this
               unpartiall
               glasse
            
             
               (
               Through
               all
               your
               painting
               )
               showes
               you
               your
               own
               face
               .
            
             
               These
               Death-scal'd
               Lipps
               are
               they
               dare
               give
               the
               lye
               ,
            
             
               To
               the
               proud
               hopes
               of
               poor
               Mortality
               .
            
             
               These
               curtain'd
               windowes
               ,
               this
               selfe-prison'd
               eye
               ,
            
             
               Out-stares
               the
               Liddes
               of
               large-look't
               Tyranny
               .
            
             
               This
               posture
               is
               the
               brave
               one
               :
               this
               that
               lyes
            
             
               Thus
               low
               stands
               up
               (
               me
               thinkes
               )
               thus
               ,
               and
               defyes
            
             
               The
               world
               —
               All
               daring
               Dust
               and
               Ashes
               ,
               onely
               you
            
             
               Of
               all
               interpreters
               read
               nature
               true
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vpon
               the
               Duke
               of
               Yorke
               his
               Birth
               A
               Panegyricke
               .
            
             
               
                 BRittaine
                 ,
                 the
                 mighty
                 Oceans
                 lovely
                 Bride
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 strech
                 thy self
                 (
                 faire
                 Ile
                 )
                 and
                 grow
                 ,
                 spread
                 wide
              
               
                 Thy
                 bosome
                 and
                 make
                 roome
                 ;
                 Thou
                 art
                 opprest
              
               
                 With
                 thine
                 owne
                 Gloryes
                 :
                 and
                 art
                 strangely
                 blest
              
               
                 Beyond
                 thy selfe
                 :
                 for
                 lo
                 !
                 the
                 Gods
                 ,
                 the
                 Gods
              
               
                 Come
                 fast
                 upon
                 thee
                 ,
                 and
                 those
                 glorious
                 ods
                 ,
              
               
                 Swell
                 thy
                 full
                 gloryes
                 to
                 a
                 pitch
                 so
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 sits
                 above
                 thy
                 best
                 capacitye
                 .
              
               
               
                 Are
                 they
                 not
                 ods
                 ?
                 and
                 glorious
                 ?
                 that
                 to
                 thee
              
               
                 Those
                 mighty
                 Genii
                 throng
                 ,
                 which
                 well
                 might
                 bee
              
               
                 Each
                 one
                 an
                 Ages
                 labour
                 ,
                 that
                 thy
                 dayes
              
               
                 Are
                 guilded
                 with
                 the
                 Vnion
                 of
                 those
                 Rayes
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 each
                 divided
                 Beame
                 would
                 be
                 a
                 Sun
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 glad
                 the
                 Spheare
                 of
                 any
                 Nation
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 if
                 for
                 these
                 thou
                 mean'st
                 to
                 find
                 a
                 seat
                 ,
              
               
                 Th'
                 ast
                 need
                 ô
                 Brittaine
                 to
                 be
                 truly
                 Great
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 thou
                 art
                 ,
                 their
                 presence
                 makes
                 thee
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 are
                 thy
                 Greatnesse
                 ;
                 Gods
                 where
                 e're
                 they
                 go
              
               
                 Bring
                 their
                 Heaven
                 with
                 them
                 ,
                 their
                 great
                 footsteps
                 place
              
               
                 An
                 everlasting
                 smile
                 upon
                 the
                 face
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 the
                 glad
                 Earth
                 they
                 tread
                 on
                 ,
                 while
                 with
                 thee
              
               
                 Those
                 Beames
                 that
                 ampliate
                 Mortalitie
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 teach
                 it
                 to
                 expatiate
                 ,
                 and
                 swell
              
               
                 To
                 Majesty
                 ,
                 and
                 fulnesse
                 deigne
                 to
                 dwell
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 by
                 thy selfe
                 maist
                 sit
                 ,
                 (
                 blest
                 Isle
                 )
                 and
                 see
              
               
                 How
                 thy
                 Great
                 Mother
                 Nature
                 doats
                 on
                 thee
                 :
              
               
                 Thee
                 therefore
                 from
                 the
                 rest
                 apart
                 she
                 hurl'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 seem'd
                 to
                 make
                 an
                 Isle
                 ,
                 but
                 made
                 a
                 world
                 .
              
               
                 Great
                 Charles
                 !
                 thou
                 sweet
                 Dawne
                 of
                 a
                 glorious
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 Center
                 of
                 those
                 thy
                 Grandsires
                 ,
                 shall
                 I
                 say
              
               
                 Henry
                 and
                 Iames
                 ,
                 or
                 Mars
                 and
                 Phoebus
                 rather
                 ?
              
               
                 If
                 this
                 were
                 Wisdomes
                 God
                 ,
                 that
                 Wars
                 sterne
                 father
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 but
                 the
                 same
                 is
                 said
                 ,
                 Henry
                 and
                 Iames
              
               
                 Are
                 Mars
                 and
                 Phoebus
                 under
                 divers
                 Names
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 thou
                 full
                 mixture
                 of
                 those
                 mighty
                 soules
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 vast
                 intelligences
                 tun'd
                 the
                 Poles
              
               
                 Of
                 Peace
                 and
                 Warre
                 ;
                 Thou
                 for
                 whose
                 manly
                 brow
              
               
                 Both
                 Lawrels
                 twine
                 into
                 one
                 wreath
                 ,
                 and
                 wooe
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 thy
                 Garland
                 :
                 see
                 (
                 sweet
                 Prince
                 )
                 ô
                 see
              
               
                 Thou
                 and
                 the
                 lovely
                 hopes
                 that
                 smile
                 in
                 thee
              
               
                 Are
                 ta'ne
                 out
                 and
                 transcrib'd
                 by
                 thy
                 Great
                 Mother
                 ,
              
               
                 See
                 ,
                 see
                 thy
                 reall
                 shadow
                 ,
                 see
                 thy
                 Brother
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 little
                 selfe
                 in
                 lesse
                 ,
                 read
                 in
                 these
                 Eyne
              
               
                 The
                 beames
                 that
                 dance
                 in
                 those
                 full
                 starres
                 of
                 thine
                 .
              
               
               
                 From
                 the
                 same
                 snowy
                 Alablaster
                 Rocke
              
               
                 These
                 hands
                 and
                 thine
                 were
                 hew'n
                 ,
                 these
                 Cherrimock
              
               
                 The
                 Corall
                 of
                 thy
                 lips
                 .
                 Thou
                 art
                 of
                 all
              
               
                 This
                 well-wrought
                 Copy
                 the
                 faire
                 Principall
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Iustly
                 ,
                 Great
                 Nature
                 ,
                 may'st
                 thou
                 brag
                 and
                 tell
              
               
                 How
                 even
                 th'
                 ast
                 drawne
                 this
                 faithfull
                 Paralell
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 matcht
                 thy
                 Master-Peece
                 :
                 ô
                 then
                 go
                 on
              
               
                 Make
                 such
                 another
                 sweet
                 comparison
                 .
              
               
                 See'st
                 thou
                 that
                 Mary
                 there
                 ?
                 ô
                 teach
                 her
                 Mother
              
               
                 To
                 shew
                 her
                 to
                 her selfe
                 in
                 such
                 another
                 :
              
               
                 Fellow
                 this
                 wonder
                 too
                 ,
                 nor
                 let
                 her
                 shine
              
               
                 Alone
                 ,
                 light
                 such
                 another
                 starre
                 ,
                 and
                 twine
              
               
                 Their
                 Rosie
                 Beames
                 ,
                 so
                 that
                 the
                 Morne
                 for
                 one
              
               
                 Venus
                 ,
                 may
                 have
                 a
                 Constellation
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 So
                 have
                 I
                 seene
                 (
                 to
                 dresse
                 their
                 Mistresse
                 May
                 )
              
               
                 Two
                 silken
                 sister
                 flowers
                 consult
                 ,
                 and
                 lay
              
               
                 Their
                 bashfull
                 cheekes
                 together
                 ,
                 newly
                 they
              
               
                 Peep't
                 from
                 their
                 buds
                 ,
                 shew'd
                 like
                 the
                 Gardens
                 eyes
              
               
                 Scarce
                 wakt
                 :
                 like
                 was
                 the
                 Crimson
                 of
                 their
                 joyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 were
                 the
                 Pearle●
                 they
                 wept
                 ,
                 so
                 like
                 that
                 one
              
               
                 Seem'd
                 but
                 the
                 others
                 kind
                 reflection
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 stay
                 ,
                 what
                 glimpse
                 was
                 that
                 ?
                 why
                 blusht
                 the
                 day
                 ▪
              
               
                 Why
                 ran
                 the
                 started
                 aire
                 trembling
                 away
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 's
                 this
                 that
                 comes
                 circled
                 in
                 rayes
                 ,
                 that
                 scorne
              
               
                 Acquaintance
                 with
                 the
                 Sunne
                 ?
                 what
                 second
                 Morne
              
               
                 At
                 mid-day
                 opes
                 a
                 presence
                 which
                 Heavens
                 eye
              
               
                 Stands
                 off
                 and
                 points
                 at
                 ?
                 is
                 't
                 some
                 Deity
              
               
                 Stept
                 from
                 her
                 Throne
                 of
                 starres
                 deignes
                 to
                 be
                 seene●
              
               
                 Is
                 it
                 some
                 Deity
                 ?
                 or
                 is
                 't
                 our
                 Queene
                 ?
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 shee
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 shee
                 :
                 her
                 awfull
                 Beauties
                 chase
              
               
                 The
                 Dayes
                 abashed
                 Glories
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 face
              
               
                 Of
                 Noone
                 weare
                 their
                 owne
                 Sunshine
                 ,
                 ô
                 thou
                 bright
              
               
                 Mistresse
                 of
                 wonders
                 !
                 
                 Cynthia's
                 is
                 the
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 thou
                 at
                 Noone
                 dost
                 shine
                 ,
                 and
                 art
                 all
                 Day
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Nor
                 does
                 the
                 Sunne
                 deny
                 't
                 )
                 our
                 Cynthia
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Illustrious
                 sweetnesse
                 !
                 In
                 thy
                 faithfull
                 wombe
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 '
                 Nest
                 of
                 Heroes
                 ,
                 all
                 our
                 hopes
                 finde
                 roome
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 the
                 Mother
                 Phaenix
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Breast
              
               
                 Chast
                 as
                 that
                 Virgin
                 honour
                 of
                 the
                 East
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 much
                 more
                 fruitfull
                 is
                 ;
                 nor
                 does
                 ,
                 as
                 shee
                 ,
              
               
                 Deny
                 to
                 mighty
                 Love
                 a
                 Deity
                 ▪
              
               
                 Then
                 let
                 the
                 Easterne
                 world
                 bragge
                 and
                 be
                 proud
              
               
                 Of
                 one
                 coy
                 Phaenix
                 ,
                 while
                 we
                 have
                 a
                 brood
              
               
                 A
                 brood
                 of
                 Phaenixes
                 ;
                 while
                 we
                 have
                 Brother
              
               
                 And
                 Sister
                 Phaenixes
                 ,
                 and
                 still
                 the
                 Mother
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 may
                 we
                 long
                 ;
                 long
                 may'st
                 thou
                 live
                 ,
                 t'
                 encrease
              
               
                 The
                 house
                 and
                 family
                 of
                 Phaenixes
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 may
                 the
                 light
                 that
                 gives
                 their
                 Eye-lids
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 E're
                 prove
                 the
                 dismall
                 Morning
                 of
                 thy
                 Night
                 :
              
               
                 Ne're
                 may
                 a
                 Birth
                 of
                 thine
                 be
                 bought
                 so
                 deare
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 his
                 costly
                 cradle
                 of
                 thy
                 Beere
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 mayst
                 thou
                 thus
                 make
                 all
                 the
                 yeare
                 thine
                 owne
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 see
                 such
                 Names
                 of
                 joy
                 sit
                 white
                 upon
              
               
                 The
                 brow
                 of
                 every
                 Moneth
                 ;
                 and
                 when
                 that
                 's
                 done
              
               
                 Mayest
                 in
                 a
                 son
                 of
                 his
                 find
                 every
                 son
              
               
                 Repeated
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 son
                 still
                 in
                 another
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 in
                 each
                 child
                 often
                 prove
                 a
                 Mother
                 :
              
               
                 Long
                 mayest
                 thou
                 laden
                 with
                 such
                 clusters
                 leane
              
               
                 Vpon
                 thy
                 Royall
                 Elme
                 (
                 faire
                 Vine
                 )
                 and
                 when
              
               
                 The
                 Heavens
                 will
                 stay
                 no
                 longer
                 ,
                 may
                 thy
                 glory
              
               
                 And
                 Name
                 dwell
                 sweet
                 in
                 some
                 eternall
                 story
                 .
              
               
                 Pardon
                 (
                 bright
                 excellence
                 )
                 an
                 untun'd
                 string
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 in
                 thy
                 Eares
                 thus
                 keeps
                 a
                 murmuring
              
               
                 O
                 speake
                 a
                 lowly
                 Muses
                 pardon
                 ;
                 speake
              
               
                 Her
                 pardon
                 or
                 her
                 sentence
                 ;
                 onely
                 breake
              
               
                 Thy
                 silence
                 ;
                 speake
                 ;
                 and
                 she
                 shall
                 take
                 from
                 thence
              
               
                 Numbers
                 ,
                 and
                 sweetnesse
                 ,
                 and
                 an
                 influence
              
               
                 Confessing
                 thee
                 :
                 or
                 (
                 if
                 too
                 long
                 I
                 stay
                 )
              
               
                 O
                 speake
                 thou
                 and
                 my
                 Pipe
                 hath
                 nought
                 to
                 say
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 see
                 Appollo
                 all
                 this
                 while
                 stands
                 mute
                 ,
              
               
                 Expecting
                 by
                 thy
                 voyce
                 to
                 tune
                 his
                 Lute
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 Gods
                 are
                 gratious
                 :
                 and
                 their
                 Altars
                 ,
                 make
              
               
                 Pretious
                 their
                 offerings
                 that
                 their
                 Altars
                 take
                 .
              
               
                 Give
                 then
                 this
                 rurall
                 wreath
                 fire
                 from
                 thine
                 eyes
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 rurall
                 wreath
                 dares
                 be
                 thy
                 sacrifice
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Vpon
               Ford's
               two
               Tragedyes
               
                 Loves
                 Sacrifice
              
               and
               
                 The
                 Broken
                 Heart
              
               .
            
             
               THou
               cheat'st
               us
               Ford
               ,
               mak'st
               one
               seeme
               two
               by
               Art.
            
             
               What
               is
               
                 Loves
                 Sacrifice
              
               ,
               but
               
                 the
                 broken
                 Heart
              
               ?
            
          
           
             
               On
               a
               foule
               Morning
               ,
               being
               then
               to
               take
               a
               journey
               .
            
             
               WHere
               art
               thou
               Sol
               ,
               while
               thus
               the
               blind-fold
               Day
            
             
               Staggers
               out
               of
               the
               East
               ,
               looses
               her
               way
            
             
               Stumbling
               on
               Night
               ?
               Rouze
               thee
               Illustrious
               Youth
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               no
               dull
               mists
               choake
               the
               Lights
               faire
               growth
               .
            
             
               Point
               here
               thy
               Beames
               ;
               ô
               glance
               on
               yonder
               flockes
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               their
               fleeces
               Golden
               as
               thy
               lockes
               .
            
             
               Vnfold
               thy
               faire
               front
               ,
               and
               there
               shall
               appeare
            
             
               Full
               glory
               ,
               flaming
               in
               her
               owne
               free
               spheare
               .
            
             
               Gladnesse
               shall
               cloath
               the
               Earth
               ,
               we
               will
               in
               stile
            
             
               The
               face
               of
               things
               ,
               an
               universall
               smile
               .
            
             
               Say
               to
               the
               Sullen
               Morne
               ,
               thou
               com'st
               to
               court
               her
               ;
            
             
               And
               wilt
               command
               proud
               Zephirus
               to
               sport
               her
            
             
               With
               wanton
               gales
               :
               his
               balmy
               breath
               shall
               licke
            
             
               The
               tender
               drops
               which
               tremble
               on
               her
               cheeke
               ;
            
             
               Which
               rarifyed
               ,
               and
               in
               a
               gentle
               raine
            
             
               On
               those
               delicious
               bankes
               distill'd
               againe
            
             
               Shall
               rise
               in
               a
               sweet
               Harvest
               ;
               which
               discloses
            
             
               To
               every
               blushing
               Bed
               of
               new-borne
               Roses
               .
            
             
             
               Hee
               'l
               fan
               her
               bright
               locks
               teaching
               them
               to
               flow
               ,
            
             
               And
               friske
               in
               curl'd
               Maeanders
               :
               Hee
               will
               throw
            
             
               A
               fragrant
               Breath
               suckt
               from
               the
               spicy
               nest
            
             
               O'
               th
               preticus
               Phoenix
               ,
               warme
               upon
               her
               Breast
               .
            
             
               Hee
               with
               a
               dainty
               and
               soft
               hand
               ,
               will
               trim
            
             
               And
               brush
               her
               Azure
               Mantle
               ,
               which
               shall
               swim
            
             
               In
               silken
               Volumes
               ,
               wheresoe're
               shee
               'l
               tread
               ,
            
             
               Bright
               clouds
               like
               Golden
               fleeces
               shall
               be
               spread
               .
            
             
               Rise
               then
               (
               faire
               blew-ey'd
               Maid
               )
               rise
               and
               discover
            
             
               Thy
               silver
               brow
               ,
               and
               meet
               thy
               Golden
               lover
               .
            
             
               See
               how
               hee
               runs
               ,
               with
               what
               a
               hasty
               flight
            
             
               Into
               thy
               Bosome
               ,
               bath'd
               with
               liquid
               Light.
            
             
               Fly
               ,
               fly
               prophane
               fogs
               ,
               farre
               hence
               fly
               away
               ,
            
             
               Taint
               not
               the
               pure
               streames
               of
               the
               springing
               Day
               ,
            
             
               With
               your
               dull
               influence
               ,
               it
               is
               for
               you
               ,
            
             
               To
               sit
               and
               scoule
               upon
               Nights
               heavy
               brow
               ;
            
             
               Not
               on
               the
               fresh
               cheekes
               of
               the
               virgin
               Morne
               ,
            
             
               Where
               nought
               but
               smiles
               ,
               and
               ruddy
               joyes
               are
               worne
               .
            
             
               Fly
               then
               ,
               and
               doe
               not
               thinke
               with
               her
               to
               stay
               ;
            
             
               Let
               it
               suffice
               ,
               shee
               'l
               weare
               no
               maske
               to
               day
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vpon
               the
               faire
               Ethiopian
               sent
               to
               a
               Gentlewoman
               .
            
             
               LO
               here
               the
               faire
               Chariclia
               !
               in
               whom
               strove
            
             
               So
               false
               a
               Fortune
               ,
               and
               so
               true
               a
               Love.
            
             
               Now
               after
               all
               her
               toyles
               by
               Sea
               and
               Land
               ,
            
             
               O
               may
               she
               but
               arrive
               at
               your
               white
               hand
               .
            
             
               Her
               hopes
               are
               crown'd
               ,
               onely
               she
               feares
               that
               than
               ,
            
             
               Shee
               shall
               appeare
               true
               Ethiopian
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               On
               Marriage
               .
            
             
               I
               Would
               be
               married
               ,
               but
               I
               'de
               have
               no
               Wife
               ,
            
             
               I
               would
               be
               married
               to
               a
               single
               Life
               .
            
          
           
             
               To
               the
               Morning
               .
               Satisfaction
               for
               sleepe
               .
            
             
               WHat
               succour
               can
               I
               hope
               the
               Muse
               will
               send
            
             
               Whose
               drowsinesse
               hath
               wrong'd
               the
               Muses
               friend
               ?
            
             
               What
               hope
               Aurora
               to
               propitiate
               thee
               ,
            
             
               Vnlesse
               the
               Muse
               sing
               my
               Apology
               ?
            
             
               O
               in
               that
               morning
               of
               my
               shame
               !
               when
               I
            
             
               Lay
               folded
               up
               in
               sleepes
               captivity
               ;
            
             
               How
               at
               the
               sight
               did'st
               Thou
               draw
               back
               thine
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               Into
               thy
               modest
               veyle
               ?
               how
               did'st
               thou
               rise
            
             
               Twice
               di'd
               in
               thine
               owne
               blushes
               ,
               and
               did'st
               run
            
             
               To
               draw
               the
               Curtaines
               ,
               and
               awake
               the
               Sun
               ?
            
             
               Who
               rowzing
               his
               illustrious
               tresses
               came
               ,
            
             
               And
               seeing
               the
               loath'd
               object
               ,
               hid
               for
               shame
            
             
               His
               head
               in
               thy
               faire
               Bosome
               ,
               and
               still
               hides
            
             
               Mee
               from
               his
               Patronage
               ;
               I
               pray
               ,
               he
               chides
               :
            
             
               And
               pointing
               to
               dull
               Morpheus
               ,
               bids
               me
               take
            
             
               My
               owne
               Apollo
               ,
               try
               if
               I
               can
               make
            
             
               His
               Lethe
               be
               my
               Helicon
               :
               and
               see
            
             
               If
               Morpheus
               have
               a
               Muse
               to
               wait
               on
               mee
               .
            
             
               Hence
               't
               is
               my
               humble
               fancy
               finds
               no
               wings
               ,
            
             
               No
               nimble
               raptures
               ,
               starts
               to
               Heaven
               and
               brings
            
             
               Enthusiasticke
               flames
               ,
               such
               as
               can
               give
            
             
               Marrow
               to
               my
               plumpe
               Genius
               ,
               make
               it
               live
            
             
               Drest
               in
               the
               glorious
               madnesse
               of
               a
               Muse
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               feet
               can
               walke
               the
               milky
               way
               ,
               and
               chuse
            
             
             
               Her
               starry
               Throne
               ;
               whose
               holy
               heats
               can
               warme
            
             
               The
               Grave
               ,
               and
               hold
               up
               an
               exalted
               arme
            
             
               To
               lift
               me
               from
               my
               lazy
               Vrne
               ,
               to
               climbe
            
             
               Vpon
               the
               stooped
               shoulders
               of
               old
               Time
               ;
            
             
               And
               trace
               Eternity
               —
               But
               all
               is
               dead
               ,
            
             
               All
               these
               delicious
               hopes
               are
               buried
               ,
            
             
               In
               the
               deepe
               wrinckles
               of
               his
               angry
               brow
               ,
            
             
               Where
               mercy
               cannot
               find
               them
               :
               but
               ô
               thou
            
             
               Bright
               Lady
               of
               the
               Morne
               ,
               pitty
               doth
               lye
            
             
               So
               warme
               in
               thy
               soft
               Brest
               it
               cannot
               dye
               .
            
             
               Have
               mercy
               then
               ,
               and
               when
               he
               next
               shall
               rise
            
             
               O
               meet
               the
               angry
               God
               ,
               invade
               his
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               And
               stroake
               his
               radiant
               Cheekes
               ;
               one
               timely
               kisse
            
             
               Will
               kill
               his
               anger
               ,
               and
               rev●ve
               my
               blisse
               .
            
             
               So
               to
               the
               treasure
               of
               thy
               pearly
               deaw
               ,
            
             
               Thrice
               will
               I
               pay
               three
               Teares
               ,
               to
               show
               how
               true
            
             
               My
               griefe
               is
               ;
               so
               my
               wakefull
               lay
               shall
               knocke
            
             
               At
               th'
               Orientall
               Gates
               ;
               and
               duly
               mocke
            
             
               The
               early
               Larkes
               shrill
               Orizons
               to
               be
            
             
               An
               Anthem
               at
               the
               Dayes
               Nativitie
               .
            
             
               And
               the
               same
               rosie-fingerd
               hand
               of
               thine
               ,
            
             
               That
               shuts
               Nights
               dying
               eyes
               ,
               shall
               open
               mine
               .
            
             
               But
               thou
               ,
               faint
               God
               of
               sleepe
               ,
               forget
               that
               I
            
             
               Was
               ever
               knowne
               to
               be
               thy
               votery
               .
            
             
               No
               more
               my
               pillow
               shall
               thine
               Altar
               be
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               will
               I
               offer
               any
               more
               to
               thee
            
             
               My selfe
               a
               melting
               sacrifice
               ;
               I
               'me
               borne
            
             
               Againe
               a
               f●esh
               Child
               of
               the
               Buxome
               Morne
               ,
            
             
               Heire
               of
               the
               Suns
               first
               Beames
               ;
               why
               threat'st
               thou
               so●
            
             
               Why
               dost
               thou
               shake
               thy
               leaden
               Scepter
               ?
               goe
               ,
            
             
               Bestow
               thy
               Poppy
               upon
               wakefull
               woe
               ,
            
             
               Sicknesse
               ,
               and
               sorrow
               ,
               whose
               pale
               lidds
               ne're
               know
            
             
               Thy
               downy
               finger
               ,
               dwell
               upon
               their
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               Shut
               in
               their
               Teares
               ;
               Shut
               out
               their
               miseryes
            
          
           
             
             
               Loves
               Horoscope
               .
            
             
               
                 LOve
                 ,
                 brave
                 vertues
                 younger
                 Brother
                 ,
              
               
                 Erst
                 hath
                 made
                 my
                 Heart
                 a
                 Mother
                 ,
              
               
                 Shee
                 consults
                 the
                 conscious
                 Spheares
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 calculate
                 her
                 young
                 sons
                 yeares
                 .
              
               
                 Shee
                 askes
                 if
                 sad
                 ,
                 or
                 saving
                 powers
                 ,
              
               
                 Gave
                 Omen
                 to
                 his
                 infant
                 howers
                 ,
              
               
                 Shee
                 asks
                 each
                 starre
                 that
                 then
                 stood
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 poore
                 Love
                 shall
                 live
                 or
                 dy
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Ah
                 my
                 Heart
                 ,
                 is
                 that
                 the
                 way
                 ?
              
               
                 Are
                 these
                 the
                 Beames
                 that
                 rule
                 thy
                 Day
                 ?
              
               
                 Thou
                 know'st
                 a
                 Face
                 in
                 whose
                 each
                 looke
                 ,
              
               
                 Beauty
                 layes
                 ope
                 loves
                 Fortune-booke
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 whose
                 faire
                 revolutions
                 wait
              
               
                 The
                 obsequious
                 motions
                 of
                 Loves
                 fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Ah
                 my
                 Hear●
                 ,
                 her
                 eyes
                 and
                 shee
                 ,
              
               
                 Have
                 taught
                 thee
                 new
                 Astrology
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 e're
                 Loves
                 native
                 houres
                 were
                 set
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 ever
                 starry
                 Synod
                 met
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 in
                 the
                 mercy
                 of
                 her
                 eye
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 poore
                 Love
                 shall
                 live
                 or
                 dye
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 those
                 sharpe
                 Rayes
                 putting
                 on
              
               
                 Points
                 of
                 Death
                 bid
                 Love
                 be
                 gone
              
               
                 (
                 Though
                 the
                 Heavens
                 in
                 counsell
                 sate
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 crowne
                 an
                 uncontrouled
                 Fa●e
                 ,
              
               
                 Though
                 their
                 best
                 Aspects
                 twin'd
                 upon
              
               
                 The
                 kindest
                 Constellation
                 ,
              
               
                 Cast
                 amorous
                 glances
                 on
                 h●s
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 whisper'd
                 the
                 confederate
                 Earth
              
               
               
                 To
                 pave
                 his
                 pathes
                 with
                 all
                 the
                 good
              
               
                 That
                 warmes
                 the
                 Bed
                 of
                 youth
                 and
                 blood
              
               
                 Love
                 ha's
                 no
                 plea
                 against
                 her
                 eye
              
               
                 Beauty
                 frownes
                 ,
                 and
                 Love
                 must
                 dye
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 if
                 her
                 milder
                 influence
                 move
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 guild
                 the
                 hopes
                 of
                 humble
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 (
                 Though
                 heavens
                 inauspicious
                 eye
              
               
                 Lay
                 blacke
                 on
                 loves
                 Nativitye
                 ;
              
               
                 Though
                 every
                 Diamond
                 in
                 Ioves
                 crowne
              
               
                 Fixt
                 his
                 forehead
                 to
                 a
                 frowne
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 Her
                 Eye
                 a
                 strong
                 appeale
                 can
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 Beauty
                 smiles
                 and
                 love
                 shall
                 live
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 O
                 if
                 Love
                 shall
                 live
                 ,
                 ô
                 where
              
               
                 But
                 in
                 her
                 Eye
                 ,
                 or
                 in
                 her
                 Eare
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 her
                 Brest
                 ,
                 or
                 in
                 her
                 Breath
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 I
                 hide
                 poore
                 Love
                 from
                 Death
                 ?
              
               
                 For
                 in
                 the
                 life
                 ought
                 else
                 can
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 Love
                 shall
                 dye
                 although
                 he
                 live
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Or
                 if
                 Love
                 shall
                 dye
                 ,
                 ô
                 where
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 in
                 her
                 Eye
                 ,
                 or
                 in
                 her
                 Eare
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 her
                 Breath
                 ,
                 or
                 in
                 her
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 I
                 Build
                 his
                 funerall
                 Nest
                 ?
              
               
                 While
                 Love
                 shall
                 thus
                 entombed
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 Love
                 shall
                 live
                 ,
                 although
                 he
                 dye
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Sospetto
               d'
               Herode
               .
               Libro
               Primo
               .
            
             
               
                 Argomento
                 .
              
               
                 Casting
                 the
                 times
                 with
                 their
                 strong
                 signes
                 ,
              
               
                 Death's
                 Master
                 his
                 owne
                 death
                 divines
                 .
              
               
                 Strugling
                 for
                 helpe
                 ,
                 his
                 best
                 hope
                 is
              
               
                 Hero'ds
                 suspition
                 may
                 heale
                 his
                 .
              
               
                 Therefore
                 he
                 (
                 ends
                 a
                 fiend
                 to
                 wake
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 sleeping
                 Tyrant's
                 fond
                 mistake
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 feares
                 (
                 in
                 vaine
                 )
                 that
                 he
                 whose
                 Birth
              
               
                 Meanes
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 should
                 meddle
                 with
                 his
                 Earth
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 1
              
               
                 MVse
                 ,
                 now
                 the
                 servant
                 of
                 soft
                 Loves
                 no
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Hate
                 is
                 thy
                 Theame
                 ,
                 and
                 Herod
                 ,
                 whose
                 unblest
              
               
                 Hand
                 (
                 ô
                 what
                 dares
                 not
                 jealous
                 Greatnesse
                 ?
                 )
                 tore
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 sweet
                 Babes
                 from
                 their
                 Mothers
                 Brest
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Bloomes
                 of
                 Martyrdome
                 .
                 O
                 be
                 a
                 Dore
              
               
                 Of
                 language
                 to
                 my
                 infant
                 Lips
                 ,
                 yee
                 best
              
               
                 Of
                 Confessours
                 :
                 whose
                 Throates
                 answering
                 his
                 swords
                 ,
              
               
                 Gave
                 forth
                 your
                 Blood
                 for
                 breath
                 ,
                 spoke
                 soules
                 for
                 words
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2
              
               
                 Great
                 
                   Anthony
                   !
                   Spains
                
                 well-beseeming
                 pride
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 mighty
                 branch
                 of
                 Emperours
                 and
                 Kings
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Beauties
                 of
                 whose
                 dawne
                 what
                 eye
                 may
                 bide
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 With
                 the
                 Sun
                 himselfe
                 weigh's
                 equall
                 wings
                 .
              
               
               
                 Mappe
                 of
                 Heroick
                 worth
                 !
                 whom
                 farre
                 and
                 wide
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 beleeving
                 world
                 Fame
                 boldly
                 sings
                 :
              
               
                 Deigne
                 thou
                 to
                 weare
                 this
                 humble
                 Wreath
                 that
                 bowes
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 the
                 sacred
                 Honour
                 of
                 thy
                 Browes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Nor
                 needs
                 my
                 Muse
                 a
                 blush
                 ,
                 or
                 these
                 bright
                 Flowers
              
               
                 Other
                 then
                 what
                 their
                 owne
                 blest
                 beauties
                 bring
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 were
                 the
                 smiling
                 sons
                 of
                 those
                 sweet
                 Bowers
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 drinke
                 the
                 deaw
                 of
                 Life
                 ,
                 whose
                 deathlesse
                 spring
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Sirian
                 flame
                 ,
                 nor
                 Borean
                 frost
                 deflowers
                 :
              
               
                 From
                 whence
                 Heav'n-labouring
                 Bees
                 with
                 busie
                 wing
                 ,
              
               
                 Suck
                 hidden
                 sweets
                 ,
                 which
                 well
                 digested
                 proves
              
               
                 Immortall
                 Hony
                 for
                 the
                 Hive
                 of
                 Loves
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 whose
                 strong
                 hand
                 with
                 so
                 transcendent
                 worth
                 ,
              
               
                 Holds
                 high
                 the
                 reine
                 of
                 faire
                 Parthenope
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 neither
                 Rome
                 ,
                 nor
                 Athens
                 can
                 bring
                 forth
              
               
                 A
                 Name
                 in
                 noble
                 deedes
                 Rivall
                 to
                 thee
                 !
              
               
                 Thy
                 Fames
                 full
                 noise
                 ,
                 makes
                 proud
                 the
                 patient
                 Earth
                 ,
              
               
                 Farre
                 more
                 then
                 matter
                 for
                 my
                 Muse
                 and
                 mee
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Tyrrhene
                 Seas
                 ,
                 and
                 shores
                 sound
                 all
                 the
                 same
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 their
                 murmures
                 keepe
                 thy
                 mighty
                 Name
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 Below
                 the
                 Botome
                 of
                 the
                 great
                 Abysse
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 where
                 one
                 Center
                 reconciles
                 all
                 things
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 worlds
                 profound
                 Heart
                 pants
                 ;
                 There
                 placed
                 is
              
               
                 Mischifes
                 old
                 Master
                 ,
                 close
                 about
                 him
                 clings
              
               
                 A
                 curl'd
                 knot
                 of
                 embracing
                 Snakes
                 ,
                 that
                 kisse
              
               
                 His
                 correspondent
                 cheekes
                 :
                 these
                 loathsome
                 strings
              
               
                 Hold
                 the
                 perverse
                 Prince
                 in
                 eternall
                 Ties
              
               
                 Fast
                 bound
                 ,
                 since
                 first
                 he
                 forfeited
                 the
                 skies
                 ,
              
            
             
               
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 Iudge
                 of
                 Torments
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 King
                 of
                 Teares
                 :
              
               
                 Hee
                 fills
                 a
                 burnisht
                 Throne
                 of
                 quenchlesse
                 fire
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 his
                 old
                 faire
                 Roabes
                 of
                 Light
                 ,
                 hee
                 weares
              
               
                 A
                 gloomy
                 Mantle
                 of
                 darke
                 flames
                 ,
                 the
                 Tire
              
               
                 That
                 crownes
                 his
                 hated
                 head
                 on
                 high
                 appeares
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 seav'n
                 tall
                 Hornes
                 (
                 his
                 Empires
                 pride
                 )
                 aspire
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 make
                 up
                 Hells
                 Majesty
                 ,
                 each
                 Horne
              
               
                 Seav'n
                 crested
                 Hydra's
                 horribly
                 adorne
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 His
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 the
                 sullen
                 dens
                 of
                 Death
                 and
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 Star●le
                 the
                 dull
                 Ayre
                 with
                 a
                 dismall
                 red
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 his
                 fell
                 glances
                 as
                 the
                 fatall
                 Light
              
               
                 Of
                 staring
                 Comets
                 ,
                 that
                 looke
                 Kingdomes
                 dead
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 his
                 black
                 nostrills
                 ,
                 and
                 blew
                 lips
                 ,
                 in
                 spight
              
               
                 Of
                 Hells
                 owne
                 stinke
                 ,
                 a
                 worser
                 stench
                 is
                 spread
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 breath
                 Hells
                 lightning
                 is
                 :
                 and
                 each
                 deepe
                 grone
              
               
                 Disdaines
                 to
                 thinke
                 that
                 Heav'n
                 Thunders
                 alone
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 8.
                 
              
               
                 His
                 flaming
                 Eyes
                 dire
                 exhalation
                 ,
              
               
                 Vnto
                 a
                 dreadfull
                 pile
                 gives
                 fiery
                 Breath
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 unconsum'd
                 consumption
                 preys
                 upon
              
               
                 The
                 never-dying
                 Life
                 ,
                 of
                 a
                 long
                 Death
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 this
                 sad
                 House
                 of
                 slow
                 Destruction
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 His
                 shop
                 of
                 flames
                 )
                 hee
                 fryes
                 himselfe
                 ,
                 beneath
              
               
                 A
                 masse
                 of
                 woes
                 ,
                 his
                 Teeth
                 for
                 Torment
                 gnash
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 his
                 steele
                 sides
                 found
                 with
                 his
                 Tayles
                 strong
                 lash
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 9.
                 
              
               
                 Three
                 Rigourous
                 Virgins
                 waiting
                 still
                 behind
                 ,
              
               
                 Assist
                 the
                 Throne
                 of
                 th'
                 Iron-Sceptred
                 King.
              
               
                 With
                 whips
                 of
                 Thornes
                 and
                 knotty
                 vipers
                 twin'd
              
               
                 They
                 rouse
                 him
                 ,
                 when
                 his
                 ranke
                 Thoughts
                 need
                 a
                 sting
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 lockes
                 are
                 beds
                 of
                 uncomb'd
                 snakes
                 that
                 wind
              
               
                 About
                 their
                 shady
                 browes
                 in
                 wanton
                 Rings
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 reignes
                 the
                 wrathfull
                 King
                 ,
                 and
                 while
                 he
                 reignes
              
               
                 His
                 Scepter
                 and
                 himselfe
                 both
                 he
                 disdaines
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 10
              
               
                 Disdainefull
                 wretch
                 !
                 how
                 hath
                 one
                 bold
                 sinne
                 cost
              
               
                 Thee
                 all
                 the
                 Beauties
                 of
                 thy
                 once
                 bright
                 Eyes
                 ?
              
               
                 How
                 hath
                 one
                 blacke
                 Eclipse
                 cancell'd
                 ,
                 and
                 crost
              
               
                 The
                 glories
                 that
                 did
                 guild
                 thee
                 in
                 thy
                 Rise
                 ?
              
               
                 Proud
                 Morning
                 of
                 a
                 perverse
                 Day
                 !
                 how
                 lost
              
               
                 Art
                 thou
                 unto
                 thy selfe
                 ,
                 thou
                 too
                 selfe-wise
              
               
                 Narcissus
                 ?
                 foolish
                 Phaeton
                 ?
                 who
                 for
                 all
              
               
                 Thy
                 high-aym'd
                 hopes
                 ,
                 gaind'st
                 but
                 a
                 flaming
                 fall
              
            
             
               
                 11
              
               
                 From
                 Death's
                 sad
                 shades
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 Life-breathing
                 Ayre
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 mortall
                 Enemy
                 to
                 mankinds
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 Lifts
                 his
                 malignant
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 wasted
                 with
                 care
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 come
                 beautifull
                 in
                 humane
                 blood
                 .
              
               
                 Where
                 Iordan
                 melts
                 his
                 Chrystall
                 ,
                 to
                 make
                 faire
              
               
                 The
                 fields
                 of
                 Palestine
                 ,
                 with
                 so
                 pure
                 a
                 flood
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 does
                 he
                 fixe
                 his
                 Eyes
                 :
                 and
                 there
                 detect
              
               
                 New
                 matter
                 ,
                 to
                 make
                 good
                 his
                 great
                 suspect
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 12
              
               
                 He
                 calls
                 to
                 mind
                 th'
                 old
                 quarrell
                 ,
                 and
                 what
                 sparke
              
               
                 Set
                 the
                 contending
                 Sons
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 on
                 fire
                 :
              
               
                 Oft
                 in
                 his
                 deepe
                 thought
                 he
                 revolves
                 the
                 darke
              
               
                 Sibills
                 divining
                 leaves
                 :
                 hee
                 does
                 enquire
              
               
                 Into
                 th'
                 old
                 Prophesies
                 ,
                 trembling
                 to
                 marke
              
               
                 How
                 many
                 present
                 prodigies
                 conspire
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 crowne
                 their
                 past
                 predictions
                 ,
                 both
                 hee
                 layes
              
               
                 Together
                 ,
                 in
                 his
                 pondrous
                 mind
                 both
                 weighes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 13.
                 
              
               
                 Heavens
                 Golden-winged
                 Herald
                 ,
                 late
                 hee
                 saw
              
               
                 To
                 a
                 poore
                 Galilean
                 virgin
                 sent
                 :
              
               
                 How
                 low
                 the
                 Bright
                 Youth
                 bow'd
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 what
                 awe
              
               
                 Immortall
                 flowers
                 to
                 her
                 faire
                 hand
                 present
                 .
              
               
                 Hee
                 saw
                 th'
                 old
                 Hebrewes
                 wombe
                 ,
                 neglect
                 the
                 Law
              
               
                 Of
                 Age
                 and
                 Barennesse
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 Babe
                 prevent
              
               
                 His
                 Birth
                 ,
                 by
                 his
                 Devotion
                 ,
                 who
                 began
              
               
                 Betimes
                 to
                 be
                 a
                 Saint
                 ,
                 before
                 a
                 Man.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 14.
                 
              
               
                 Hee
                 saw
                 rich
                 Nectar
                 thawes
                 ,
                 release
                 the
                 rigour
              
               
                 Of
                 th'
                 Icy
                 North
                 ,
                 from
                 frost-bount
                 Atlas
                 hands
              
               
                 His
                 Adamantine
                 fetters
                 fall
                 :
                 greene
                 vigour
              
               
                 Gladding
                 the
                 Scythian
                 Rocks
                 ,
                 and
                 Libian
                 sands
                 .
              
               
                 Hee
                 saw
                 a
                 vernall
                 smile
                 ,
                 sweetly
                 disfigure
              
               
                 Winters
                 sad
                 face
                 ,
                 and
                 through
                 the
                 flowry
                 lands
              
               
                 Of
                 faire
                 Engaddi
                 hony-sweating
                 Fountaines
              
               
                 With
                 Manna
                 ,
                 Milk
                 ,
                 and
                 Balm
                 ,
                 new
                 broach
                 the
                 Mountaines
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 15.
                 
              
               
                 Hee
                 saw
                 how
                 in
                 that
                 blest
                 Day-bearing
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Heav'n-rebuked
                 shades
                 made
                 hast
                 away
                 ;
              
               
                 How
                 bright
                 a
                 Dawne
                 of
                 Angels
                 with
                 new
                 Light
              
               
                 Amaz'd
                 the
                 midnight
                 world
                 ,
                 and
                 made
                 a
                 Day
              
               
                 Of
                 which
                 the
                 Morning
                 knew
                 not
                 :
                 Mad
                 with
                 spight
              
               
                 Hee
                 markt
                 how
                 the
                 poore
                 Shepheards
                 ran
                 to
                 pay
              
               
                 Their
                 simple
                 Tribute
                 to
                 the
                 Babe
                 ,
                 whose
                 Birth
              
               
                 Was
                 the
                 great
                 businesse
                 both
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 Earth
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 16.
                 
              
               
                 Hee
                 saw
                 a
                 threefold
                 Sun
                 ,
                 with
                 rich
                 encrease
                 ,
              
               
                 Make
                 proud
                 the
                 Ruby
                 portalls
                 of
                 the
                 East
                 .
              
               
                 Hee
                 saw
                 the
                 Temple
                 sacred
                 to
                 sweet
                 Peace
                 ,
              
               
                 Adore
                 her
                 Princes
                 Birth
                 ,
                 flat
                 on
                 her
                 Brest
                 .
              
               
                 Hee
                 saw
                 the
                 falling
                 Idols
                 ,
                 all
                 confesse
              
               
                 A
                 comming
                 Deity
                 .
                 Hee
                 saw
                 the
                 Nest
              
               
                 Of
                 pois'nous
                 and
                 unnaturall
                 loves
                 ,
                 Earth-nurst
                 ;
              
               
                 Toucht
                 with
                 the
                 worlds
                 true
                 Antidote
                 to
                 burst
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 17.
                 
              
               
                 He
                 saw
                 Heav'n
                 blossome
                 with
                 a
                 new-borne
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 wh●ch
                 ,
                 as
                 on
                 a
                 glorious
                 stranger
                 gaz'd
              
               
                 The
                 Golden
                 eyes
                 of
                 Night
                 :
                 whose
                 Beame
                 made
                 bright
              
               
                 The
                 way
                 to
                 Beth'lem
                 ,
                 and
                 as
                 boldly
                 blaz'd
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Nor
                 askt
                 leave
                 of
                 the
                 Sun
                 )
                 by
                 Day
                 as
                 Night
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 whom
                 (
                 as
                 Heav'ns
                 illustrious
                 Hand-maid
                 )
                 rais'd
              
               
                 Three
                 Kings
                 (
                 or
                 what
                 is
                 more
                 )
                 three
                 Wise
                 men
                 went
              
               
                 Westward
                 to
                 find
                 the
                 worlds
                 true
                 Orient
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 18.
                 
              
               
                 Strucke
                 with
                 these
                 great
                 concurrences
                 of
                 things
                 ,
              
               
                 Symptomes
                 so
                 deadly
                 ,
                 unto
                 Death
                 and
                 him
                 ;
              
               
                 Faine
                 would
                 hee
                 have
                 forgot
                 what
                 fatall
                 strings
                 ,
              
               
                 Eternally
                 bind
                 each
                 rebellious
                 limbe
                 .
              
               
                 Hee
                 shooke
                 himselfe
                 ,
                 and
                 spread
                 his
                 spatious
                 wings
                 :
              
               
                 Which
                 like
                 two
                 Bosom'd
                 sailes
                 embrace
                 the
                 dimme
              
               
                 Aire
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 dismall
                 shade
                 ,
                 but
                 all
                 in
                 vaine
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 sturdy
                 Adamant
                 is
                 his
                 strong
                 chaine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 19.
                 
              
               
                 While
                 thus
                 Heav'ns
                 highest
                 counsails
                 ,
                 by
                 the
                 low
              
               
                 Foot
                 steps
                 of
                 their
                 Effects
                 ,
                 hee
                 trac'd
                 too
                 well
                 ,
              
               
                 Hee
                 tost
                 his
                 troubled
                 eyes
                 ,
                 Embers
                 that
                 glow
              
               
                 Now
                 with
                 new
                 Rage
                 ,
                 and
                 wax
                 too
                 hot
                 for
                 Hell.
              
               
                 With
                 his
                 foule
                 clawes
                 hee
                 fenc'd
                 his
                 furrowed
                 Brow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gave
                 a
                 gastly
                 shreeke
                 ,
                 whose
                 horrid
                 yell
              
               
                 Ran
                 trembling
                 through
                 the
                 hollow
                 vaults
                 of
                 N●ght
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 while
                 his
                 twisted
                 Tayle
                 hee
                 gnaw'd
                 for
                 sp●ght
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 20.
                 
              
               
                 Yet
                 on
                 the
                 other
                 side
                 ,
                 faine
                 would
                 he
                 start
              
               
                 Above
                 his
                 feares
                 ,
                 and
                 thinke
                 it
                 cannot
                 be
                 .
              
               
                 Hee
                 studies
                 Scripture
                 ,
                 strives
                 to
                 sound
                 the
                 heart
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 feele
                 the
                 pulse
                 of
                 every
                 Prophecy
                 .
              
               
                 Hee
                 knowes
                 (
                 but
                 knowes
                 not
                 how
                 ,
                 or
                 by
                 what
                 Art
                 )
              
               
                 The
                 Heav'n
                 expecting
                 Ages
                 ,
                 hope
                 to
                 see
              
               
                 A
                 mighty
                 Babe
                 ,
                 whose
                 pure
                 ,
                 unspotted
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 a
                 chast
                 Virgin
                 wombe
                 ,
                 should
                 blesse
                 the
                 Earth
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 21.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 these
                 vast
                 Mysteries
                 his
                 senses
                 smother
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Reason
                 (
                 for
                 what
                 's
                 Faith
                 to
                 him
                 ?
                 )
                 devoure
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 she
                 that
                 is
                 a
                 maid
                 should
                 prove
                 a
                 Mother
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 keepe
                 inviolate
                 her
                 virgin
                 flower
                 ;
              
               
                 How
                 Gods
                 eternall
                 Sonne
                 should
                 be
                 mans
                 Brother
                 ,
              
               
                 Poseth
                 his
                 proudest
                 Intellectuall
                 power
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 a
                 pure
                 Spirit
                 should
                 incarnate
                 bee
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 life
                 it selfe
                 ,
                 weare
                 Deaths
                 fraile
                 Livery
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 22.
                 
              
               
                 That
                 the
                 Great
                 Angell-blinding
                 light
                 should
                 shrinke
              
               
                 His
                 blaze
                 ,
                 to
                 shine
                 in
                 a
                 poore
                 Shepheards
                 eye
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 the
                 unmeasur'd
                 God
                 so
                 low
                 should
                 sinke
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 Pris'ner
                 in
                 a
                 few
                 poore
                 Rags
                 to
                 lye
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 from
                 his
                 Mothers
                 Brest
                 hee
                 milke
                 should
                 drinke
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 feeds
                 with
                 Nectar
                 Heav'ns
                 faire
                 family
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 a
                 vile
                 Manger
                 his
                 low
                 Bed
                 should
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 in
                 a
                 Throne
                 of
                 stars
                 Thunders
                 above
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 23.
                 
              
               
                 That
                 hee
                 whom
                 the
                 Sun
                 serves
                 ,
                 should
                 fainely
                 peepe
              
               
                 Through
                 clouds
                 of
                 Infant
                 flesh
                 :
                 that
                 hee
                 the
                 old
              
               
                 Eternall
                 Word
                 should
                 bee
                 a
                 Child
                 ,
                 and
                 weepe
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 hee
                 who
                 made
                 the
                 fire
                 ,
                 should
                 feare
                 the
                 cold
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 Heav'ns
                 high
                 Majesty
                 h●s
                 Court
                 should
                 keepe
              
               
                 In
                 a
                 clay-cottage
                 ,
                 by
                 each
                 blast
                 control'd
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 Glories
                 selfe
                 should
                 serve
                 our
                 Griefs
                 ,
                 &
                 feares
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 free
                 Eternity
                 ,
                 submit
                 to
                 yeares
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 24.
                 
              
               
                 And
                 further
                 ,
                 that
                 the
                 Lawes
                 eternall
                 Giver
                 ,
              
               
                 Should
                 bleed
                 in
                 his
                 owne
                 lawes
                 obedience
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 the
                 circumcising
                 Knife
                 deliver
              
               
                 Himselfe
                 ,
                 the
                 forfeit
                 of
                 his
                 slaves
                 offence
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 the
                 unblemisht
                 Lambe
                 ,
                 blessed
                 for
                 ever
                 ,
              
               
                 Should
                 take
                 the
                 marke
                 of
                 sin
                 ,
                 and
                 paine
                 of
                 sence
                 .
              
               
                 These
                 are
                 the
                 knotty
                 Riddles
                 ,
                 whose
                 darke
                 doubt
              
               
                 Intangles
                 his
                 lost
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 past
                 getting
                 out
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 25.
                 
              
               
                 While
                 new
                 Thoughts
                 boyl'd
                 in
                 his
                 enraged
                 Brest
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 gloomy
                 Bosomes
                 darkest
                 Character
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 in
                 his
                 shady
                 forehead
                 seen
                 exprest
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 forehead
                 's
                 shade
                 in
                 Gr●efes
                 expression
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 what
                 in
                 signe
                 of
                 joy
                 among
                 the
                 b●est
              
               
                 The
                 faces
                 lightning
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 smile
                 is
                 here
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 stings
                 of
                 care
                 that
                 his
                 strong
                 Heart
                 opp●est
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 desperate
                 ,
                 
                   Oh
                   mee
                
                 ,
                 drew
                 from
                 his
                 deepe
                 Brest
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 26.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Oh
                   mee
                
                 !
                 (
                 thus
                 bellow'd
                 hee
                 )
                 oh
                 mee
                 ●
                 what
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 Portents
                 before
                 mine
                 eyes
                 their
                 Powers
                 advance
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 serves
                 my
                 purer
                 sight
                 ,
                 onely
                 to
                 beat
              
               
                 Downe
                 my
                 proud
                 Thought
                 ,
                 and
                 leave
                 it
                 in
                 a
                 Trance
                 ?
              
               
                 Frowne
                 I
                 ;
                 and
                 can
                 great
                 Nature
                 keep
                 her
                 seat
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 gay
                 starrs
                 lead
                 on
                 their
                 Golden
                 dance
                 ?
              
               
                 Can
                 his
                 attempts
                 above
                 st●ll
                 prosp'rous
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Auspicious
                 still
                 ,
                 in
                 sp●ght
                 of
                 Hell
                 and
                 me
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 27.
                 
              
               
                 Hee
                 has
                 my
                 Heaven
                 (
                 what
                 would
                 he
                 more
                 ?
                 )
                 whose
                 bright
              
               
                 And
                 radiant
                 Scepter
                 this
                 bold
                 hand
                 should
                 beare
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 the
                 never-fading
                 fields
                 of
                 Light.
              
               
                 My
                 faire
                 Inheritance
                 ,
                 hee
                 confines
                 me
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 this
                 darke
                 House
                 of
                 shades
                 ,
                 horrour
                 ,
                 and
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 draw
                 a
                 long-liv'd
                 Death
                 ,
                 where
                 all
                 my
                 cheere
              
               
                 Is
                 the
                 solemnity
                 my
                 sorrow
                 weares
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Mankinds
                 Torment
                 waits
                 upon
                 my
                 Teares
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 28.
                 
              
               
                 Darke
                 ,
                 dusky
                 Man
                 ,
                 he
                 needs
                 would
                 single
                 forth
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 the
                 partner
                 of
                 his
                 owne
                 pure
                 ●ay
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 should
                 we
                 Powers
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 Spirits
                 of
                 worth
              
               
                 Bow
                 our
                 bright
                 Heads
                 ,
                 before
                 a
                 King
                 of
                 clay
                 ?
              
               
                 It
                 shall
                 not
                 be
                 ,
                 said
                 I
                 ,
                 and
                 clombe
                 the
                 North
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 never
                 wing
                 of
                 Angell
                 yet
                 made
                 way
              
               
                 What
                 though
                 I
                 m●st
                 my
                 blow
                 ?
                 yet
                 I
                 strooke
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 dare
                 something
                 ,
                 is
                 some
                 victory
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 29.
                 
              
               
                 Is
                 hee
                 not
                 satisfied
                 ?
                 meanes
                 he
                 to
                 wrest
              
               
                 Hell
                 from
                 me
                 too
                 ,
                 and
                 sack
                 my
                 Territories
                 ?
              
               
                 Vile
                 humane
                 Nature
                 means
                 he
                 not
                 t'
                 invest
              
               
                 (
                 O
                 my
                 despight
                 !
                 )
                 with
                 his
                 divinest
                 Glories
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 rising
                 with
                 rich
                 spoiles
                 upon
                 his
                 Brest
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 his
                 faire
                 Triumphs
                 fill
                 all
                 ●uture
                 stories
                 ?
              
               
                 Must
                 the
                 bright
                 armes
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 rebuke
                 these
                 eyes
                 ?
              
               
                 Mocke
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 dazle
                 my
                 darke
                 Mysteries
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 30.
                 
              
               
                 Art
                 thou
                 not
                 Lucifer
                 ?
                 hee
                 to
                 whom
                 the
                 droves
              
               
                 Of
                 stars
                 ,
                 that
                 guild
                 the
                 Morne
                 in
                 charge
                 were
                 given
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 nimblest
                 of
                 the
                 lightning-winged
                 Loves
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 fairest
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 first-borne
                 smile
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 ?
              
               
                 Looke
                 in
                 what
                 Pompe
                 the
                 Mistresse
                 Planet
                 moves
              
               
                 Rev'rently
                 circled
                 by
                 the
                 lesser
                 seaven
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 rich
                 ,
                 the
                 flames
                 that
                 from
                 thine
                 eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 O
                 prest
                 the
                 common-people
                 of
                 the
                 skyes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 31.
                 
              
               
                 Ah
                 wretch
                 !
                 what
                 bootes
                 thee
                 to
                 cast
                 back
                 thy
                 eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 dawning
                 hope
                 no
                 beame
                 of
                 comfort
                 showes
                 ?
              
               
                 While
                 the
                 reflection
                 of
                 thy
                 forepast
                 joyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Renders
                 thee
                 double
                 to
                 thy
                 present
                 woes
                 .
              
               
                 Rather
                 make
                 up
                 to
                 thy
                 new
                 miseries
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 meet
                 the
                 mischiefe
                 that
                 upon
                 thee
                 growes
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 Hell
                 must
                 mourne
                 ,
                 Heav'n
                 sure
                 shall
                 sympathize
              
               
                 What
                 force
                 cannot
                 effect
                 ,
                 fraud
                 shall
                 devise
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 32.
                 
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 whose
                 force
                 feare
                 I
                 ?
                 have
                 I
                 so
                 lost
              
               
                 My selfe
                 ?
                 my
                 strength
                 too
                 with
                 my
                 innocence
                 ?
              
               
                 Come
                 try
                 who
                 dares
                 ,
                 
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   Earth
                
                 ,
                 what
                 ere
                 dost
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 borrowed
                 being
                 ,
                 make
                 thy
                 bold
                 defence
                 .
              
               
                 Come
                 thy
                 Creator
                 too
                 ,
                 what
                 though
                 it
                 cost
              
               
                 Mee
                 yet
                 a
                 second
                 fall
                 ?
                 wee
                 'd
                 try
                 our
                 strengths
                 .
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 saw
                 us
                 struggle
                 once
                 ,
                 as
                 brave
                 a
                 sight
              
               
                 Earth
                 now
                 should
                 see
                 ,
                 and
                 tremble
                 at
                 the
                 sight
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 33.
                 
              
               
                 Thus
                 spoke
                 th'impatient
                 Prince
                 ,
                 and
                 made
                 a
                 pause
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 foule
                 Hags
                 rais'd
                 their
                 heads
                 ,
                 &
                 clapt
                 their
                 hands
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Powers
                 of
                 Hell
                 in
                 full
                 applause
              
               
                 Flourisht
                 their
                 Snakes
                 ,
                 and
                 tost
                 their
                 flaming
                 brands
                 .
              
               
                 Wee
                 (
                 said
                 the
                 horrid
                 sisters
                 )
                 wait
                 thy
                 lawes
                 ,
              
               
                 Th'
                 obsequious
                 handmaids
                 of
                 thy
                 high
                 commands
                 .
              
               
                 Be
                 it
                 thy
                 part
                 ,
                 Hells
                 mighty
                 Lord
                 ,
                 to
                 lay
              
               
                 On
                 us
                 thy
                 dread
                 commands
                 ,
                 ours
                 to
                 obey
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 34.
                 
              
               
                 What
                 thy
                 Alecto
                 ,
                 what
                 these
                 hands
                 can
                 doe
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 mad'st
                 bold
                 proofe
                 upon
                 the
                 brow
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 should'st
                 thou
                 bate
                 in
                 pride
                 ,
                 because
                 that
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 these
                 thy
                 sooty
                 Kingdomes
                 thou
                 art
                 driven
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 Heav'ns
                 Lord
                 chide
                 above
                 lowder
                 then
                 thou
              
               
                 In
                 language
                 of
                 his
                 Thunder
                 ,
                 thou
                 art
                 even
                 ▪
              
               
                 With
                 him
                 below
                 :
                 here
                 thou
                 art
                 Lord
                 alone
              
               
                 Boundlesse
                 and
                 absolute
                 :
                 Hell
                 is
                 thine
                 owne
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 35.
                 
              
               
                 If
                 usuall
                 wit
                 ,
                 and
                 strength
                 will
                 doe
                 no
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 Vertues
                 of
                 stones
                 ,
                 nor
                 herbes
                 :
                 use
                 stronger
                 charmes
                 ,
              
               
                 Anger
                 ,
                 and
                 love
                 ,
                 best
                 hookes
                 of
                 humane
                 blood
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 all
                 fa●le
                 wee
                 'l
                 put
                 on
                 our
                 proudest
                 Armes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 pouring
                 on
                 Heav'ns
                 face
                 the
                 Seas
                 huge
                 flood
              
               
                 Quench
                 his
                 curl'd
                 fires
                 ,
                 wee
                 'l
                 wake
                 w●th
                 our
                 Alarmes
              
               
                 Ru●ne
                 ,
                 where
                 e're
                 she
                 sleepes
                 at
                 Natures
                 feet
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 crush
                 the
                 world
                 till
                 his
                 wide
                 corners
                 meet
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 36.
                 
              
               
                 Reply'd
                 the
                 proud
                 King
                 ,
                 O
                 my
                 Crownes
                 Defence
                 ?
              
               
                 Stay
                 of
                 my
                 strong
                 hopes
                 ,
                 you
                 of
                 whose
                 brave
                 worth
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 frighted
                 stars
                 tooke
                 faint
                 experience
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 'gainst
                 the
                 Thunders
                 mouth
                 wee
                 marched
                 forth
                 :
              
               
                 Still
                 you
                 are
                 prodigal
                 of
                 your
                 Love's
                 expence
              
               
                 In
                 our
                 great
                 projects
                 ,
                 both
                 'gainst
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 Earth
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 thanke
                 you
                 all
                 ,
                 but
                 one
                 must
                 single
                 out
                 ,
              
               
                 Cruelty
                 ,
                 she
                 alone
                 shall
                 cure
                 my
                 doubt
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 37.
                 
              
               
                 Fourth
                 of
                 the
                 cursed
                 knot
                 of
                 Hags
                 is
                 shee
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 rather
                 all
                 the
                 other
                 three
                 in
                 one
                 ;
              
               
                 Hells
                 shop
                 of
                 slaughter
                 shee
                 do's
                 oversee
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 assist
                 the
                 Execution
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 chiefly
                 there
                 do's
                 shee
                 delight
                 to
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Hells
                 capacious
                 Cauldron
                 is
                 set
                 on
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 while
                 the
                 black
                 soules
                 boile
                 in
                 their
                 owne
                 gore
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 hold
                 them
                 down
                 ,
                 and
                 looke
                 that
                 none
                 seethe
                 o're
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 38.
                 
              
               
                 Thr●ce
                 howl'd
                 the
                 Caves
                 of
                 Night
                 ,
                 and
                 thrice
                 the
                 sound
                 ,
              
               
                 Thundring
                 upon
                 the
                 bankes
                 of
                 those
                 black
                 lakes
              
               
                 Rung
                 ,
                 through
                 the
                 hollow
                 vaults
                 of
                 Hell
                 profound
                 :
              
               
                 At
                 last
                 her
                 l●stning
                 Eares
                 the
                 noise
                 o'retakes
                 ,
              
               
                 Shee
                 lifts
                 her
                 sooty
                 lampes
                 ,
                 and
                 looking
                 round
              
               
                 A
                 gen'rall
                 h●sse
                 ,
                 from
                 the
                 whole
                 Tire
                 of
                 snakes
              
               
                 Rebounding
                 ,
                 through
                 Hells
                 inmost
                 Cavernes
                 came
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 answer
                 to
                 her
                 formidable
                 Name
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 39.
                 
              
               
                 Mongst
                 all
                 the
                 Palaces
                 in
                 Hells
                 command
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 one
                 so
                 mercilesse
                 as
                 this
                 of
                 hers
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Adamantine
                 Doors
                 ,
                 for
                 ever
                 stand
              
               
                 Impenetrable
                 ,
                 both
                 to
                 prai'rs
                 and
                 Teares
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 walls
                 inexorable
                 steele
                 ,
                 no
                 hand
              
               
                 Of
                 Time
                 ,
                 or
                 Teeth
                 of
                 hungry
                 Ruine
                 feares
                 .
              
               
                 Their
                 ugly
                 ornaments
                 are
                 the
                 bloody
                 staines
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 ragged
                 limbs
                 ,
                 torne
                 sculls
                 ,
                 &
                 dasht
                 our
                 Braines
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 40.
                 
              
               
                 There
                 has
                 the
                 purple
                 Vengeance
                 a
                 proud
                 seat
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 ever-brandisht
                 Sword
                 is
                 sheath'd
                 in
                 blood
                 .
              
               
                 About
                 her
                 
                   Hate
                   ,
                   Wrath
                   ,
                   Warre
                
                 ,
                 and
                 slaughter
                 sweat
                 ;
              
               
                 Bathing
                 their
                 hot
                 limbs
                 in
                 life's
                 pretious
                 flood
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 rude
                 impetuous
                 Rage
                 do's
                 storme
                 ,
                 and
                 fret
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 ,
                 as
                 Master
                 of
                 this
                 murd'ring
                 brood
                 ,
              
               
                 Swinging
                 a
                 huge
                 Sith
                 stands
                 impartiall
                 Death
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 endlesse
                 businesse
                 almost
                 out
                 of
                 Breath
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 41.
                 
              
               
                 For
                 Hangings
                 and
                 for
                 Curtaines
                 ,
                 all
                 along
              
               
                 The
                 walls
                 ,
                 (
                 abominable
                 ornaments
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 Are
                 tooles
                 of
                 wrath
                 ,
                 Anvills
                 of
                 Torments
                 hung
                 ;
              
               
                 Fell
                 Executioners
                 of
                 foule
                 intents
                 ,
              
               
                 Nailes
                 ,
                 hammers
                 ,
                 hatchets
                 sharpe
                 ,
                 and
                 halters
                 strong
                 ,
              
               
                 Swords
                 ,
                 Speares
                 ,
                 with
                 all
                 the
                 fatall
                 Instruments
              
               
                 Of
                 sin
                 ,
                 and
                 Death
                 ,
                 twice
                 dipt
                 in
                 the
                 dire
                 staines
              
               
                 Of
                 Brothers
                 mutuall
                 blood
                 ,
                 and
                 Fathers
                 braines
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 42.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 Tables
                 furnisht
                 with
                 a
                 cursed
                 Feast
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Harpyes
                 ,
                 with
                 leane
                 Famine
                 feed
                 upon
                 ,
              
               
                 Vnfill'd
                 for
                 ever
                 .
                 Here
                 among
                 the
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 Inhumane
                 Erisi-●thon
                 too
                 makes
                 one
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   Tantalus
                   ,
                   Atreus
                   ,
                   Progne
                
                 ,
                 here
                 are
                 guests
                 :
              
               
                 Wolvish
                 Ly●aon
                 here
                 a
                 place
                 hath
                 won
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 cup
                 they
                 drinke
                 in
                 is
                 
                 Medusa's
                 scull
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 mixt
                 with
                 gall
                 &
                 blood
                 they
                 quaffe
                 brim
                 full
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 43.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 foule
                 Queens
                 most
                 abhorred
                 Maids
                 of
                 Honour
              
               
                 
                   Medaea
                   ,
                   Iezabell
                
                 ,
                 many
                 a
                 meager
                 Witch
              
               
                 With
                 
                   Circe
                   ,
                   Scylla
                
                 ,
                 stand
                 to
                 wait
                 upon
                 her
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 her
                 best
                 huswifes
                 are
                 the
                 Parcae
                 ,
                 which
              
               
                 Still
                 worke
                 for
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 have
                 their
                 wages
                 from
                 her
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 prick
                 a
                 bleeding
                 heart
                 at
                 every
                 stitch
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 cruell
                 cloathes
                 of
                 costly
                 threds
                 they
                 weave
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 short-cut
                 lives
                 of
                 murdred
                 Infants
                 leave
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 44.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 house
                 is
                 hers'd
                 about
                 with
                 a
                 black
                 wood
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 nods
                 with
                 many
                 a
                 heavy
                 headed
                 tree
                 .
              
               
                 Each
                 flowers
                 a
                 pregnant
                 poyson
                 ,
                 try'd
                 and
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 herbe
                 a
                 Plague
                 .
                 The
                 winds
                 sighes
                 timed-bee
              
               
                 By
                 a
                 black
                 Fount
                 ,
                 which
                 weeps
                 into
                 a
                 flood
                 .
              
               
                 Through
                 the
                 thick
                 shades
                 obscurely
                 might
                 you
                 see
              
               
                 
                   Minotaures
                   ,
                   Cyclopses
                
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 darke
                 drove
              
               
                 Of
                 
                   Dragons
                   ,
                   Hydraes
                   ,
                   Sphinxes
                
                 ,
                 fill
                 the
                 Grove
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 45.
                 
              
               
                 Here
                 Diomed's
                 Horses
                 ,
                 Phereus
                 dogs
                 appeare
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 the
                 fierce
                 Lyons
                 of
                 Therodamas
                 .
              
               
                 Eusiris
                 ha's
                 his
                 bloody
                 Altar
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 Here
                 Sylla
                 his
                 severest
                 prison
                 has
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Lestrigonians
                 here
                 their
                 Table
                 reare
                 ;
              
               
                 Here
                 strong
                 Procrustes
                 plants
                 his
                 Bed
                 of
                 Brasse
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 cruell
                 Scyron
                 boasts
                 his
                 bloody
                 rockes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hatefull
                 Schinis
                 his
                 so
                 feared
                 Oakes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 46.
                 
              
               
                 What
                 ever
                 Schemes
                 of
                 Blood
                 ,
                 fantastick
                 frames
              
               
                 Of
                 Death
                 Mezentius
                 ,
                 or
                 Geryon
                 drew
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   Phalaris
                   ,
                   Ochus
                   ,
                   Ezelinus
                
                 ,
                 names
              
               
                 Mighty
                 in
                 mischiefe
                 ,
                 with
                 dread
                 Nero
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 Here
                 are
                 they
                 all
                 ,
                 Here
                 all
                 the
                 swords
                 or
                 flames
              
               
                 Assyrian
                 Tyrants
                 ,
                 or
                 Egyptian
                 knew
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 was
                 the
                 House
                 ,
                 so
                 furnisht
                 was
                 the
                 Hall
                 ,
              
               
                 Whence
                 the
                 fourth
                 Fury
                 ,
                 answer'd
                 
                 Pluto's
                 call
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 47.
                 
              
               
                 Scarce
                 to
                 this
                 Monster
                 could
                 the
                 shady
                 King
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 horrid
                 summe
                 of
                 his
                 intentions
                 tell
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 shee
                 (
                 swift
                 as
                 the
                 momentary
                 wing
              
               
                 Of
                 lightning
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 words
                 he
                 spoke
                 )
                 left
                 Hell.
              
               
                 Shee
                 rose
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 her
                 to
                 our
                 world
                 did
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 Pale
                 proofe
                 of
                 her
                 fell
                 presence
                 ,
                 Th'
                 aire
                 too
                 well
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 chang'd
                 countenance
                 witnest
                 the
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 poore
                 fowles
                 intercepted
                 in
                 their
                 flight
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 48.
                 
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 saw
                 her
                 rise
                 ,
                 and
                 saw
                 Hell
                 in
                 the
                 sight
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 field
                 's
                 faire
                 Eyes
                 saw
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 saw
                 no
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 shut
                 their
                 flowry
                 lids
                 for
                 ever
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Winter
                 strow
                 her
                 way
                 ;
                 yea
                 ,
                 such
                 a
                 sore
              
               
                 Is
                 shee
                 to
                 Nature
                 ,
                 that
                 a
                 generall
                 fright
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 universall
                 palsie
                 spreading
                 o're
              
               
                 The
                 face
                 of
                 things
                 ,
                 from
                 her
                 dire
                 eyes
                 had
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 not
                 her
                 thick
                 Snakes
                 hid
                 them
                 from
                 the
                 Sun.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 49.
                 
              
               
                 Now
                 had
                 the
                 Night's
                 companion
                 from
                 her
                 den
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 all
                 the
                 busie
                 day
                 shee
                 close
                 doth
                 ly
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 her
                 soft
                 wing
                 wipt
                 from
                 the
                 browes
                 of
                 men
              
               
                 Day
                 's
                 sweat
                 ,
                 and
                 by
                 a
                 gentle
                 Tyranny
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sweet
                 oppression
                 ,
                 kindly
                 cheating
                 them
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 their
                 cares
                 ,
                 tam'd
                 the
                 rebellious
                 eye
              
               
                 Of
                 sorrow
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 soft
                 and
                 downy
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 Sealing
                 all
                 brests
                 in
                 a
                 Lethaean
                 band
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 50.
                 
              
               
                 When
                 the
                 Erinnys
                 her
                 black
                 pineons
                 spread
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 came
                 to
                 Bethlem
                 ,
                 where
                 the
                 cruell
                 King
              
               
                 Had
                 now
                 retyr'd
                 himselfe
                 ,
                 and
                 borrowed
              
               
                 His
                 Brest
                 a
                 while
                 from
                 care
                 's
                 unquiet
                 sting
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 as
                 at
                 Thebes
                 dire
                 feast
                 shee
                 shew'd
                 her
                 head
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 sulphur-breathed
                 Torches
                 brandishing
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 to
                 the
                 frighted
                 Palace
                 now
                 shee
                 comes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 soft
                 feet
                 searches
                 the
                 silent
                 roomes
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 51
              
               
                 By
                 Herod
                 —
                 now
                 was
                 borne
              
               
                 The
                 Scepter
                 ,
                 which
                 of
                 old
                 great
                 David
                 swaid
                 .
              
               
                 Whose
                 right
                 by
                 David's
                 image
                 so
                 long
                 worne
                 ,
              
               
                 Himselfe
                 a
                 stranger
                 to
                 ,
                 his
                 owne
                 had
                 made
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 the
                 head
                 of
                 Iudahs
                 house
                 quite
                 torne
              
               
                 The
                 Crowne
                 ,
                 for
                 which
                 upon
                 their
                 necks
                 he
                 laid
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 sad
                 yoake
                 ,
                 under
                 which
                 they
                 sigh'd
                 in
                 vaine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 looking
                 on
                 their
                 lost
                 state
                 sigh'd
                 againe
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 52
              
               
                 Vp
                 ,
                 through
                 the
                 spatious
                 Pallace
                 passed
                 she
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 where
                 the
                 Kings
                 proudly-reposed
                 head
              
               
                 (
                 If
                 any
                 can
                 be
                 soft
                 to
                 Tyranny
              
               
                 And
                 selfe-tormenting
                 sin
                 )
                 had
                 a
                 soft
                 bed
                 .
              
               
                 She
                 thinkes
                 not
                 fit
                 such
                 he
                 her
                 face
                 should
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 it
                 is
                 seene
                 by
                 Hell
                 ;
                 and
                 seene
                 with
                 dread
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 change
                 her
                 faces
                 stile
                 she
                 doth
                 devise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 a
                 pale
                 Ghost's
                 shape
                 to
                 spare
                 his
                 Eyes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 53
              
               
                 Her selfe
                 a
                 while
                 she
                 layes
                 a
                 side
                 ,
                 and
                 makes
              
               
                 Ready
                 to
                 personate
                 a
                 mortall
                 part
                 .
              
               
                 Ioseph
                 the
                 Kings
                 dead
                 Brothers
                 shape
                 she
                 takes
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 he
                 by
                 Nature
                 was
                 ,
                 is
                 she
                 by
                 Art.
              
               
                 She
                 comes
                 toth
                 '
                 King
                 and
                 with
                 her
                 cold
                 hand
                 slakes
              
               
                 His
                 Spirits
                 ,
                 the
                 Sparkes
                 of
                 Life
                 ,
                 and
                 chills
                 his
                 heart
                 ,
              
               
                 Lifes
                 forge
                 ;
                 fain'd
                 is
                 her
                 voice
                 ,
                 and
                 false
                 too
                 ,
                 be
                 she
                 said
              
               
                 Her
                 words
                 ,
                 sleep'st
                 thou
                 fond
                 man
                 ?
                 sleep'st
                 thou
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 54
              
               
                 So
                 sleeps
                 a
                 Pilot
                 ,
                 whose
                 poore
                 Barke
                 is
                 prest
              
               
                 With
                 many
                 a
                 mercylesse
                 o're
                 mastring
                 wave
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 whom
                 (
                 as
                 dead
                 )
                 the
                 wrathfull
                 winds
                 contest
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 of
                 them
                 deep'st
                 shall
                 digge
                 her
                 watry
                 Grave
                 .
              
               
                 Why
                 dost
                 thou
                 let
                 thy
                 brave
                 soule
                 lye
                 supprest
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Death-like
                 slumbers
                 ;
                 while
                 thy
                 dangers
                 crave
              
               
                 A
                 waking
                 eye
                 and
                 hand
                 ?
                 looke
                 up
                 and
                 see
              
               
                 The
                 fates
                 ripe
                 ,
                 in
                 their
                 great
                 conspiracy
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 55
              
               
                 Know'st
                 thou
                 not
                 how
                 of
                 th'
                 Hebrewes
                 royall
                 stemme
              
               
                 (
                 That
                 old
                 dry
                 stocke
                 )
                 a
                 despair'd
                 branch
                 is
                 sprung
              
               
                 A
                 most
                 strange
                 Babe
                 !
                 who
                 here
                 conceal'd
                 by
                 them
              
               
                 In
                 a
                 neglected
                 stable
                 lies
                 ,
                 among
              
               
                 Beasts
                 and
                 base
                 straw
                 :
                 Already
                 is
                 the
                 streame
              
               
                 Quite
                 turn'd
                 th'
                 ingratefull
                 Rebells
                 this
                 their
                 young
              
               
                 Master
                 (
                 with
                 voyce
                 free
                 as
                 the
                 Trumpe
                 of
                 Fame
                 )
              
               
                 Their
                 new
                 King
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Successour
                 proclaime
              
            
             
               
                 56
              
               
                 What
                 busy
                 motions
                 ,
                 what
                 wild
                 Engines
                 stand
              
               
                 On
                 tiptoe
                 in
                 their
                 giddy
                 Braynes
                 ?
                 th'
                 have
                 fire
              
               
                 Already
                 in
                 their
                 Bosomes
                 ;
                 and
                 their
                 hand
              
               
                 Al●eady
                 reaches
                 at
                 a
                 sword
                 :
                 They
                 hire
              
               
                 Poysons
                 to
                 speed
                 thee
                 ;
                 yet
                 through
                 all
                 the
                 Land
              
               
                 What
                 one
                 comes
                 to
                 reveale
                 what
                 they
                 conspire
                 ?
              
               
                 Goe
                 now
                 ,
                 make
                 much
                 of
                 these
                 ;
                 wage
                 still
                 their
                 wars
              
               
                 And
                 bring
                 home
                 on
                 thy
                 Brest
                 more
                 thanklesse
                 scarrs
                 ▪
              
            
             
               
               
                 57.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 did
                 I
                 spend
                 my
                 life
                 ,
                 and
                 spill
                 my
                 Blood
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 thy
                 firme
                 hand
                 for
                 ever
                 might
                 sustaine
              
               
                 A
                 well-pois'd
                 Scepter
                 ?
                 does
                 it
                 now
                 seeme
                 good
              
               
                 Thy
                 Brothers
                 blood
                 be-spilt
                 like
                 spent
                 in
                 vaine
                 ?
              
               
                 'Gainst
                 thy
                 owne
                 sons
                 and
                 Brothers
                 thou
                 hast
                 stood
              
               
                 In
                 Armes
                 ,
                 when
                 lesser
                 cause
                 was
                 to
                 complaine
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 crosse
                 Fates
                 a
                 watch
                 about
                 thee
                 keepe
                 ,
              
               
                 Can'st
                 thou
                 be
                 carelesse
                 now
                 ?
                 now
                 can'st
                 thou
                 sleep
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 58.
                 
              
               
                 Where
                 art
                 thou
                 man
                 ?
                 what
                 cowardly
                 mistake
              
               
                 Of
                 thy
                 great
                 selfe
                 ,
                 hath
                 stolne
                 King
                 Herod
                 from
                 thee
                 ?
              
               
                 O
                 call
                 thy selfe
                 home
                 to
                 thy selfe
                 ,
                 wake
                 ,
                 wake
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fence
                 the
                 hanging
                 sword
                 Heav'n
                 throws
                 upon
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 Redeeme
                 a
                 worthy
                 wrath
                 ,
                 rouse
                 thee
                 ,
                 and
                 shake
              
               
                 Thy selfe
                 into
                 a
                 shape
                 that
                 may
                 become
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 Be
                 Herod
                 ,
                 and
                 thou
                 shalt
                 not
                 misse
                 from
                 mee
              
               
                 Immortall
                 stings
                 to
                 thy
                 great
                 thoughts
                 ,
                 and
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 59.
                 
              
               
                 So
                 said
                 ,
                 her
                 richest
                 ,
                 which
                 to
                 her
                 wrist
              
               
                 For
                 a
                 beseeming
                 bracelet
                 shee
                 had
                 ty'd
              
               
                 (
                 A
                 speciall
                 Worme
                 it
                 was
                 as
                 ever
                 kist
              
               
                 The
                 foamy
                 lips
                 of
                 Cerberus
                 )
                 shee
                 apply'd
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Kings
                 Heart
                 ,
                 the
                 Snake
                 no
                 sooner
                 hist
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 vertue
                 heard
                 it
                 ,
                 and
                 away
                 shee
                 hy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Dire
                 flames
                 diffuse
                 themselves
                 through
                 every
                 veine
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 done
                 ,
                 Home
                 to
                 her
                 Hell
                 shee
                 hy'd
                 amaine
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 60.
                 
              
               
                 Hee
                 wakes
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 him
                 (
                 ne're
                 to
                 sleepe
                 )
                 new
                 feares
                 :
              
               
                 His
                 Sweat-bedewed
                 Bed
                 had
                 now
                 betrai'd
                 him
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 a
                 vast
                 field
                 of
                 thornes
                 ,
                 ten
                 thousand
                 Speares
              
               
                 All
                 pointed
                 in
                 his
                 heart
                 seem'd
                 to
                 invade
                 him
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 mighty
                 were
                 th'
                 amazing
                 Characters
              
               
                 With
                 which
                 his
                 feeling
                 Dreame
                 had
                 thus
                 dismay'd
                 him
                 ,
              
               
                 Hee
                 his
                 owne
                 fancy-framed
                 foes
                 defies
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 rage
                 ,
                 
                   My
                   armes
                   ,
                   give
                   me
                   my
                   armes
                   ,
                
                 hee
                 cryes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 61.
                 
              
               
                 As
                 when
                 a
                 Pile
                 of
                 food-preparing
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 breath
                 of
                 artificiall
                 lungs
                 embraves
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Caldron-prison'd
                 waters
                 streight
                 conspire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 beat
                 the
                 hot
                 Brasse
                 with
                 rebellious
                 waves
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 murmures
                 ,
                 and
                 rebukes
                 their
                 bold
                 desire
                 ;
              
               
                 Th'
                 impatient
                 liquor
                 ,
                 frets
                 ,
                 and
                 foames
                 ,
                 and
                 raves
                 ;
              
               
                 Till
                 his
                 o'reflowing
                 pride
                 suppresse
                 the
                 flame
                 ,
              
               
                 Whence
                 all
                 his
                 high
                 spirits
                 ,
                 and
                 hot
                 courage
                 came
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 62.
                 
              
               
                 So
                 boyles
                 the
                 fired
                 Herods
                 blood-swolne
                 brest
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 to
                 be
                 slakt
                 but
                 by
                 a
                 Sea
                 of
                 blood
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 faithlesse
                 Crowne
                 he
                 feeles
                 loose
                 on
                 his
                 Crest
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 on
                 false
                 Tyrants
                 head
                 ne're
                 firmly
                 stood
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 worme
                 of
                 jealous
                 envy
                 and
                 unrest
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 which
                 his
                 gnaw'd
                 heart
                 is
                 the
                 growing
                 food
              
               
                 Makes
                 him
                 impatient
                 of
                 the
                 lingring
                 light
                 .
              
               
                 Hate
                 the
                 sweet
                 peace
                 of
                 all-composing
                 Night
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 63.
                 
              
               
                 A
                 Thousand
                 Prophecies
                 that
                 talke
                 strange
                 things
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 sowne
                 of
                 old
                 these
                 doubts
                 in
                 his
                 deepe
                 brest
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 of
                 late
                 came
                 tributary
                 Kings
                 ,
              
               
                 Bringing
                 him
                 nothing
                 but
                 new
                 feares
                 from
                 th'
                 East
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 deepe
                 suspicions
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 deadly
                 stings
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 which
                 his
                 feav'rous
                 cares
                 their
                 cold
                 increast
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 his
                 dream
                 (
                 Hels
                 firebrand
                 )
                 stil
                 more
                 bright
                 ,
              
               
                 Shew'd
                 him
                 his
                 feares
                 ,
                 and
                 kill'd
                 him
                 with
                 the
                 sight
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 64.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 sooner
                 therefore
                 shall
                 the
                 Morning
                 see
              
               
                 (
                 Night
                 hangs
                 yet
                 heavy
                 on
                 the
                 lids
                 of
                 Day
                 )
              
               
                 But
                 all
                 his
                 Counsellours
                 must
                 summon'd
                 bee
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 meet
                 their
                 troubled
                 Lord
                 :
                 without
                 delay
              
               
                 Heralds
                 and
                 Messengers
                 immediately
              
               
                 Are
                 sent
                 about
                 ,
                 who
                 poasting
                 every
                 way
              
               
                 To
                 th'
                 heads
                 and
                 Officers
                 of
                 every
                 band
                 ;
              
               
                 Declare
                 who
                 sends
                 ,
                 and
                 what
                 is
                 his
                 command
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 65.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 art
                 thou
                 troubled
                 Herod
                 ?
                 what
                 vaine
                 feare
              
               
                 Thy
                 blood-revolving
                 Brest
                 to
                 rage
                 doth
                 move
                 ?
              
               
                 Heavens
                 King
                 ,
                 who
                 doffs
                 himselfe
                 weake
                 flesh
                 to
                 weare
                 ,
              
               
                 Comes
                 not
                 to
                 rule
                 in
                 wrath
                 ,
                 but
                 serve
                 in
                 love
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 would
                 he
                 this
                 thy
                 fear'd
                 Crown
                 from
                 thee
                 Teare
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 give
                 thee
                 a
                 better
                 with
                 himselfe
                 above
                 .
              
               
                 Poore
                 jealousie
                 !
                 why
                 should
                 he
                 wish
                 to
                 prey
              
               
                 Vpon
                 thy
                 Crowne
                 ,
                 who
                 gives
                 his
                 owne
                 away
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 66
              
               
                 Make
                 to
                 thy
                 reason
                 man
                 ;
                 and
                 mocke
                 thy
                 doubts
                 ,
              
               
                 Looke
                 how
                 below
                 thy
                 feares
                 their
                 causes
                 are
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 a
                 Souldier
                 Herod
                 ;
                 send
                 thy
                 Scouts
              
               
                 See
                 how
                 hee
                 's
                 furnish't
                 for
                 so
                 fear'd
                 a
                 warre
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 armour
                 does
                 he
                 weare
                 ?
                 A
                 few
                 thin
                 clouts
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 Trumpets
                 ?
                 tender
                 cryes
                 ,
                 his
                 men
                 to
                 dare
              
               
                 So
                 much
                 ?
                 rude
                 Shepheards
                 .
                 What
                 his
                 steeds
                 ?
                 alas
              
               
                 Poore
                 Beasts
                 !
                 a
                 slow
                 Oxe
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 simple
                 Asse
                 .
              
            
             
               Il
               fine
               del
               libro
               primo
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               On
               a
               prayer
               booke
               sent
               to
               Mrs.
               
                 M.
                 R.
              
               
            
             
               
                 LOe
                 here
                 a
                 little
                 volume
                 ,
                 but
                 large
                 booke
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Feare
                 it
                 not
                 ,
                 sweet
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 is
                 not
                 hipocrit
                 )
              
               
                 Much
                 larger
                 in
                 it selfe
                 then
                 in
                 its
                 looke
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 It
                 is
                 in
                 one
                 rich
                 handfull
                 ,
                 heaven
                 and
                 all
              
               
                 Heavens
                 royall
                 Hoasts
                 incampt
                 ,
                 thus
                 small
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 prove
                 that
                 true
                 schooles
                 use
                 to
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 Angells
                 in
                 one
                 point
                 can
                 dwell
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 It
                 is
                 loves
                 great
                 Artillery
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 here
                 contracts
                 it selfe
                 and
                 comes
                 to
                 lye
              
               
                 Close
                 coucht
                 in
                 your
                 white
                 bosome
                 ,
                 and
                 from
                 thence
              
               
                 As
                 from
                 a
                 snowy
                 fortresse
                 of
                 defence
              
               
                 Against
                 the
                 ghostly
                 foe
                 to
                 take
                 your
                 part
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 fortifie
                 the
                 hold
                 of
                 your
                 chast
                 heart
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 It
                 is
                 the
                 Armory
                 of
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 constant
                 use
                 but
                 keep
                 it
                 bright
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 l
                 find
                 it
                 yeelds
              
               
                 To
                 holy
                 hand
                 ,
                 and
                 humble
                 hearts
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 swords
                 and
                 sheilds
              
               
                 Then
                 sinne
                 hath
                 snares
                 ,
                 or
                 hell
                 hath
                 darts
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Onely
                 bee
                 sure
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 hands
                 bee
                 pure
                 ,
              
               
               
                 That
                 hold
                 these
                 weapons
                 and
                 the
                 eyes
              
               
                 Those
                 of
                 turtles
                 ,
                 chast
                 ,
                 and
                 true
                 ,
              
               
                 Wakefull
                 ,
                 and
                 wise
              
               
                 Here
                 is
                 a
                 friend
                 shall
                 fight
                 for
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 Hold
                 but
                 this
                 booke
                 before
                 your
                 heart
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 prayer
                 alone
                 to
                 play
                 his
                 part
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 o'
                 ,
                 the
                 heart
              
               
                 That
                 studyes
                 this
                 high
                 art
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 bee
                 a
                 sure
                 house
                 keeper
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 no
                 sleeper
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Deare
                 soule
                 bee
                 strong
                 ,
              
               
                 Mercy
                 will
                 come
                 ere
                 long
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bring
                 her
                 bosome
                 full
                 of
                 blessings
                 ,
              
               
                 Flowers
                 of
                 never
                 fading
                 graces
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 immortall
                 dressings
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 worthy
                 souls
                 whose
                 wise
                 embraces
              
               
                 Store
                 up
                 themselves
                 for
                 him
                 ,
                 who
                 is
                 alone
              
               
                 The
                 spouse
                 of
                 Virgins
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Virgins
                 son
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 if
                 the
                 noble
                 Bridegrome
                 when
                 hee
                 comes
              
               
                 Shall
                 find
                 the
                 wandring
                 heart
                 from
                 home
                 ,
              
               
                 Leaving
                 her
                 chast
                 abode
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 gad
                 abroad
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 Amongst
                 the
                 gay
                 mates
                 of
                 the
                 god
                 of
                 flyes
              
               
                 To
                 take
                 her
                 pleasures
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 play
              
               
                 And
                 keep
                 the
                 divells
                 holy
                 day
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 dance
                 in
                 the
                 Sunneshine
                 of
                 some
                 smiling
              
               
                 but
                 beguiling
                 .
              
               
               
                 Spheare
                 of
                 sweet
                 ,
                 and
                 sugred
                 lies
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 slippery
                 paire
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 false
                 perhaps
                 as
                 faire
              
               
                 Flattering
                 but
                 forswearing
                 eyes
              
            
             
               
                 Doubtles
                 some
                 other
                 heart
              
               
                 Will
                 git
                 the
                 start
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 stepping
                 in
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Will
                 take
                 possession
                 of
                 the
                 sacred
                 store
              
               
                 Of
                 hidden
                 sweets
                 ,
                 and
                 holy
                 joyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Words
                 which
                 are
                 not
                 heard
                 with
                 eares
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 These
                 tumultous
                 shops
                 of
                 noise
                 )
              
               
                 Effeactuall
                 whispers
                 whose
                 st●●l
                 voyce
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 soule
                 it selfe
                 more
                 feeles
                 then
                 heares
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Amorous
                 Languishments
                 ,
                 Luminous
                 trances
                 ,
              
               
                 Sights
                 which
                 are
                 not
                 seen
                 with
                 eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Spirituall
                 and
                 soule
                 peircing
                 glances
                 .
              
               
                 Whose
                 pure
                 and
                 subtle
                 lightning
                 ,
                 ●lies
              
               
                 Home
                 to
                 the
                 heart
                 ,
                 and
                 setts
                 the
                 house
                 on
                 fire
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 melts
                 it
                 downe
                 in
                 sweet
                 desire
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 doth
                 not
                 stay
              
               
                 To
                 aske
                 the
                 windowes
                 leave
                 ,
                 to
                 passe
                 that
                 way
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Delicious
                 deaths
                 ,
                 soft
                 exhalations
              
               
                 Of
                 soule
                 deare
                 ,
                 and
                 divine
                 annihilations
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 unknowne
                 rites
              
               
                 Of
                 joyes
                 ,
                 and
                 rarifyed
                 delights
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 An
                 hundred
                 thousand
                 loves
                 and
                 graces
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 many
                 a
                 misticke
                 thing
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 the
                 divine
                 embraces
              
               
                 Of
                 the
                 deare
                 spowse
                 of
                 spirits
                 with
                 them
                 will
                 bring
                 .
              
               
               
                 For
                 which
                 it
                 is
                 no
                 shame
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 dull
                 mortality
                 must
                 not
                 know
                 a
                 name
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Of
                 all
                 this
                 hidden
                 store
              
               
                 Of
                 blessing
                 ,
                 and
                 ten
                 thousand
                 more
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 when
                 hee
                 come
              
               
                 Hee
                 find
                 the
                 heart
                 from
                 home
                 ,
              
               
                 Doubtles
                 hee
                 will
                 unload
              
               
                 Himselfe
                 some
                 other
                 where
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 powre
                 abroad
              
               
                 His
                 precious
                 sweets
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 faire
                 soule
                 whom
                 first
                 hee
                 meets
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 O
                 faire
                 !
                 ô
                 fortunate
                 !
                 ô
                 rich
                 !
                 ô
                 deare
                 !
              
               
                 O
                 happy
                 and
                 thrice
                 happy
                 shee
              
               
                 Deare
                 silver
                 breasted
                 dove
              
               
                 Who
                 ere
                 shee
                 bee
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 early
                 Love
              
               
                 With
                 winged
                 vowes
                 ,
              
               
                 Makes
                 haste
                 to
                 meet
                 her
                 morning
                 spowse
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 close
                 with
                 his
                 immortall
                 kisses
                 .
              
               
                 Happy
                 soule
                 who
                 never
                 misses
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 improve
                 that
                 precious
                 houre
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 Seize
                 her
                 sweet
                 prey
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 fresh
                 and
                 fragrant
                 as
                 hee
                 rises
                 ,
              
               
                 Dropping
                 with
                 a
                 balmy
                 showre
              
               
                 A
                 delicious
                 dew
                 of
                 spices
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 O
                 let
                 that
                 happy
                 soule
                 hold
                 fast
              
               
                 Her
                 heavenly
                 armefull
                 ,
                 shee
                 shall
                 tast
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 ,
                 ten
                 thousand
                 paradises
              
               
                 Shee
                 shall
                 have
                 power
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 rifle
                 and
                 deflower
                 ,
              
               
               
                 The
                 rich
                 and
                 ros●all
                 spring
                 of
                 those
                 rare
                 sweets
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 with
                 a
                 swelling
                 bosome
                 there
                 shee
                 meets
                 ,
              
               
                 Boundlesse
                 and
                 infinite
                 —
              
               
                 —
                 bottomlesse
                 treasures
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 pure
                 inebriating
                 pleasures
                 ,
              
               
                 Happy
                 soule
                 shee
                 shall
                 discover
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 joy
                 ,
                 what
                 blisse
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 many
                 heavens
                 at
                 once
                 it
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 have
                 a
                 God
                 become
                 her
                 lover
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               On
               Mr.
               
                 G.
                 Herberts
              
               booke
               intituled
               the
               Temple
               of
               Sacred
               Poem
               ,
               sent
               to
               a
               Gentlewoman
               .
            
             
               KNow
               you
               faire
               ,
               on
               what
               you
               looke
               ;
            
             
               Divinest
               love
               lyes
               in
               this
               booke
               :
            
             
               Expecting
               fire
               from
               your
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               To
               kindle
               this
               his
               sacrifice
               .
            
             
               When
               your
               hands
               unty
               these
               strings
               ,
            
             
               Thinke
               you
               have
               an
               Angell
               by
               th'
               wings
               .
            
             
               One
               that
               gladly
               will
               bee
               nigh
               ,
            
             
               To
               wait
               upon
               each
               morning
               figh
               .
            
             
               To
               flutter
               in
               the
               balmy
               aire
               ,
            
             
               Of
               your
               well
               prefumed
               prayer
               .
            
             
               These
               white
               plumes
               of
               his
               heele
               lend
               you
               ,
            
             
               Which
               every
               day
               to
               heaven
               will
               send
               you
               :
            
             
               To
               take
               acquaintance
               of
               the
               spheare
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               smooth
               faced
               kindred
               there
               .
            
             
               And
               though
               Herberts
               name
               doe
               owe
            
             
               These
               devotions
               ,
               fairest
               ;
               know
            
             
               That
               while
               I
               lay
               them
               on
               the
               shrine
            
             
               Of
               your
               white
               hand
               ,
               they
               are
               mine
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               In
               memory
               of
               the
               Vertuous
               and
               Learned
               Lady
               Madre
               de
               Teresa
               that
               sought
               an
               early
               Martyrdome
               .
            
             
               
                 LOve
                 thou
                 art
                 absolute
                 ,
                 sole
                 Lord
              
               
                 Of
                 life
                 and
                 death
                 —
                 To
                 prove
                 the
                 word
                 ,
              
               
                 Wee
                 need
                 to
                 goe
                 to
                 none
                 of
                 all
              
               
                 Those
                 thy
                 old
                 souldiers
                 ,
                 stout
                 and
                 tall
              
               
                 Ripe
                 and
                 full
                 ,
                 growne
                 ,
                 that
                 could
                 reach
                 downe
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 strong
                 armes
                 their
                 triumphant
                 crowne
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 as
                 could
                 with
                 lusty
                 breath
                 ,
              
               
                 Speake
                 lowd
                 unto
                 the
                 face
                 of
                 death
              
               
                 Their
                 great
                 Lords
                 glorious
                 name
                 ,
                 to
                 none
              
               
                 Of
                 those
                 whose
                 large
                 breasts
                 built
                 a
                 throne
              
               
                 For
                 love
                 their
                 Lord
                 ,
                 glorious
                 and
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 Wee
                 ll
                 see
                 him
                 take
                 a
                 private
                 seat
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 his
                 mansion
                 in
                 the
                 milde
              
               
                 And
                 milky
                 soule
                 of
                 a
                 soft
                 childe
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Scarce
                 had
                 shee
                 learnt
                 to
                 lisp
                 a
                 name
              
               
                 Of
                 Martyr
                 ,
                 yet
                 shee
                 thinkes
                 it
                 shame
              
               
                 Life
                 should
                 so
                 long
                 play
                 with
                 that
                 breath
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 spent
                 can
                 buy
                 so
                 brave
                 a
                 death
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Shee
                 never
                 undertooke
                 to
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 death
                 with
                 love
                 should
                 have
                 to
                 doe
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 hath
                 shee
                 ere
                 yet
                 understood
                 .
              
               
                 Why
                 to
                 show
                 love
                 shee
                 should
                 shed
                 blood
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 though
                 shee
                 cannot
                 tell
                 you
                 why
                 ,
              
               
                 Shee
                 can
                 love
                 and
                 shee
                 can
                 dye
                 .
              
               
               
                 Scarce
                 had
                 shee
                 blood
                 enough
                 ,
                 to
                 make
              
               
                 A
                 guilty
                 sword
                 blush
                 for
                 her
                 sake
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 has
                 shee
                 a
                 heart
                 dares
                 hope
                 to
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 much
                 lesse
                 strong
                 is
                 death
                 then
                 love
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Bee
                 love
                 but
                 there
                 ,
                 let
                 poore
                 sixe
                 yeares
                 ,
              
               
                 Bee
                 posed
                 with
                 the
                 maturest
                 feares
              
               
                 Man
                 trembles
                 at
                 ,
                 wee
                 straight
                 shall
                 find
              
               
                 Love
                 knowes
                 no
                 nonage
                 ,
                 nor
                 the
                 mind
                 .
              
               
                 T
                 is
                 love
                 ,
                 not
                 yeares
                 ,
                 or
                 Limbes
                 ,
                 that
                 can
              
               
                 Make
                 the
                 martyr
                 or
                 the
                 man.
              
               
                 Love
                 toucht
                 her
                 heart
                 ,
                 and
                 loe
                 it
                 beats
              
               
                 High
                 ,
                 and
                 burnes
                 with
                 such
                 brave
                 heats
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 thirst
                 to
                 dye
                 ,
                 as
                 dare
                 drinke
                 up
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 coled
                 deaths
                 in
                 one
                 cup.
              
               
                 Good
                 reason
                 for
                 shee
                 breaths
                 all
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 weake
                 breast
                 heaves
                 with
                 strong
                 desire
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 what
                 shee
                 may
                 with
                 fruitlesse
                 wishes
              
               
                 Seeke
                 for
                 ,
                 amongst
                 her
                 mothers
                 kisses
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Since
                 t
                 is
                 not
                 to
                 bee
                 had
                 at
                 home
                 ,
              
               
                 Shee
                 l
                 travell
                 to
                 a
                 martyrdome
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 home
                 for
                 her
                 confesses
                 shee
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 where
                 shee
                 may
                 A
                 martyr
                 bee
                 .
              
               
                 Shee
                 l
                 to
                 the
                 Moores
                 ,
                 and
                 trade
                 with
                 them
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 this
                 unvalued
                 Diadem
                 ,
              
               
                 Shee
                 offers
                 them
                 her
                 dearest
                 breath
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Christs
                 name
                 ●nt
                 ,
                 in
                 change
                 for
                 death
                 .
              
               
                 Shee
                 l
                 bargain
                 with
                 them
                 ,
                 and
                 will
                 give
              
               
                 Them
                 God
                 ,
                 and
                 teach
                 them
                 how
                 to
                 live
              
               
                 In
                 him
                 ,
                 or
                 if
                 they
                 this
                 denye
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 him
                 shee
                 l
                 teach
                 them
                 how
                 to
                 dye
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 shall
                 shee
                 leave
                 amongst
                 them
                 sowne
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 Lords
                 blood
                 ,
                 or
                 at
                 lest
                 her
                 owne
                 .
              
               
               
                 Farewell
                 then
                 all
                 the
                 world
                 ,
                 adeiu
                 ,
              
               
                 Teresa
                 is
                 no
                 more
                 for
                 you
                 :
              
               
                 Farewell
                 all
                 pleasures
                 ,
                 sports
                 and
                 joyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Never
                 till
                 now
                 esteemed
                 toyes
                 .
              
               
                 Farewell
                 what
                 ever
                 deare
                 may
                 bee
                 ,
              
               
                 Mothers
                 armes
                 ,
                 or
                 fathers
                 knee
                 .
              
               
                 Farewell
                 house
                 ,
                 and
                 farwell
                 home
                 :
              
               
                 Shee
                 s
                 for
                 the
                 Moores
                 and
                 Martyrdome
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sweet
                 not
                 so
                 fast
                 ,
                 Loe
                 thy
                 faire
                 spouse
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 thou
                 seek'st
                 with
                 so
                 swift
                 vowes
              
               
                 Calls
                 thee
                 back
                 ,
                 and
                 bi●s
                 thee
                 como
                 ,
              
               
                 T'
                 embrace
                 a
                 milder
                 Martyrdome
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Blest
                 powers
                 forbid
                 thy
                 tender
                 life
                 ,
              
               
                 Should
                 bleed
                 upon
                 a
                 barbarous
                 knife
                 .
              
               
                 Or
                 some
                 base
                 hand
                 have
                 power
                 to
                 race
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Breasts
                 chast
                 cabinet
                 ;
                 and
                 uncase
              
               
                 A
                 soule
                 kept
                 there
                 so
                 sweet
                 .
                 O
                 no
                 ,
              
               
                 Wise
                 heaven
                 will
                 never
                 have
                 it
                 so
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 Loves
                 victim
                 ,
                 and
                 must
                 dye
              
               
                 A
                 death
                 more
                 misticall
                 and
                 high
                 .
              
               
                 Into
                 Loves
                 hand
                 thou
                 shalt
                 let
                 fall
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 still
                 surviving
                 funerall
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 His
                 is
                 the
                 dart
                 must
                 make
                 the
                 death
              
               
                 Whose
                 stroake
                 shall
                 taste
                 thy
                 hallowed
                 breath
                 ▪
              
               
                 A
                 dart
                 thrice
                 dipt
                 in
                 that
                 rich
                 Hame
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 writes
                 thy
                 spowses
                 radiant
                 name
                 ▪
              
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 roofe
                 of
                 heaven
                 where
                 ay
              
               
                 It
                 shines
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 a
                 soveraigne
                 ray
                 ,
              
               
                 Beats
                 bright
                 upon
                 the
                 burning
                 faces
              
               
                 Of
                 soules
                 ,
                 which
                 in
                 that
                 names
                 sweet
                 graces
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Find
                 everlasting
                 smiles
                 .
                 So
                 rare
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 spirituall
                 ,
                 pure
                 and
                 faire
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 be
                 the
                 immortall
                 instrument
                 ,
              
               
                 Vpon
                 whose
                 choice
                 point
                 shall
                 be
                 spent
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 life
                 so
                 loved
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 there
                 bee
              
               
                 Fit
                 executioners
                 for
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 fairest
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 first
                 borne
                 Loves
                 of
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Blest
                 Seraphims
                 shall
                 leave
                 their
                 quire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 turne
                 Loves
                 souldiers
                 upon
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 exercise
                 their
                 Archerie
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 O
                 how
                 oft
                 shalt
                 thou
                 complaine
              
               
                 Of
                 a
                 sweet
                 and
                 subtile
                 paine
                 ?
              
               
                 Of
                 intollerable
                 joyes
                 ?
              
               
                 Of
                 a
                 death
                 in
                 which
                 who
                 dyes
              
               
                 Loves
                 his
                 death
                 ,
                 and
                 dyes
                 againe
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 would
                 for
                 ever
                 so
                 be
                 slaine
                 !
              
               
                 And
                 lives
                 and
                 dyes
                 ,
                 and
                 knowes
                 not
                 why
              
               
                 To
                 live
                 ,
                 but
                 that
                 he
                 still
                 may
                 dy
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 How
                 kindly
                 will
                 thy
                 gentle
                 heart
                 ,
              
               
                 Kisse
                 the
                 sweetly
                 —
                 killing
                 dart
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 close
                 in
                 his
                 embraces
                 keep
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 delicious
                 wounds
                 that
                 weep
              
               
                 Balsome
                 ,
                 to
                 heale
                 themselves
                 with
                 —
              
               
                 —
                 thus
              
               
                 When
                 these
                 thy
                 deaths
                 so
                 numerous
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 all
                 at
                 last
                 dye
                 into
                 one
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 melt
                 thy
                 soules
                 sweet
                 mansion
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 a
                 soft
                 lumpe
                 of
                 Incense
                 ,
                 hasted
              
               
                 By
                 too
                 hot
                 a
                 fire
                 ,
                 and
                 wasted
                 ,
              
               
                 Into
                 perfuming
                 cloudes
                 .
                 So
                 fast
              
               
                 Shalt
                 thou
                 exhale
                 to
                 heaven
                 at
                 last
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 a
                 disolving
                 sigh
                 ,
                 and
                 then
              
               
                 O
                 what
                 !
                 aske
                 not
                 the
                 tongues
                 of
                 men
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Angells
                 cannot
                 tell
                 ,
                 suffice
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy selfe
                 that
                 feel
                 thine
                 owne
                 full
                 joyes
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 hold
                 them
                 fast
                 for
                 ever
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 soone
                 as
                 thou
                 shalt
                 first
                 appeare
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 moone
                 of
                 maiden
                 starres
                 ;
                 thy
                 white
              
               
                 Mistresse
                 attended
                 by
                 such
                 bright
              
               
                 Soules
                 as
                 thy
                 shining
                 selfe
                 ,
                 shall
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 her
                 first
                 rankes
                 make
                 thee
                 roome
                 .
              
               
                 Where
                 mongst
                 her
                 snowy
                 family
                 ,
              
               
                 Immortall
                 wellcomes
                 wait
                 on
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 what
                 delight
                 when
                 shee
                 shall
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 teach
                 thy
                 Lipps
                 heaven
                 ,
                 w●th
                 her
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 which
                 thou
                 now
                 maist
                 to
                 thy
                 wishes
                 ,
              
               
                 Heap
                 up
                 thy
                 consecrated
                 kisses
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 joy
                 shall
                 seize
                 thy
                 soule
                 when
                 shee
              
               
                 Bending
                 her
                 blessed
                 eyes
                 ,
                 on
                 thee
              
               
                 Those
                 second
                 smiles
                 of
                 heaven
                 shall
                 dart
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 mild
                 rayes
                 ,
                 through
                 thy
                 melting
                 heart
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 Ange●ls
                 thy
                 old
                 friends
                 there
                 shall
                 greet
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Glad
                 at
                 their
                 owne
                 home
                 now
                 to
                 meet
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 thy
                 good
                 workes
                 which
                 went
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 waited
                 for
                 thee
                 at
                 the
                 doore
                 :
              
               
                 Shall
                 owne
                 thee
                 there
                 :
                 and
                 all
                 in
                 one
              
               
                 Weave
                 a
                 Constellation
              
               
                 Of
                 Crownes
                 ,
                 with
                 which
                 the
                 King
                 thy
                 spouse
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 build
                 up
                 thy
                 triumphant
                 browes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 All
                 thy
                 old
                 woes
                 shall
                 now
                 smile
                 on
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thy
                 pains
                 set
                 bright
                 upon
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 thy
                 sorrows
                 here
                 shall
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thy
                 sufferings
                 bee
                 devine
                 .
              
               
                 Teares
                 shall
                 take
                 comfort
                 ,
                 and
                 turne
                 Gems
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 wrongs
                 repent
                 to
                 diadems
                 .
              
               
                 Even
                 thy
                 deaths
                 shall
                 live
                 ,
                 and
                 new
              
               
                 Drosse
                 the
                 soule
                 ,
                 which
                 late
                 they
                 slew
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thy
                 wounds
                 shall
                 blush
                 to
                 such
                 bright
                 scarres
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 keep
                 account
                 of
                 the
                 Lambes
                 warres
              
            
             
               
                 Those
                 rare
                 workes
                 ,
                 where
                 thou
                 shalt
                 leave
                 witt
                 ,
              
               
                 Loves
                 noble
                 history
                 ,
                 with
                 witt
              
               
                 Taught
                 thee
                 by
                 none
                 but
                 him
                 ,
                 while
                 here
              
               
                 They
                 feed
                 our
                 soules
                 ,
                 shall
                 cloath
                 thine
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 Each
                 heavenly
                 word
                 ,
                 by
                 whose
                 hid
                 flame
              
               
                 Our
                 hard
                 hearts
                 shall
                 strike
                 fire
                 ,
                 the
                 same
              
               
                 Shall
                 flourish
                 on
                 thy
                 browes
                 ;
                 and
                 bee
              
               
                 Both
                 fire
                 to
                 us
                 ,
                 and
                 flame
                 to
                 thee
                 :
              
               
                 Whose
                 light
                 shall
                 live
                 bright
                 ,
                 in
                 thy
                 face
              
               
                 By
                 glory
                 ,
                 in
                 our
                 hearts
                 by
                 grace
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thou
                 shalt
                 looke
                 round
                 about
                 ,
                 and
                 see
              
               
                 Thousand
                 of
                 crownd
                 soules
                 ,
                 throng
                 to
                 bee
              
               
                 Themselves
                 thy
                 crowne
                 ,
                 sonnes
                 of
                 thy
                 nowes
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Virgin
                 births
                 with
                 which
                 thy
                 spowse
              
               
                 Made
                 fruitfull
                 thy
                 faire
                 soule
                 ;
                 Goe
                 now
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 them
                 all
                 about
                 thee
                 ,
                 bow
              
               
                 To
                 him
                 ,
                 put
                 on
                 (
                 heel
                 say
                 )
                 put
                 on
              
               
                 My
                 Rosy
                 Love
                 ,
                 that
                 thy
                 rich
                 Zone
                 ,
              
               
                 Sparkeling
                 with
                 the
                 sacred
                 Hames
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 thousand
                 soules
                 whose
                 happy
                 names
                 ,
              
               
                 Heaven
                 keeps
                 upon
                 thy
                 score
                 thy
                 bright
              
               
                 Life
                 ,
                 brought
                 them
                 first
                 to
                 kisse
                 the
                 light
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 kindled
                 them
                 to
                 starres
                 ,
                 and
                 so
              
               
                 Thou
                 with
                 the
                 Lambe
                 thy
                 Lord
                 shall
                 goe
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 where
                 so
                 e're
                 hee
                 sitts
                 his
                 white
              
               
                 Steps
                 ,
                 walke
                 with
                 him
                 those
                 wayes
                 of
                 Light.
              
               
                 Which
                 who
                 in
                 death
                 would
                 live
                 to
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 learne
                 in
                 life
                 to
                 dye
                 like
                 thee
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               An
               Apologie
               for
               the
               precedent
               Hymne
               .
            
             
               THus
               have
               I
               back
               againe
               to
               thy
               bright
               name
            
             
               Faire
               sea
               of
               holy
               fires
               transfused
               the
               flame
            
             
               I
               tooke
               from
               reading
               thee
               't
               is
               to
               thy
               wrong
            
             
               I
               know
               that
               in
               my
               weak
               and
               worthlesse
               song
            
             
               Thou
               here
               art
               set
               to
               shine
               ,
               where
               thy
               full
               day
            
             
               Scarce
               dawnes
               ,
               ô
               pardon
               ,
               if
               I
               dare
               to
               say
            
             
               Thine
               own
               deare
               books
               are
               guilty
               ,
               for
               from
               thence
            
             
               I
               learnt
               to
               know
               that
               Love
               is
               eloquence
            
             
               That
               heavenly
               maxim
               gave
               me
               heart
               to
               try
            
             
               If
               what
               to
               other
               tongues
               is
               tun'd
               so
               high
               .
            
             
               Thy
               praise
               might
               not
               speak
               English
               too
               ,
               forbid
            
             
               (
               by
               all
               thy
               mysteries
               that
               there
               lye
               hid
               ;
               )
            
             
               Forbid
               it
               mighty
               Love
               ,
               let
               no
               fond
               hate
            
             
               Of
               names
               and
               words
               so
               farre
               prejudicate
            
             
               Soules
               are
               not
               Spaniards
               too
               ,
               one
               frendly
               flood
            
             
               Of
               Baptisme
               ,
               blends
               them
               all
               into
               one
               blood
               .
            
             
               Christs
               Faith
               makes
               but
               one
               body
               of
               all
               soules
               ,
            
             
               And
               loves
               that
               bodies
               soule
               ;
               no
               Law
               controules
            
             
               Our
               free
               trafick
               for
               heaven
               we
               may
               maintaine
               ,
            
             
               Peace
               sure
               with
               piety
               ,
               though
               it
               dwell
               in
               Spaine
               .
            
             
               What
               soule
               soever
               in
               any
               Language
               can
            
             
               Speake
               heaven
               like
               hers
               ,
               is
               my
               soules
               country-man
               .
            
             
               O
               't
               is
               not
               Spanish
               ,
               but
               't
               is
               heaven
               she
               speakes
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               heaven
               that
               lies
               in
               ambush
               there
               ,
               and
               breakes
            
             
               From
               thence
               into
               the
               wondring
               readers
               breast
               ,
            
             
               Who
               finds
               his
               warme
               heart
               ,
               hatcht
               into
               a
               nest
            
             
               Of
               little
               Eagles
               ,
               and
               young
               Loves
               ,
               whose
               high
            
             
               Flights
               scorne
               the
               lazie
               dust
               ,
               and
               things
               that
               dye
               .
            
             
             
               There
               are
               enow
               whose
               draughts
               as
               deep
               as
               hell
            
             
               Drinke
               up
               all
               Spaine
               in
               Sack
               ,
               let
               my
               soule
               swell
            
             
               With
               thee
               strong
               wine
               of
               Love
               ,
               let
               others
               swimme
            
             
               In
               puddles
               ,
               we
               will
               pledge
               this
               Seraphim
            
             
               Bowles
               full
               of
               richer
               blood
               then
               blush
               of
               grape
            
             
               Was
               ever
               guilty
               of
               ,
               change
               wee
               our
               shape
               ,
            
             
               My
               soule
               ,
               some
               drinke
               from
               men
               to
               beasts
               ;
               ô
               then
               ,
            
             
               Drinke
               wee
               till
               we
               prove
               more
               ,
               not
               lesse
               then
               men
               :
            
             
               And
               turne
               not
               beasts
               ,
               but
               Angels
               .
               Let
               the
               King
               ,
            
             
               Mee
               ever
               into
               these
               his
               Cellars
               bring
               ;
            
             
               Where
               flowes
               such
               Wine
               as
               we
               can
               have
               of
               none
            
             
               But
               him
               ,
               who
               trod
               the
               Wine-presse
               all
               alone
               :
            
             
               Wine
               of
               youths
               Life
               ,
               and
               the
               sweet
               deaths
               of
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Wine
               of
               immortall
               mixture
               ,
               which
               can
               prove
            
             
               Its
               tincture
               from
               the
               Rosie
               Nectar
               ,
               wine
            
             
               That
               can
               exalt
               weak
               earth
               ,
               and
               so
               refine
            
             
               Our
               dust
               ,
               that
               in
               one
               draught
               ,
               Mortality
            
             
               May
               drinke
               it selfe
               up
               ,
               and
               forget
               to
               dy
               .
            
          
           
             
               On
               a
               Treatise
               of
               Charity
               .
            
             
               RIse
               then
               ,
               immortall
               maid
               !
               Religion
               rise
               !
            
             
               Put
               on
               thy selfe
               in
               thine
               own
               looks
               :
               t'
               our
               eyes
            
             
               Be
               what
               thy
               beauties
               ,
               not
               our
               blots
               ,
               have
               made
               thee
               ,
            
             
               Such
               as
               (
               e're
               our
               dark
               sinnes
               to
               dust
               betray'd
               thee
               )
            
             
               Heav'n
               set
               thee
               down
               new
               drest
               ;
               when
               thy
               bright
               birth
            
             
               Shot
               thee
               like
               lightning
               ,
               to
               th'astonisht
               earth
               .
            
             
               From
               th'
               dawn
               of
               thy
               faire
               eye-lids
               wipe
               away
            
             
               Dull
               mists
               and
               melancholy
               clouds
               :
               take
               day
            
             
               And
               thine
               owne
               beames
               about
               thee
               :
               bring
               the
               best
            
             
               Of
               whatsoe're
               perfum'd
               thy
               
                 Eastern
                 west
              
               .
            
             
               Girt
               all
               thy
               glories
               to
               thee
               :
               then
               sit
               down
               ,
            
             
               Open
               this
               booke
               ,
               faire
               Queen
               ,
               
                 and
                 take
                 thy
                 crown
              
               .
            
             
             
               These
               learned
               leaves
               shall
               vindicate
               to
               thee
            
             
               Thy
               holyest
               ,
               humblest
               ,
               handmaid
               Charitie
               .
            
             
               Sh'l
               dresse
               thee
               like
               thy selfe
               ,
               set
               thee
               on
               high
            
             
               Where
               thou
               shalt
               reach
               all
               hearts
               ,
               command
               each
               eye
               ▪
            
             
               Lo
               where
               I
               see
               thy
               offrings
               wake
               ,
               and
               rise
            
             
               From
               the
               pale
               dust
               of
               that
               strange
               sacrifice
            
             
               Which
               they
               themselves
               were
               ;
               each
               one
               putting
               on
            
             
               A
               majestie
               that
               may
               beseem
               thy
               throne
               .
            
             
               The
               holy
               youth
               of
               heav'n
               ,
               whose
               golden
               rings
            
             
               Girt
               round
               thy
               awfull
               Altars
               ,
               with
               bright
               wings
            
             
               Fanning
               thy
               faire
               locks
               (
               which
               the
               world
               beleeves
            
             
               As
               much
               as
               sees
               )
               shall
               with
               these
               sacred
               leaves
            
             
               Trick
               their
               tall
               plumes
               ,
               and
               in
               that
               garb
               shall
               go
            
             
               If
               not
               more
               glorious
               ,
               more
               conspicuous
               tho
               .
            
             
               —
               Be
               it
               enacted
               then
            
             
               By
               the
               faire
               lawes
               of
               thy
               firm-pointed
               pen
               ,
            
             
               Gods
               services
               no
               longer
               shall
               put
               on
            
             
               
                 A
                 sluttishnesse
              
               ,
               for
               
                 pure
                 religion
              
               :
            
             
               No
               longer
               shall
               our
               Churches
               frighted
               stones
            
             
               Lie
               scatter'd
               like
               the
               burnt
               and
               martyr'd
               bones
            
             
               Of
               dead
               Devotion
               ;
               nor
               faint
               marbles
               weep
            
             
               In
               their
               sad
               ruines
               ;
               nor
               Religion
               keep
            
             
               A
               melancholy
               mansion
               in
               those
               cold
            
             
               Vrns.
               Like
               Gods
               Sanctuaries
               they
               lookt
               of
               old
               :
            
             
               Now
               seem
               they
               Temples
               consecrate
               to
               none
               ,
            
             
               Or
               to
               a
               new
               God
               Desolation
               .
            
             
               No
               more
               the
               hypocrite
               shall
               th'
               upright
               be
            
             
               Because
               he
               's
               stiffe
               ,
               and
               will
               confesse
               no
               knee
               :
            
             
               While
               others
               bend
               their
               knee
               ,
               no
               more
               shalt
               thou
            
             
               (
               Disdainfull
               dust
               and
               ashes
               )
               bend
               thy
               brow
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               on
               Gods
               Altar
               cast
               
                 two
                 scorching
                 eyes
              
            
             
               Bak't
               in
               hot
               scorn
               ,
               for
               
                 a
                 burnt
                 sacrifice
              
               :
            
             
               But
               (
               for
               a
               Lambe
               )
               thy
               tame
               and
               tender
               heart
            
             
               New
               struck
               by
               love
               ,
               still
               trembling
               on
               his
               dart
               ;
            
             
               Or
               (
               for
               two
               
                 Turtle
                 doves
              
               )
               it
               shall
               suffice
            
             
               To
               bring
               a
               paire
               of
               meek
               and
               humble
               eyes
               .
            
             
             
               This
               shall
               from
               hence-forth
               be
               the
               masculine
               theme
            
             
               Pulpits
               and
               pennes
               shall
               sweat
               in
               ;
               to
               ●edeem
            
             
               Vertue
               to
               action
               ,
               that
               life-feeding
               flame
            
             
               That
               keeps
               Religion
               warme
               :
               not
               swell
               
                 a
                 name
              
            
             
               Of
               faith
               ,
               
                 a
                 mountaine
                 word
              
               ,
               made
               up
               of
               aire
               ,
            
             
               With
               those
               deare
               spoiles
               that
               wont
               to
               dresse
               the
               faire
            
             
               And
               fruitfull
               Charities
               full
               breasts
               (
               of
               old
               )
            
             
               Turning
               her
               out
               to
               tremble
               in
               the
               cold
               .
            
             
               What
               can
               the
               poore
               hope
               from
               us
               ,
               when
               we
               be
            
             
               Vncharitable
               ev'n
               to
               Charitie
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               In
               Picturam
               Reverendissimi
               Episcopi
               ,
               
                 D.
                 Andrews
              
               .
            
             
               HAec
               charta
               monstrat
               ,
               Fama
               quem
               monstrat
               magis
               ,
            
             
               Sed
               &
               ipsa
               nec
               dum
               fama
               quem
               monstrat
               satis
               ,
            
             
               Ille
               ,
               ille
               totam
               solus
               implevit
               Tubani
               ,
            
             
               Tot
               ora
               solus
               domuit
               &
               famam
               quoque
            
             
               Fecit
               modestam
               :
               ment
               is
               igneae
               pater
            
             
               Agilique
               radio
               Lucis
               aelernae
               vigil
               ,
            
             
               Per
               alta
               rerum
               pondera
               indomito
               Vagus
            
             
               Cucurrit
               Animo
               ,
               quippe
               naturam
               ferox
            
             
               Exhausit
               ipsam
               mille
               Foelus
               Artibus
               ,
            
             
               Et
               mille
               Linguis
               ipse
               se
               ingentes
               procul
            
             
               Variavit
               omnes
               fuitque
               toti
               simul
            
             
               Cognatus
               orbi
               :
               sic
               sacrum
               &
               solidum
               jubar
            
             
               Saturumque
               coelo
               pectus
               ad
               patrios
               Libens
            
             
               Porrexit
               ignes
               :
               hac
               eum
               (
               Lector
               )
               vides
            
             
               Haec
               (
               ecce
               )
               charta
               O
               Vtinam
               &
               audires
               quoque
               
            
          
           
             
             
               On
               the
               Assumption
               .
            
             
               
                 HArke
                 shee
                 is
                 called
                 ,
                 the
                 parting
                 houre
                 is
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 Take
                 thy
                 farewel
                 poore
                 world
                 ,
                 heaven
                 must
                 go
                 home
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 peece
                 of
                 heavenly
                 Light
                 purer
                 and
                 brighter
              
               
                 Then
                 the
                 chast
                 stars
                 ,
                 whose
                 choice
                 Lamps
                 come
                 to
                 light
                 her
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 through
                 the
                 christall
                 orbs
                 clearer
                 then
                 they
              
               
                 Shee
                 climbes
                 ,
                 and
                 makes
                 a
                 farre
                 more
                 milky
                 way
                 ;
              
               
                 Shee
                 's
                 call'd
                 againe
                 ,
                 harke
                 how
                 th'
                 immortall
                 Dove
              
               
                 Sighs
                 to
                 his
                 silver
                 mate
                 :
                 rise
                 up
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 Rise
                 up
                 my
                 faire
                 ,
                 my
                 spotlesse
                 one
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Winter
                 's
                 past
                 ,
                 the
                 raine
                 is
                 gone
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Spring
                 is
                 come
                 ,
                 the
                 Flowers
                 appeare
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 sweets
                 since
                 thou
                 art
                 wanting
                 here
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Come
                 away
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 Come
                 away
                 my
                 Dove
              
               
                 cast
                 off
                 delay
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Court
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 is
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 wait
                 upon
                 thee
                 home
                 ;
              
               
                 Come
                 away
                 ,
                 come
                 away
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Shee
                 's
                 call'd
                 againe
                 ,
                 and
                 will
                 shee
                 goe
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 heaven
                 bids
                 come
                 ,
                 who
                 can
                 say
                 no
                 ?
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 calls
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 she
                 must
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 Heaven
                 will
                 not
                 ,
                 and
                 she
                 cannot
                 stay
                 .
              
               
                 Goe
                 then
                 ,
                 goe
                 (
                 glorious
                 )
                 on
                 the
                 golden
                 wings
              
               
                 Of
                 the
                 bright
                 youth
                 of
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 that
                 sings
              
               
                 Vnder
                 so
                 sweet
                 a
                 burden
                 :
                 goe
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 thy
                 great
                 Sonne
                 will
                 have
                 it
                 so
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 while
                 thou
                 goest
                 ,
                 our
                 song
                 and
                 wee
                 ,
              
               
                 Will
                 as
                 wee
                 may
                 reach
                 after
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 Haile
                 holy
                 Queen
                 of
                 humble
                 hearts
                 ,
              
               
                 Wee
                 in
                 thy
                 praise
                 will
                 have
                 our
                 parts
                 .
              
               
               
                 And
                 though
                 thy
                 dearest
                 looks
                 must
                 now
                 be
                 light
              
               
                 To
                 none
                 but
                 the
                 blest
                 heavens
                 ,
                 whose
                 bright
              
               
                 Beholders
                 lost
                 in
                 sweet
                 delight
                 ;
              
               
                 Feed
                 for
                 ever
                 their
                 faire
                 sight
              
               
                 With
                 those
                 divinest
                 eyes
                 ,
                 which
                 wee
              
               
                 And
                 our
                 darke
                 world
                 no
                 more
                 shall
                 see
                 .
              
               
                 Though
                 ,
                 our
                 poore
                 joyes
                 are
                 parted
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 shall
                 our
                 lips
                 never
                 let
                 goe
              
               
                 Thy
                 gracious
                 name
                 ,
                 but
                 to
                 the
                 last
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Loving
                 song
                 shall
                 hold
                 it
                 fast
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thy
                 sacred
                 Name
                 shall
                 bee
              
               
                 Thy selfe
                 to
                 us
                 ,
                 and
                 wee
              
               
                 With
                 holy
                 cares
                 will
                 keepe
                 it
                 by
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 Wee
                 to
                 the
                 last
                 ,
              
               
                 Will
                 hold
                 it
                 fast
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 no
                 Assumption
                 shall
                 deny
                 us
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 sweetest
                 showers
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 our
                 fairest
                 Flowers
                 ,
              
               
                 Will
                 wee
                 strow
                 upon
                 it
                 :
              
               
                 Though
                 our
                 sweetnesse
                 cannot
                 make
              
               
                 It
                 sweeter
                 ,
                 they
                 may
                 take
              
               
                 Themselves
                 new
                 sweetnesse
                 from
                 it
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mary
                 ,
                 men
                 and
                 Angels
                 sing
                 ,
              
               
                 Maria
                 Mother
                 of
                 our
                 King.
              
               
                 Live
                 rarest
                 Princesse
                 ,
                 and
                 may
                 the
                 bright
              
               
                 Crown
                 of
                 an
                 incomparable
                 Light
              
               
                 Embrace
                 thy
                 radiant
                 browes
                 ,
                 ô
                 may
                 the
                 best
              
               
                 Of
                 everlasting
                 joyes
                 bath
                 thy
                 white
                 brest
                 .
              
               
                 Live
                 our
                 chaste
                 love
                 ,
                 the
                 holy
                 mirth
              
               
                 Of
                 heaven
                 ,
                 and
                 humble
                 pride
                 of
                 Earth
                 :
              
               
                 Live
                 Crowne
                 of
                 Women
                 ,
                 Queen
                 of
                 men
                 :
              
               
                 Live
                 Mistris
                 of
                 our
                 Song
                 ,
                 and
                 when
              
               
                 Our
                 weak
                 desires
                 have
                 done
                 their
                 best
                 ;
              
               
                 Sweet
                 Angels
                 come
                 ,
                 and
                 sing
                 the
                 rest
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Epitaphium
               in
               Dominum
               Herrisium
               .
            
             
               
                 SIste
                 te
                 paulum
                 (
                 viator
                 )
                 ubi
                 Longum
                 Sisti
              
               
                 Nescese
                 erit
                 ,
                 huc
                 nempe
                 properare
                 te
                 scias
              
               
                 quocunque
                 properas
                 .
              
               
                 Morae
                 praetium
                 erit
              
               
                 Et
                 Lacrimae
                 ,
              
               
                 Si
                 jacere
                 hic
                 scias
              
               
                 Gulielmum
              
               
                 Splendidae
                 Herrisiorum
                 familiae
              
               
                 Splendorem
                 maximum
                 :
              
               
                 Quem
                 cum
                 talem
                 vixisse
                 intelexeris
                 ,
              
               
                 Et
                 vixisse
                 tantum
                 ;
              
               
                 Discas
                 licet
              
               
                 In
                 quantus
                 spes
                 possit
              
               
                 Assurgere
                 mortalitas
                 ,
              
               
                 De
                 quantis
                 cadere
                 .
              
               
                 Quem
                 Infantem
                 ,
                 Essexia
                 —
                 vidit
              
               
                 Quem
                 Iuvenem
                 ,
                 Cantabrigiae
                 vidit
              
               
                 Senem
                 ,
                 ah
                 infaelix
                 utraque
              
               
                 Quod
                 non
                 vidit
                 .
              
               
                 Qui
              
               
                 Collegii
                 Christi
                 Alumnus
                 ,
              
               
                 Aulae
                 Pembrokianae
                 socius
                 ,
              
               
                 Vtrique
                 ,
                 ingens
                 amoris
                 certamen
                 fuit
                 .
              
               
                 Donec
              
               
                 Dulciss
                 .
                 Lites
                 elusit
                 Deus
                 ,
              
               
                 Eumque
                 coelestis
                 Collegii
              
               
                 Cujus
                 semper
                 Alumnus
                 fuit
              
               
                 socium
                 fecit
                 ;
              
               
                 Qui
                 &
                 ipse
                 Collegium
                 fuit
                 ,
              
               
               
                 In
                 quo
              
               
                 Musae
                 omnes
                 &
                 gratiae
                 ,
              
               
                 Nullibi
                 magis
                 sorores
                 ,
              
               
                 Sub
                 praeside
                 religione
              
               
                 In
                 tenacissimum
                 sodalitium
                 coaluere
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Quem
                 Oratoriae
                 Agnovcre
                 .
              
               
                 Quem
                 Poetica
                 Agnovcre
                 .
              
               
                 Quem
                 Vtraque
                 Agnovcre
                 .
              
               
                 Quem
                 Christianum
                 Agnovcre
                 .
              
               
                 Quem
                 Poetam
                 Agnovcre
                 .
              
               
                 Quem
                 Oratorem
                 Agnovcre
                 .
              
               
                 Quem
                 Philosophum
                 Agnovcre
                 .
              
               
                 Quem
                 Omnes
                 Agnovcre
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Qui
                 Fide
                 Superavit
                 .
              
               
                 Qui
                 Spe
                 Superavit
                 .
              
               
                 Qui
                 Charitate
                 Superavit
                 .
              
               
                 Qui
                 Humilitate
                 Superavit
                 .
              
               
                 Qui
                 Mundum
                 Superavit
                 .
              
               
                 Qui
                 Coelum
                 Superavit
                 .
              
               
                 Qui
                 Proximum
                 Superavit
                 .
              
               
                 Qui
                 Seipsum
                 Superavit
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Cujus
              
               
                 Sub
                 verna
                 fron●e-senilis
                 animus
                 ,
              
               
                 Sub
                 morum
                 facilitate
                 ,
                 severitas
                 virtutis
                 ;
              
               
                 Sub
                 plurima
                 indole
                 ,
                 pauci
                 anni
                 ;
              
               
                 Sub
                 majore
                 modestia
                 ,
                 maxima
                 indolesadeo
                 se
                 occuluerunt
              
               
                 ut
                 vitam
                 ejus
              
               
                 Pulchram
                 dixeris
                 &
                 pudicam
                 dissimulationem
                 :
              
               
                 Imo
                 vero
                 &
                 mortem
                 ,
              
               
                 Ecce
                 enim
                 in
                 ipso
                 funere
              
               
                 Dissimulari
                 se
                 passus
                 est
                 ,
              
               
                 Sub
                 tantillo
                 mar
                 more
                 tantum
                 hospitem
                 ,
              
               
                 Eo
                 nimirum
                 majore
                 monumento
              
               
                 quo
                 minore
                 tumulo
                 .
              
               
                 Eo
                 ipso
                 die
                 occubuit
                 quo
                 Ecclesia
              
               
                 Anglicana
                 ad
                 vesperas
                 legit
                 ,
              
               
                 Raptus
                 est
                 ne
                 malitia
                 mutaret
                 Intellectun
                 ejus
                 ;
              
               
                 Scilicet
                 Id
                 Octobris
                 ,
                 Anno
                 S
                 1631.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               An
               Himne
               for
               the
               Circumcision
               day
               of
               our
               Lord.
               
            
             
               
                 RIse
                 thou
                 first
                 and
                 fairest
                 morning
                 ,
              
               
                 Rosie
                 with
                 a
                 double
                 red
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 thine
                 owne
                 blush
                 thy
                 cheekes
                 adorning
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 deare
                 drops
                 this
                 day
                 were
                 shed
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 All
                 the
                 purple
                 pride
                 of
                 Laces
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 crimson
                 curtaines
                 of
                 thy
                 bed
                 ;
              
               
                 Guild
                 thee
                 not
                 with
                 so
                 sweet
                 graces
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 sets
                 thee
                 in
                 so
                 rich
                 a
                 red
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Of
                 all
                 the
                 faire
                 cheekt
                 flowers
                 that
                 fill
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 None
                 so
                 faire
                 thy
                 bosome
                 strowes
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 this
                 modest
                 Maiden
                 Lilly
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 sinnes
                 have
                 sham'd
                 into
                 a
                 Rose
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Bid
                 the
                 golden
                 god
                 the
                 Sunne
                 ,
              
               
                 Burnisht
                 in
                 his
                 glorious
                 beames
                 :
              
               
                 Put
                 all
                 his
                 red
                 eyed
                 rubies
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 These
                 Rubies
                 shall
                 put
                 out
                 his
                 eyes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Let
                 him
                 make
                 poore
                 the
                 purple
                 East
                 ,
              
               
                 Rob
                 the
                 rich
                 store
                 her
                 Cabinets
                 keep
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 pure
                 birth
                 of
                 each
                 sparkling
                 nest
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 flaming
                 in
                 their
                 faire
                 bed
                 sleep
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Let
                 him
                 embrace
                 his
                 owne
                 bright
                 tresses
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 new
                 morning
                 made
                 of
                 gems
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 weare
                 in
                 them
                 his
                 wealthy
                 dresses
                 ,
              
               
                 Another
                 day
                 of
                 Diadems
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 When
                 he
                 hath
                 done
                 all
                 he
                 may
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 himselfe
                 rich
                 in
                 his
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 will
                 be
                 darknesse
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 day
              
               
                 That
                 breakes
                 from
                 one
                 of
                 these
                 faire
                 eyes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 soone
                 the
                 sweet
                 truth
                 shall
                 appeare
                 ,
              
               
                 Deare
                 Babe
                 e're
                 many
                 dayes
                 be
                 done
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Moone
                 shall
                 come
                 to
                 meet
                 thee
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 leave
                 the
                 long
                 adored
                 Sunne
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thy
                 nobler
                 beauty
                 shall
                 bereave
                 him
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 his
                 Easterne
                 Paramours
                 :
              
               
                 His
                 Persian
                 Lovers
                 all
                 shall
                 leave
                 him
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sweare
                 faith
                 to
                 thy
                 sweeter
                 powers
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Nor
                 while
                 they
                 leave
                 him
                 shall
                 they
                 loose
                 the
                 Sunne
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 in
                 thy
                 fairest
                 eyes
                 find
                 two
                 for
                 one
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               On
               Hope
               ,
               By
               way
               of
               Question
               and
               Answer
               ,
               betweene
               
                 A.
                 Cowley
              
               ,
               and
               
                 R.
                 Crashaw
              
               .
            
             
               
                 Cowley
                 .
              
               
                 HOpe
                 ,
                 whose
                 weake
                 being
                 ruin'd
                 is
              
               
                 Alike
                 ,
                 If
                 it
                 succeed
                 ,
                 and
                 if
                 it
                 misse
                 .
              
               
                 Whom
                 Ill
                 ,
                 and
                 Good
                 doth
                 equally
                 confound
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 both
                 the
                 hornes
                 of
                 Fates
                 dilemma
                 wound
                 .
              
               
                 Vaine
                 shadow
                 !
                 that
                 doth
                 vanish
                 quite
              
               
                 Both
                 at
                 full
                 noone
                 ,
                 and
                 perfect
                 night
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Fates
                 have
                 not
                 a
                 possibility
              
               
                 Of
                 blessing
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 things
                 then
                 from
                 their
                 ends
                 wee
                 happy
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 hope
                 is
                 the
                 most
                 hopelesse
                 thing
                 of
                 all
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Crashaw
                 .
              
               
                 Deare
                 Hope
                 !
                 Earths
                 dowry
                 ,
                 and
                 Heavens
                 debt
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 entity
                 of
                 things
                 that
                 are
                 not
                 yet
                 .
              
               
                 Subt'lest
                 ,
                 but
                 surest
                 being
                 !
                 Thou
                 by
                 whom
              
               
                 Our
                 Nothing
                 hath
                 a
                 definition
                 .
              
               
                 Faire
                 cloud
                 of
                 fi●e
                 ,
                 both
                 shade
                 ,
                 and
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 life
                 in
                 death
                 ,
                 our
                 day
                 in
                 night
                 .
              
               
                 Fates
                 cannot
                 find
                 out
                 a
                 capacity
              
               
                 Of
                 hurting
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 thee
                 their
                 thinne
                 dilemma
                 with
                 blunt
                 horne
              
               
                 Shrinkes
                 ,
                 like
                 the
                 sick
                 Moone
                 at
                 the
                 wholsome
                 morne
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Cowley
                 .
              
               
                 Hope
                 ,
                 thou
                 bold
                 taster
                 of
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 in
                 stead
                 of
                 doing
                 so
                 ,
                 devour'st
                 it
                 quite
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 bring'st
                 us
                 an
                 estate
                 ,
                 yet
                 leav'st
                 us
                 poore
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 clogging
                 it
                 with
                 Legacies
                 before
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 joyes
                 ,
                 which
                 wee
                 intire
                 should
                 wed
                 ,
              
               
                 Come
                 deflour'd
                 virgins
                 to
                 our
                 bed
                 .
              
               
                 Good
                 fortunes
                 without
                 gaine
                 imported
                 bee
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 mighty
                 Custome's
                 paid
                 to
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 joy
                 ,
                 like
                 Wine
                 kept
                 close
                 doth
                 better
                 taste
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 it
                 take
                 ayre
                 before
                 ,
                 its
                 spirits
                 waste
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Crashaw
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 Loves
                 Legacie
                 under
                 lock
              
               
                 Of
                 Faith
                 :
                 the
                 steward
                 of
                 our
                 growing
                 stocke
                 .
              
               
                 Our
                 Crown-lands
                 lye
                 above
                 ,
                 yet
                 each
                 meale
                 brings
              
               
                 A
                 seemly
                 portion
                 for
                 the
                 Sons
                 of
                 Kings
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 will
                 the
                 Virgin-joyes
                 wee
                 wed
              
               
                 Come
                 lesse
                 unbroken
                 to
                 our
                 bed
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 that
                 from
                 the
                 bridall
                 checke
                 of
                 Blisse
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 thus
                 steal'st
                 downe
                 a
                 distant
                 kisse
                 ,
              
               
                 Hopes
                 chaste
                 kisse
                 wrongs
                 no
                 more
                 joyes
                 maidenhead
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 Spousall
                 rites
                 prejudge
                 the
                 marriage-bed
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Cowley
                 .
              
               
                 Hope
                 ,
                 Fortunes
                 cheating
                 Lotterie
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 for
                 one
                 prize
                 an
                 hundred
                 blankes
                 there
                 bee
                 .
              
               
                 Fond
                 Archer
                 Hope
                 ,
                 who
                 tak'st
                 thine
                 ayme
                 so
                 farre
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 still
                 ,
                 or
                 short
                 ,
                 or
                 wide
                 thine
                 arrowes
                 are
                 .
              
               
                 Thine
                 empty
                 cloud
                 the
                 eye
                 ,
                 it selfe
                 deceives
              
               
                 With
                 shapes
                 that
                 our
                 owne
                 fancie
                 gives
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 cloud
                 ,
                 which
                 gilt
                 ,
                 and
                 painted
                 now
                 appeares
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 must
                 drop
                 presently
                 in
                 teares
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 thy
                 false
                 beames
                 o're
                 Reasons
                 light
                 prevaile
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 
                   ignes
                   fatus
                
                 ,
                 not
                 North
                 starres
                 we
                 sayle
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Crashaw
                 .
              
               
                 Faire
                 Hope
                 !
                 our
                 earlier
                 Heaven
                 !
                 by
                 thee
              
               
                 Young
                 Time
                 is
                 taster
                 to
                 Eternity
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 generous
                 wine
                 with
                 age
                 growes
                 stong
                 ,
                 not
                 sower
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 need
                 wee
                 kill
                 thy
                 fruit
                 to
                 smell
                 thy
                 flower
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 golden
                 head
                 never
                 hangs
                 downe
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 in
                 the
                 lap
                 of
                 Loves
                 full
                 noone
              
               
                 It
                 falls
                 ,
                 and
                 dyes
                 :
                 oh
                 no
                 ,
                 it
                 melts
                 away
              
               
                 As
                 doth
                 the
                 dawne
                 into
                 the
                 day
                 :
              
               
                 As
                 lumpes
                 of
                 Sugar
                 lose
                 themselves
                 ,
                 and
                 twine
              
               
                 Their
                 subtile
                 essence
                 with
                 the
                 soule
                 of
                 Wine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Cowley
                 .
              
               
                 Brother
                 of
                 Feare
                 !
                 more
                 gaily
                 clad
              
               
                 The
                 merrier
                 Foole
                 o'
                 th'
                 two
                 ,
                 yet
                 quite
                 as
                 mad
                 .
              
               
                 Sire
                 of
                 Repentance
                 !
                 shield
                 of
                 fond
                 desire
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 blows
                 the
                 Chymicks
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Lovers
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 leading
                 them
                 insensibly
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 the
                 strange
                 witchcraft
                 of
                 Anon.
              
               
                 By
                 thee
                 the
                 one
                 doth
                 changing
                 Nature
                 through
              
               
                 Her
                 endlesse
                 Laborinths
                 pursue
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 th'
                 other
                 chases
                 woman
                 ,
                 while
                 she
                 goes
              
               
                 More
                 wayes
                 ,
                 and
                 turnes
                 ,
                 then
                 hunted
                 Nature
                 knowes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Crashaw
                 .
              
               
                 Fortune
                 alas
                 above
                 the
                 worlds
                 law
                 warres
                 :
              
               
                 Hope
                 kicks
                 the
                 curl'd
                 heads
                 of
                 conspiring
                 starres
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 keele
                 cuts
                 not
                 the
                 waves
                 ,
                 where
                 our
                 winds
                 sture
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Fates
                 whole
                 Lottery
                 is
                 one
                 blanke
                 to
                 her
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 shafts
                 ,
                 and
                 shee
                 fly
                 farre
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 forrage
                 in
                 the
                 fields
                 of
                 light
                 ,
                 and
                 love
                 .
              
               
                 Sweet
                 Hope
                 !
                 kind
                 cheat
                 !
                 faire
                 fallacy
                 !
                 by
                 thee
              
               
                 Wee
                 are
                 not
                 where
                 ,
                 or
                 what
                 wee
                 bee
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 ,
                 and
                 where
                 wee
                 would
                 bee
                 :
                 thus
                 art
                 thou
              
               
                 Our
                 absent
                 presence
                 ,
                 and
                 our
                 future
                 now
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Crashaw
                 .
              
               
                 
                 Faith's
                 Sister
                 !
                 Nurse
                 of
                 faire
                 desire●
              
               
                 Feares
                 Antidote
                 !
                 a
                 wise
                 ,
                 and
                 well
                 stay'd
                 fire
              
               
                 Temper'd
                 'twixt
                 cold
                 despaire
                 ,
                 and
                 torrid
                 joy
                 :
              
               
                 Queen
                 Regent
                 in
                 young
                 Loves
                 minoritie
                 .
              
               
                 Though
                 the
                 vext
                 Chymick
                 vainly
                 chases
              
               
                 His
                 fugitive
                 gold
                 through
                 all
                 her
                 faces
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 loves
                 more
                 fierce
                 ,
                 more
                 fruitlesse
                 fires
                 assay
              
               
                 One
                 face
                 more
                 fugitive
                 then
                 all
                 they
                 ,
              
               
                 True
                 
                 Hope
                 's
                 a
                 glorious
                 Huntresse
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 chase
              
               
                 The
                 God
                 of
                 Nature
                 in
                 the
                 field
                 of
                 Grace
                 .
              
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             
             
             
               THE
               DELIGHTS
               OF
               THE
               MUSES
               .
               OR
               ,
               Other
               Poems
               written
               on
               severall
               occasions
               .
               By
               
                 Richard
                 Crashaw
              
               ,
               sometimes
               of
               Pembroke
               Hall
               ,
               and
               late
               Fellow
               of
               
                 St.
                 P●ters
              
               Colledge
               in
               Cambridge
               .
            
             
               
                 Mart.
                 
              
               
                 Dic
                 mihi
                 quid
                 melius
                 desidiosus
                 agas
                 .
              
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               by
               
                 T.
                 W.
              
               for
               
                 H.
                 Moseley
              
               ,
               at
               the
               Princes
               Armes
               in
               S.
               Pauls
               Churchyard
               ,
               1646.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
             
               Musicks
               Duell
               .
            
             
               NOw
               Westward
               Sol
               had
               spent
               the
               richest
               Beames
            
             
               Of
               Noons
               high
               Glory
               ,
               when
               hard
               by
               the
               streams
            
             
               Of
               Tiber
               ,
               on
               the
               sceane
               of
               a
               greene
               plat
               ,
            
             
               Vnder
               protection
               of
               an
               Oake
               ;
               there
               sate
            
             
               A
               sweet
               Lutes-master
               :
               in
               whose
               gentle
               aires
            
             
               Hee
               lost
               the
               Dayes
               heat
               ,
               and
               his
               owne
               hot
               cares
               .
            
             
               Close
               in
               the
               covert
               of
               the
               leaves
               there
               stood
            
             
               A
               Nightingale
               ,
               come
               from
               the
               neighbouring
               wood
               :
            
             
               (
               The
               sweet
               inhabitant
               of
               each
               glad
               Tree
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Muse
               ,
               their
               Syren
               .
               harmlesse
               Syren
               shee
               )
            
             
               There
               stood
               she
               listning
               ,
               and
               did
               entertaine
            
             
               The
               Musicks
               soft
               report
               :
               and
               mold
               the
               same
            
             
               In
               her
               owne
               murmures
               ,
               that
               what
               ever
               mood
            
             
               His
               curious
               fingers
               lent
               ,
               her
               voyce
               made
               good
               :
            
             
               The
               man
               perceiv'd
               his
               Rivall
               ,
               and
               her
               Art
               ,
            
             
               Dispos'd
               to
               give
               the
               light-foot
               Lady
               sport
            
             
               Awakes
               his
               Lute
               ,
               and
               ●gainst
               the
               fight
               to
               come
            
             
               Informes
               it
               ,
               in
               a
               sweet
               Praeludium
            
             
               Of
               closer
               straines
               ,
               and
               ere
               the
               warre
               begin
               ,
            
             
               Hee
               lightly
               skirmishes
               on
               every
               string
            
             
               Charg'd
               with
               a
               flying
               touch
               :
               and
               streightway
               shee
            
             
               Carves
               out
               her
               dainty
               voyce
               as
               readily
               ,
            
             
               Into
               a
               thousand
               sweet
               distinguish'd
               Tones
               ,
            
             
               And
               reckons
               up
               in
               soft
               divisions
               ,
            
             
               Quicke
               volumes
               of
               wild
               Notes
               ;
               to
               let
               him
               know
            
             
               By
               that
               shrill
               taste
               ,
               shee
               could
               doe
               something
               too
               .
            
             
             
               His
               nimble
               hands
               instinct
               then
               taught
               each
               string
            
             
               A
               capring
               cheerefullnesse
               ;
               and
               made
               them
               sing
            
             
               To
               their
               owne
               dance
               ;
               now
               negligently
               rash
            
             
               Hee
               throwes
               his
               Arme
               ,
               and
               with
               a
               long
               drawne
               dash
            
             
               Blends
               all
               together
               ;
               then
               distinctly
               tripps
            
             
               From
               this
               to
               that
               ;
               then
               quicke
               returning
               skipps
            
             
               And
               snatches
               this
               againe
               ,
               and
               pauses
               there
               .
            
             
               Shee
               measures
               every
               measure
               ,
               every
               where
            
             
               Meets
               art
               with
               art
               ;
               sometimes
               as
               if
               in
               doubt
            
             
               Not
               perfect
               yet
               ,
               and
               fearing
               to
               bee
               out
            
             
               Trayles
               her
               playne
               Ditty
               in
               one
               long-spun
               note
               ,
            
             
               Through
               the
               sleeke
               passage
               of
               her
               open
               throat
               :
            
             
               A
               cleare
               unwrinckled
               song
               ,
               then
               doth
               shee
               point
               it
            
             
               With
               tender
               accents
               ,
               and
               severely
               joynt
               it
            
             
               By
               short
               diminutives
               ,
               that
               being
               rear'd
            
             
               In
               controverting
               warbles
               evenly
               shar'd
               ,
            
             
               With
               her
               sweet
               selfe
               shee
               wrangles
               ;
               Hee
               amazed
            
             
               That
               from
               so
               small
               a
               channell
               should
               be
               rais'd
            
             
               The
               torrent
               of
               a
               voyce
               ,
               whose
               melody
            
             
               Could
               melt
               into
               such
               sweet
               variety
            
             
               Straines
               higher
               yet
               ;
               that
               tickled
               with
               rare
               art
            
             
               The
               tatling
               strings
               (
               each
               breathing
               in
               his
               part
               )
            
             
               Most
               kindly
               doe
               fall
               out
               ;
               the
               grumbling
               Base
            
             
               In
               surly
               groanes
               disdaines
               the
               Trebles
               Grace
               .
            
             
               The
               high-perch't
               treble
               chirps
               at
               this
               ,
               and
               chides
               ,
            
             
               Vntill
               his
               finger
               (
               Moderatour
               )
               hides
            
             
               And
               closes
               the
               sweet
               quarrell
               ,
               rowsing
               all
            
             
               Hoarce
               ,
               shrill
               ,
               at
               once
               ;
               as
               when
               the
               Trumpets
               call
            
             
               Hot
               Mars
               to
               th'
               Harvest
               of
               Deaths
               field
               ,
               and
               woo
            
             
               Mens
               hearts
               into
               their
               hands
               ;
               this
               lesson
               too
            
             
               Shee
               gives
               him
               backe
               ;
               her
               supple
               Brest
               thrills
               out
            
             
               Sharpe
               Aires
               ,
               and
               staggers
               in
               a
               warbling
               doubt
            
             
               Of
               dallying
               sweetnesse
               ,
               hovers
               ore
               her
               skill
               ,
            
             
               And
               folds
               in
               wav'd
               notes
               with
               a
               trembling
               bill
               ,
            
             
               The
               plyant
               Series
               of
               her
               slippery
               song
               .
            
             
               Then
               starts
               shee
               suddenly
               into
               a
               Throng
            
             
             
               Of
               short
               thicke
               sobs
               ,
               whose
               thundring
               volleyes
               float
               ,
            
             
               And
               roule
               themselves
               over
               her
               lubricke
               throat
            
             
               In
               panting
               murmurs
               ,
               still'd
               out
               of
               her
               Breast
            
             
               That
               ever-bubling
               spring
               ;
               the
               sugred
               Nest
            
             
               Of
               her
               delicious
               soule
               ,
               that
               there
               does
               lye
            
             
               Bathing
               in
               streames
               of
               liquid
               Melodie
               ;
            
             
               Musicks
               best
               seed-plot
               ,
               when
               in
               ripend
               Aires
            
             
               A
               Golden-headed-Harvest
               fairely
               reares
            
             
               His
               Honey-dropping
               ●cops
               ,
               plow'd
               by
               her
               breath
            
             
               Which
               there
               reciprocally
               laboureth
               .
            
             
               In
               that
               sweet
               soyle
               it
               seemes
               a
               holy
               quire
            
             
               Founded
               to
               th'
               Name
               of
               great
               Apollo's
               lyre
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               sylver-roofe
               rings
               with
               the
               sprightly
               notes
            
             
               Of
               sweet-lipp'd
               Angell-Imps
               ,
               that
               swill
               their
               throats
            
             
               In
               creame
               of
               Morning
               Helicon
               ,
               and
               then
            
             
               Preferre
               soft
               Anthems
               to
               the
               Eares
               of
               men
               .
            
             
               To
               woo
               them
               from
               their
               Beds
               ,
               still
               murmuring
            
             
               That
               men
               can
               sleepe
               while
               they
               their
               Matten●
               sing
               :
            
             
               (
               Most
               divine
               service
               )
               whose
               so
               early●
               lay
               ,
            
             
               Prevents
               the
               Eye-lidds
               of
               the
               blushing
               day
               .
            
             
               There
               might
               you
               heare
               her
               kindle
               her
               soft
               voyce
               ,
            
             
               In
               the
               close
               murmur
               of
               a
               sparkling
               noyse
               .
            
             
               And
               lay
               the
               ground-worke
               of
               her
               hopefull
               song
               ,
            
             
               Still
               keeping
               in
               the
               forward
               streame
               ,
               so
               long●
            
             
               Till
               a
               sweet
               whirle-wind
               (
               striving
               to
               gett
               o●t
               )
            
             
               Heaves
               her
               soft
               Bosome
               ,
               wan●ers
               round
               about
               ,
            
             
               And
               makes
               a
               pretty
               Earthquake
               in
               her
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Till
               the
               fledg'd
               Notes
               at
               length
               forsake
               their
               Nect
               ;
            
             
               Fluttering
               in
               wanton
               shoales
               ,
               and
               to
               the
               Sky
            
             
               Wing'd
               with
               their
               owne
               wild
               Eccho's
               pra●ling
               fly
               .
            
             
               Shee
               opes
               the
               floodgate
               ,
               and
               le
               ts
               loos●
               a
               Tide
            
             
               Of
               streaming
               sweetnesse
               ,
               which
               in
               state
               doth
               rid●
            
             
               On
               the
               wav'd
               backe
               of
               every
               swelling
               straine
               ,
            
             
               Rising
               and
               falling
               in
               a
               pompous
               tra●ne
               .
            
             
               And
               while
               shee
               thus
               discharges
               a
               shrill
               peale
            
             
               Of
               flashing
               Aires
               ;
               shee
               qualifi●s
               their
               zeale
            
             
             
               With
               the
               coole
               Epode
               of
               a
               grave
               Noat
               ,
            
             
               Thus
               high
               ,
               thus
               low
               ,
               as
               if
               her
               silver
               throat
            
             
               Would
               reach
               the
               brasen
               voyce
               of
               warr's
               hoarce
               Bird
               ;
            
             
               Her
               little
               soule
               is
               ravisht
               :
               and
               so
               pour'd
            
             
               Into
               loose
               extasies
               ,
               that
               shee
               is
               plac't
            
             
               Above
               her selfe
               ,
               Musicks
               Enthusiast
            
             
               Shame
               now
               and
               anger
               mixt
               a
               double
               staine
            
             
               In
               the
               Musitians
               face
               ;
               yet
               once
               againe
            
             
               (
               Mistresse
               )
               I
               come
               ;
               now
               reach
               a
               straine
               my
               Lu●e
            
             
               Above
               her
               mocke
               ,
               or
               bee
               for
               ever
               mute
               .
            
             
               Or
               tune
               a
               song
               of
               victory
               to
               mee
               ,
            
             
               Or
               to
               thy selfe
               ,
               sing
               thine
               owne
               Obsequie
               ;
            
             
               So
               said
               ,
               his
               hands
               sprightly
               as
               fire
               hee
               ●lings
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               a
               quavering
               coynesse
               tasts
               the
               strings
               .
            
             
               The
               sweet-lip't
               sisters
               musically
               frighted
               ,
            
             
               Singing
               their
               feares
               are
               fearfully
               delighted
               .
            
             
               Trembling
               as
               when
               Appollo's
               golden
               haires
            
             
               Are
               fan'd
               and
               frizled
               ,
               in
               the
               wanton
               ayres
            
             
               Of
               his
               owne
               breath
               :
               which
               marryed
               to
               his
               lyre
            
             
               Doth
               tune
               the
               Spbaeares
               ,
               and
               make
               Heavens
               selfe
               looke
               higher
            
             
               From
               this
               to
               that
               ,
               from
               that
               to
               this
               hee
               flyes
            
             
               Feeles
               Musicks
               pulse
               in
               all
               her
               Arteryes
               ,
            
             
               Caught
               in
               a
               net
               which
               the●e
               Appollo
               spreads
               ,
            
             
               His
               fingers
               struggle
               with
               the
               vocall
               threads
               ,
            
             
               Following
               those
               little
               rills
               ,
               hee
               sinkes
               into
            
             
               A
               Sea
               of
               Helicon
               ;
               his
               hand
               does
               goe
            
             
               Those
               parts
               of
               sweetnesse
               which
               with
               Nectar
               drop
               ,
            
             
               Softer
               then
               that
               which
               pants
               in
               Hebe's
               cup.
            
             
               The
               humourous
               strings
               expound
               his
               learned
               touch
               ,
            
             
               By
               various
               Glosses
               ;
               now
               they
               seeme
               to
               grutch
               ,
            
             
               And
               murmur
               in
               a
               buzzing
               dinne
               ,
               then
               g●ngle
            
             
               In
               shrill
               tongu'd
               accents
               :
               striving
               to
               bee
               single●
            
             
               Every
               smooth
               turne
               ,
               every
               delicious
               stroake
            
             
               Gives
               life
               to
               some
               new
               Grace
               ;
               thus
               doth
               h'invoke
            
             
               Sweetnesse
               by
               all
               her
               Names
               ;
               thus
               ,
               bravely
               thus
            
             
               (
               Fraught
               with
               a
               fury
               so
               harmonious
               )
            
             
             
               The
               Lutes
               light
               Genius
               now
               does
               proudly
               rise
               ,
            
             
               Heav'd
               on
               the
               surges
               of
               swolne
               Rapsodyes
               .
            
             
               Whose
               flourish
               (
               Meteor-like
               )
               doth
               curle
               the
               aire
            
             
               With
               flash
               of
               high-borne
               fancyes
               :
               here
               and
               there
            
             
               Dancing
               in
               lofty
               measures
               ,
               and
               anon
            
             
               Creeps
               on
               the
               soft
               touch
               of
               a
               tender
               tone
               :
            
             
               Whose
               trembling
               murmurs
               melting
               in
               wild
               aires
            
             
               Runs
               to
               and
               fro
               ,
               complaining
               his
               sweet
               cares
            
             
               Because
               those
               pretious
               mysteryes
               that
               dwell
               ,
            
             
               In
               musick
               's
               ravish't
               soule
               hee
               dare
               not
               tell
               ,
            
             
               But
               whisper
               to
               the
               world
               :
               thus
               doe
               they
               vary
            
             
               Each
               string
               his
               Note
               ,
               as
               if
               they
               meant
               to
               carry
            
             
               Their
               Masters
               blest
               soule
               (
               snatcht
               out
               at
               his
               Eares
            
             
               By
               a
               strong
               Extasy
               )
               through
               all
               the
               sphaeares
            
             
               Of
               Musicks
               heaven
               ;
               and
               seat
               it
               there
               on
               high
            
             
               In
               th'
               Empyraeum
               of
               pure
               Harmony
               .
            
             
               At
               length
               (
               after
               so
               long
               ,
               so
               loud
               a
               strife
            
             
               Of
               all
               the
               strings
               ,
               still
               breathing
               the
               best
               life
            
             
               Of
               blest
               variety
               attending
               on
            
             
               His
               fingers
               fairest
               revolution
            
             
               In
               many
               a
               sweet
               rise
               ,
               many
               as
               sweet
               a
               fall
               )
            
             
               A
               full-mouth
               Diapason
               swallowes
               all
               .
            
             
               This
               done
               ,
               hee
               lists
               what
               shee
               would
               say
               to
               this
               ,
            
             
               And
               shee
               although
               her
               Breath's
               late
               exercise
            
             
               Had
               dealt
               too
               roughly
               with
               her
               tender
               throate
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               summons
               all
               her
               sweet
               powers
               for
               a
               Noate
            
             
               Alas
               !
               in
               vaine
               !
               for
               while
               (
               sweet
               soule
               )
               shee
               tryes
            
             
               To
               measure
               all
               those
               wild
               diversities
            
             
               Of
               chatt'ring
               stringes
               ,
               by
               the
               small
               size
               of
               one
            
             
               Poore
               simple
               voyce
               ,
               rais'd
               in
               a
               Naturall
               Tone
               ;
            
             
               Shee
               failes
               ,
               and
               failing
               grieves
               ,
               and
               grieving
               dyes
               ▪
            
             
               Shee
               dyes
               :
               and
               leaves
               her
               life
               the
               Victous
               prise
               ,
            
             
               Falling
               upon
               his
               Lute
               ;
               ô
               fit
               to
               have
            
             
               (
               That
               liv'd
               so
               sweetly
               )
               dead
               ,
               so
               sweet
               a
               Grave
               !
            
          
           
             
             
               Principi
               recèns
               natae
               omen
               maternae
               indolis
               .
            
             
               CResce
               ,
               ô
               dulcibus
               imputanda
               Divis
               ,
            
             
               O
               cresce
               ,
               &
               propera
               ,
               puella
               a
               Princeps
               ,
            
             
               In
               matris
               propera
               a
               venire
               partes
               .
            
             
               Et
               cùm
               par
               breve
               fulminum
               minorum
               ,
            
             
               Illin●
               Carolus
               ,
               &
               Iucobus
               indè
               ,
            
             
               In
               patris
               faciles
               subire
               famam
               ,
            
             
               Ducent
               fata
               furoribus
               decoris
               ;
            
             
               Cùm
               terror
               sacer
               ,
               Anglicíque
               magnum
            
             
               Murmur
               nominis
               increpabit
               omnem
            
             
               Latè
               Bosperon
               ,
               Ottomanicásque
            
             
               Non
               picto
               quatiet
               tremore
               Lunas
               ;
            
             
               Te
               tunc
               altera
               ,
               nec
               timenda
               paci
               ,
            
             
               Poscent
               praelia
               .
               Tu
               potens
               pudici
            
             
               Vibratrix
               ocuci
               ,
               pios
               in
               hostes
            
             
               Laté
               dulcia
               fata
               dissipabis
               .
            
             
               O
               cùm
               flostenet
               ille
               ,
               qui
               recenti
            
             
               Pressus
               sidere
               jam
               sub
               or
               a
               ludit
               ,
            
             
               Olim
               fortior
               omne
               cuspidatos
            
             
               Evolvet
               latus
               aureum
               per
               ignes
               ;
            
             
               Quíque
               imbellis
               adhuc
               ,
               adultus
               olim
               ,
            
             
               Puris
               expatiabitur
               genarum
            
             
               Campis
               imperiosior
               Cupido
               ;
            
             
               O
               quàm
               certa
               superbiore
               pennâ
            
             
               Ibunt
               spicula
               ,
               melleaeque
               mor●es
               ,
            
             
             
               Exultantibus
               hinc
               &
               indè
               turmis
               ,
            
             
               Quoquò
               jusseris
               ,
               impigrè
               volabunt
               !
            
             
               O
               quot
               corda
               calentium
               deorum
            
             
               De
               te
               vulnera
               delicata
               discent
            
             
               O
               quot
               pectora
               Principum
               magistris
            
             
               Fient
               molle
               negotium
               sagittis
               !
            
             
               Nam
               quae
               non
               poteris
               per
               arma
               ferri
               ,
            
             
               Cui
               matris
               sinus
               atque
               utrumque
               sidus
            
             
               Magnorum
               patet
               officina
               Amorum
               ?
            
             
               Hinc
               sumas
               licet
               ,
               ô
               puella
               Princeps
               ,
            
             
               Quantacunque
               opus
               est
               tibi
               pharetnâ
               .
            
             
               Centum
               sume
               Cupidines
               ab
               uno
            
             
               Matris
               lumine
               ,
               Gratiásque
               ceutum
               ,
            
             
               Et
               centum
               Veneres
               :
               adhuc
               manebunt
            
             
               Centum
               mille
               Cupidines
               ;
               manebunt
            
             
               Ter
               centum
               Venerésque
               Gratiaeque
            
             
               Puro
               fonte
               superstites
               per
               aevum
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Out
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               In
               the
               praise
               of
               the
               Spring
               .
            
             
               ALL
               Trees
               ,
               all
               leavy
               Groves
               confesse
               the
               Spring
            
             
               Their
               gentlest
               friend
               ,
               then
               ,
               then
               the
               lands
               begin
            
             
               To
               swell
               with
               forward
               pride
               ,
               and
               seed
               desire
            
             
               To
               generation
               ;
               Heavens
               Almighty
               Sire
            
             
               Melts
               on
               the
               Bosome
               of
               his
               Love
               ,
               and
               powres
            
             
               Himselfe
               into
               her
               lap
               in
               fruitfull
               showers
               .
            
             
               And
               by
               a
               soft
               insinuation
               ,
               mixt
            
             
               With
               earths
               la●ge
               Masse
               ,
               doth
               cherish
               and
               assist
            
             
               Her
               weake
               conceptions
               ;
               No
               loane
               shade
               ,
               but
               rings
            
             
               With
               chatting
               Birds
               ,
               delicious
               murmurings
               .
            
             
               Then
               Venus
               mild
               instinct
               (
               at
               set
               times
               )
               yeilds
            
             
               The
               Herds
               to
               kindly
               meetings
               ,
               then
               the
               fields
            
             
               (
               Quick
               with
               warme
               Zephires
               lively
               breath
               )
               lay
               forth
            
             
               Their
               pregnant
               Bosomes
               in
               a
               fragrant
               Birth
               .
            
             
               Each
               body
               's
               plump
               and
               jucy
               ,
               all
               things
               full
            
             
               Of
               supple
               moisture
               :
               no
               coy
               twig
               but
               will
            
             
               Trust
               his
               beloved
               bosome
               to
               the
               Sun
            
             
               (
               Growne
               lusty
               now
               ;
               )
               No
               Vine
               so
               weake
               and
               young
            
             
               That
               feares
               the
               foule-mouth'd
               Auster
               ,
               or
               those
               stormes
            
             
               That
               the
               Southwest-wind
               hurries
               in
               his
               Armes
               ,
            
             
               But
               hasts
               her
               forward
               Blossomes
               ,
               and
               layes
               out
            
             
               Freely
               layes
               out
               her
               leaves
               :
               Nor
               doe
               I
               doubt
            
             
               But
               when
               the
               world
               first
               out
               of
               Chaos
               sprang
            
             
               So
               smil'd
               the
               Dayes
               ,
               and
               so
               the
               tenor
               ran
            
             
               Of
               their
               felicity
               .
               A
               spring
               was
               there
               ,
            
             
               An
               everlasting
               spring
               ,
               the
               jolly
               yeare
            
             
               Led
               round
               in
               his
               great
               circle
               ;
               No
               winds
               Breath
            
             
               As
               then
               did
               smell
               of
               Winter
               ,
               or
               of
               Death
               .
            
             
               When
               Lifes
               sweet
               Light
               first
               shone
               on
               Beasts
               ,
               and
               when
            
             
               From
               their
               hard
               Mother
               Earth
               ,
               sprang
               hardy
               men
               ,
            
             
             
               When
               Beasts
               tooke
               up
               their
               lodging
               in
               the
               Wood
               ,
            
             
               Starres
               in
               their
               higher
               Chambers
               :
               never
               cou'd
            
             
               The
               tender
               growth
               of
               things
               endure
               the
               sence
            
             
               Of
               such
               a
               change
               ,
               but
               that
               the
               Heav'ns
               Indulgence
            
             
               Kindly
               supplies
               sick
               Nature
               ,
               and
               doth
               mold
            
             
               A
               sweetly
               temper'd
               meane
               ,
               nor
               hot
               nor
               cold
               .
            
          
           
             
               With
               a
               Picture
               sent
               to
               a
               Friend
               .
            
             
               I
               Paint
               so
               ill
               ,
               my
               peece
               had
               need
               to
               bee
            
             
               Painted
               againe
               by
               some
               good
               Poesie
               .
            
             
               I
               write
               so
               ill
               ,
               my
               slender
               Line
               is
               scarce
            
             
               So
               much
               as
               th'Picture
               of
               a
               well-lim'd
               verse
               :
            
             
               Yet
               may
               the
               love
               I
               send
               be
               true
               ,
               though
               I
            
             
               Send
               nor
               true
               Picture
               ,
               nor
               true
               Poesie
               .
            
             
               Both
               which
               away
               ,
               I
               should
               not
               need
               to
               feare
               ,
            
             
               My
               Love
               ,
               or
               Feign'd
               or
               painted
               should
               appeare
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               In
               praise
               of
               Lessius
               his
               rule
               of
               health
               .
            
             
               GOe
               now
               with
               some
               dareing
               drugg
               ,
            
             
               Baite
               thy
               disease
               ,
               and
               while
               they
               tugg
            
             
               Thou
               to
               maintaine
               their
               cruell
               strife
               ,
            
             
               Spend
               the
               deare
               treasure
               of
               thy
               life
               :
            
             
               Goe
               take
               phisicke
               ,
               doat
               upon
            
             
               Some
               bigg-named
               composition
               ,
            
             
               The
               oraculous
               doctors
               mistick
               bills
               ,
            
             
               Certain
               hard
               words
               made
               into
               pills
               ;
            
             
               And
               what
               at
               length
               shalt
               get
               by
               these
               ?
            
             
               Onely
               a
               costlyer
               disease
               .
            
             
               Goe
               poore
               man
               thinke
               what
               shall
               bee
               ,
            
             
               Remedie
               against
               thy
               remedie
               .
            
             
               That
               which
               makes
               us
               have
               no
               need
            
             
               Of
               Phisick
               that
               's
               Phisick
               indeed
               .
            
             
               Harke
               hether
               ,
               Reader
               ,
               wouldst
               thou
               see
            
             
               Nature
               her
               owne
               Physitian
               bee
               .
            
             
               Wouldst
               see
               a
               man
               all
               ,
               his
               owne
               wealth
               ,
            
             
               His
               owne
               Physick
               ,
               his
               owne
               health
               ?
            
             
               A
               man
               whose
               sober
               soule
               can
               tell
               ,
            
             
               How
               to
               weare
               her
               garments
               well
               ?
            
             
               Her
               garments
               that
               upon
               her
               sit
               ,
            
             
               As
               garments
               should
               doe
               close
               and
               fit
               ?
            
             
               A
               well
               cloathed
               soule
               that
               's
               not
               opprest
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               choakt
               with
               what
               shee
               should
               bee
               drest
               ?
            
             
               A
               soule
               shearhed
               in
               a
               christall
               shrine
               ,
            
             
               Through
               which
               all
               her
               bright
               features
               shine
               ?
            
             
               As
               when
               a
               peece
               of
               wanton
               lawne
               ,
            
             
               A
               thinne
               aiereall
               vaile
               is
               drawne
            
             
               O're
               beauties
               face
               ,
               seeming
               to
               hide
            
             
               More
               sweetly
               showes
               the
               blush'ng
               bride
               .
            
             
             
               A
               soule
               whose
               intelectuall
               beames
            
             
               No
               mistes
               doe
               maske
               no
               lazy
               steames
               ?
            
             
               A
               happy
               soule
               that
               all
               the
               way
               ,
            
             
               To
               heaven
               ,
               hath
               a
               summers
               day
               ?
            
             
               Would'st
               thou
               see
               a
               man
               whose
               well
               warmed
               blood
               ,
            
             
               Bathes
               him
               in
               a
               genuine
               flood
               ?
            
             
               A
               man
               whose
               tuned
               humours
               bee
               ,
            
             
               A
               set
               of
               rarest
               harmony
               ?
            
             
               Wouldst
               see
               blith
               lookes
               ,
               fresh
               cheeks
               beguile
            
             
               Age
               ,
               wouldst
               see
               December
               smile
               ?
            
             
               Wouldst
               see
               a
               nest
               of
               Roses
               grow
            
             
               In
               a
               bed
               of
               reverend
               snow
               ?
            
             
               Warme
               thoughts
               free
               spirits
               ,
               flattering
            
             
               Winters
               selfe
               into
               a
               spring
               ?
            
             
               In
               summe
               ,
               wouldst
               see
               a
               man
               that
               can
            
             
               Live
               to
               bee
               old
               and
               still
               a
               man
               ?
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               beginning
               of
               Helidorus
               .
            
             
               THe
               smiling
               Morne
               had
               newly
               wak't
               the
               Day
               ,
            
             
               And
               tipt
               the
               Mountaines
               in
               a
               tender
               ray
               :
            
             
               When
               on
               a
               hill
               (
               whose
               high
               Imperious
               brow
            
             
               Lookes
               downe
               ,
               and
               sees
               the
               humble
               Nile
               below
            
             
               Licke
               his
               proud
               feet
               ,
               and
               hast
               into
               the
               seas
            
             
               Through
               the
               great
               mouth
               that
               's
               nam'd
               from
               Hercules
               )
            
             
               A
               band
               of
               men
               ,
               rough
               as
               the
               Armes
               thy
               wore
            
             
               Look't
               round
               ,
               first
               to
               the
               sea
               ,
               then
               to
               the
               shore
               .
            
             
               The
               shore
               that
               shewed
               them
               what
               the
               sea
               deny'd
               ,
            
             
               Hope
               of
               a
               prey
               .
               There
               to
               the
               maine
               land
               ty'd
            
             
               A
               ship
               they
               saw
               ,
               no
               men
               shee
               had
               ;
               yet
               prest
            
             
               Appear'd
               with
               other
               lading
               ,
               for
               her
               brest
            
             
               Deep
               in
               the
               groaning
               waters
               wallowed
            
             
               Vp
               to
               the
               third
               Ring
               ;
               o're
               the
               shore
               was
               spread
            
             
               Death's
               purple
               triumph
               ,
               on
               the
               blushing
               ground
            
             
               Lifes
               late
               forsaken
               houses
               all
               lay
               drown'd
            
             
               In
               their
               owne
               bloods
               deare
               deluge
               some
               new
               dead
               ,
            
             
               Some
               panting
               in
               their
               yet
               warme
               ruines
               bled
               :
            
             
               While
               their
               affrighted
               soules
               ,
               now
               wing'd
               for
               flight
            
             
               Lent
               them
               the
               last
               flash
               of
               her
               glimmering
               light
               .
            
             
               Those
               yet
               fresh
               streames
               which
               crawled
               every
               where
            
             
               Shew'd
               ,
               that
               sterne
               warre
               had
               newly
               bath'd
               him
               there
               :
            
             
               Nor
               did
               the
               face
               of
               this
               disaster
               show
            
             
               Markes
               of
               a
               fight
               alone
               ,
               but
               feasting
               too
               ,
            
             
               A
               miserable
               and
               a
               monstrous
               feast
               ,
            
             
               Where
               hungry
               warre
               had
               made
               himself
               a
               Guest
               :
            
             
               And
               comming
               late
               had
               eat
               up
               Guests
               and
               all
               ,
            
             
               Who
               prov'd
               the
               feast
               to
               their
               owne
               funerall
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               Out
               of
               the
               Greeke
               Cupid's
               Cryer
               .
            
             
               
                 LOve
                 is
                 lost
                 ,
                 nor
                 can
                 his
                 Mother
              
               
                 Her
                 little
                 fugitive
                 discover
                 :
              
               
                 Shee
                 seekes
                 ,
                 shee
                 sighs
                 ,
                 but
                 no
                 where
                 spyes
                 him
                 ;
              
               
                 Love
                 is
                 lost
                 ;
                 and
                 thus
                 shee
                 cryes
                 him
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 yes
                 !
                 if
                 any
                 happy
                 eye
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 roaving
                 wanton
                 shall
                 descry
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 the
                 finder
                 surely
                 know
              
               
                 Mine
                 is
                 the
                 wagge
                 ;
                 T
                 is
                 I
                 that
                 owe
              
               
                 The
                 winged
                 wand'rer
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 none
              
               
                 May
                 thinke
                 his
                 labour
                 vainely
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 glad
                 descryer
                 shall
                 not
                 misse
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 tast
                 the
                 Nectar
                 of
                 a
                 kisse
              
               
                 From
                 Venus
                 lipps
                 .
                 But
                 as
                 for
                 him
              
               
                 That
                 brings
                 him
                 to
                 mee
                 ,
                 hee
                 shall
                 swim
              
               
                 In
                 riper
                 joyes
                 :
                 more
                 shall
                 bee
                 his
              
               
                 (
                 Venus
                 assures
                 him
                 )
                 then
                 a
                 kisse
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 least
                 your
                 eye
                 discerning
                 slide
              
               
                 These
                 markes
                 may
                 bee
                 your
                 judgements
                 guide
              
               
                 His
                 skin
                 as
                 with
                 a
                 fiery
                 blushing
              
               
                 High-colour'd
                 is
                 ;
                 His
                 eyes
                 still
                 flushing
              
               
                 With
                 nimble
                 flames
                 ,
                 and
                 though
                 his
                 mind
              
               
                 Be
                 ne're
                 so
                 curst
                 ,
                 his
                 Tongue
                 is
                 kind
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 never
                 were
                 his
                 words
                 in
                 ought
              
               
                 Found
                 the
                 pure
                 issue
                 of
                 his
                 thought
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 working
                 Bees
                 soft
                 melting
                 Gold
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 which
                 their
                 waxen
                 Mines
                 enfold
                 ,
              
               
                 Flow
                 not
                 so
                 sweet
                 as
                 doe
                 the
                 Tones
              
               
                 Of
                 his
                 tun'd
                 accents
                 ;
                 but
                 if
                 once
              
               
                 His
                 anger
                 kindle
                 ,
                 presently
              
               
                 It
                 boyles
                 out
                 into
                 cruelty
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 fraud
                 :
                 Hee
                 makes
                 poore
                 mortalls
                 hurts
              
               
                 The
                 objects
                 of
                 his
                 cruell
                 sports
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 dainty
                 curles
                 his
                 froward
                 face
              
               
                 Is
                 crown'd
                 about
                 ;
                 But
                 ô
                 what
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 farthest
                 nooke
                 of
                 lowest
                 Hell
              
               
                 Feeles
                 not
                 the
                 strength
                 ,
                 the
                 reaching
                 spell
              
               
                 Of
                 his
                 small
                 hand
                 ?
                 Yet
                 not
                 so
                 small
              
               
                 As
                 't
                 is
                 powerfull
                 therewithall
                 .
              
               
                 Though
                 bare
                 his
                 skin
                 ,
                 his
                 mind
                 hee
                 covers
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 a
                 saucy
                 Bird
                 he
                 hovers
              
               
                 With
                 wanton
                 wing
                 ,
                 now
                 here
                 ,
                 now
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 'Bout
                 men
                 and
                 women
                 ,
                 nor
                 will
                 spare
              
               
                 Till
                 at
                 length
                 he
                 perching
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 closet
                 of
                 their
                 brest
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 weapon
                 is
                 a
                 little
                 Bow
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 such
                 a
                 one
                 as
                 (
                 Iove
                 knowes
                 how
                 )
              
               
                 Ne're
                 suffred
                 ,
                 yet
                 his
                 little
                 Arrow
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Heavens
                 high'st
                 Arches
                 to
                 fall
                 narrow
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Gold
                 that
                 on
                 his
                 Quiver
                 smiles
                 ,
              
               
                 Deceives
                 mens
                 feares
                 with
                 flattering
                 wiles
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 ô
                 (
                 too
                 well
                 my
                 wounds
                 can
                 tell
                 )
              
               
                 With
                 bitter
                 shafts
                 't
                 is
                 sauc't
                 too
                 well
                 .
              
               
                 Hee
                 is
                 all
                 cruell
                 ,
                 cruell
                 all
                 ;
              
               
                 His
                 Torch
                 Imperious
                 though
                 but
                 small
              
               
                 Makes
                 the
                 Sunne
                 (
                 of
                 flames
                 the
                 fire
                 )
              
               
                 Worse
                 then
                 Sun-burnt
                 in
                 his
                 fire
                 .
              
               
                 Wheresoe're
                 you
                 chance
                 to
                 find
                 him
              
               
                 Cease
                 him
                 ,
                 bring
                 him
                 ,
                 (
                 but
                 first
                 bind
                 him
                 )
              
               
                 Pitty
                 not
                 him
                 ,
                 but
                 feare
                 thy selfe
              
               
                 Though
                 thou
                 see
                 the
                 crafty
                 Else
                 ,
              
               
                 Tell
                 down
                 his
                 Silver-drops
                 unto
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 'r
                 counterfeit
                 ,
                 and
                 will
                 undoe
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 baited
                 smiles
                 if
                 he
                 display
              
               
                 His
                 ●awning
                 cheeks
                 ,
                 looke
                 not
                 that
                 way
              
               
                 If
                 hee
                 offer
                 sugred
                 kisses
                 ,
              
               
                 Start
                 ,
                 and
                 say
                 ,
                 The
                 Serpent
                 hisses
                 .
              
               
               
                 Draw
                 him
                 ,
                 drag
                 him
                 ,
                 though
                 hee
                 pray
              
               
                 Wooe
                 ,
                 intreat
                 ,
                 and
                 crying
                 say
              
               
                 Prethee
                 ,
                 sweet
                 now
                 let
                 me
                 goe
                 ,
              
               
                 Here
                 's
                 my
                 Quiver
                 Shafts
                 and
                 Bow
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'le
                 give
                 thee
                 all
                 ,
                 take
                 all
                 ,
                 take
                 heed
              
               
                 Lest
                 his
                 kindnesse
                 make
                 thee
                 bleed
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 e're
                 it
                 be
                 Love
                 offers
                 ,
                 still
                 presume
              
               
                 That
                 though
                 it
                 shines
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 fire
                 and
                 will
                 consume
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 HIgh
                 mounted
                 on
                 an
                 Ant
                 Nanus
                 the
                 tall
              
               
                 Was
                 throwne
                 alas
                 ,
                 and
                 got
                 a
                 deadly
                 fall
              
               
                 Vnder
                 th'
                 unruly
                 Beasts
                 proud
                 feet
                 he
                 lies
              
               
                 All
                 torne
                 ;
                 with
                 much
                 adoe
                 yet
                 ere
                 he
                 dyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Hee
                 straines
                 thes●
                 words
                 ;
                 Base
                 Envy
                 ,
                 doe
                 ,
                 laugh
                 on
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 did
                 I
                 fall
                 ,
                 and
                 thus
                 fell
                 Phaethon
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Vpon
               Venus
               putting
               on
               Mars
               his
               Armes
               .
            
             
               WHat
               ?
               Mars
               his
               sword
               ?
               faire
               Cytherea
               say
               ,
            
             
               Why
               art
               thou
               arm'd
               so
               desperately
               to
               day
               ?
            
             
               Mars
               thou
               hast
               beaten
               naked
               ,
               and
               ô
               then
            
             
               What
               need'st
               thou
               put
               on
               armes
               against
               poore
               men
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Vpon
               the
               same
               .
            
             
               PAllas
               saw
               Venus
               arm'd
               ,
               and
               streight
               she
               cry'd
               ,
            
             
               Come
               if
               thou
               dar'st
               ,
               thus
               ,
               thus
               let
               us
               be
               try'd
               .
            
             
               Why
               foole
               !
               saies
               Venus
               ,
               thus
               provok'st
               thou
               mee
               ,
            
             
               That
               being
               nak't
               ,
               thou
               know'st
               could
               conquer
               thee
               ?
            
          
           
             
             
               In
               Senerissimae
               Reginae
               partum
               hyemalem
               .
            
             
               SErta
               ,
               puer
               :
               (
               quis
               nunc
               flores
               non
               praebeat
               hortus
               ?
               )
            
             
               ●exe
               mihi
               facili
               pollice
               serta
               ,
               puer
               .
            
             
               Quid
               tu
               nescio
               quos
               narras
               mihi
               ,
               stulte
               ,
               Decembres
               ?
            
             
               Quid
               mihi
               cum
               nivibus
               ?
               damihi
               serta
               ,
               puer
               .
            
             
               Nix
               ?
               &
               byems
               ?
               non
               est
               nostras
               quid
               tale
               per
               oras
               ;
            
             
               Non
               est
               :
               vel
               si
               sit
               ,
               non
               tamen
               esse
               potest
               .
            
             
               Ver
               agitur
               :
               quaecunque
               trucem
               dat
               larva
               Decembrem
               ,
            
             
               Quid
               fera
               cunque
               fremant
               frigora
               ,
               ver
               agitur
               .
            
             
               Nónne
               vides
               quali
               se
               palmite
               regia
               vitis
            
             
               Prodit
               ,
               &
               in
               sacris
               quae
               sedet
               uvajugis
               ?
            
             
               Tam
               laetis
               quae
               bruma
               solet
               ridere
               racemis
               ?
            
             
               Quas
               hyemis
               pingit
               purpura
               tanta
               genas
               ?
            
             
               O
               Maria
               !
               O
               divûm
               soboles
               ,
               genitrixque
               Deorum
               !
            
             
               Siccine
               nostra
               tuus
               tempora
               ludus
               erunt
               ?
            
             
               Siccine
               tu
               cum
               vere
               tuo
               nihil
               horrida
               brumae
            
             
               Sydera
               ,
               nil
               madidos
               sola
               morare
               notos
               ?
            
             
               Siccine
               sub
               medi●
               poterunt
               tua
               surgere
               brum●
               ,
            
             
               Atque
               suas
               solùm
               lilia
               nosse
               nives
               ?
            
             
               Ergò
               vel
               invitis
               nivibus
               ,
               frendentibus
               Austris
               ,
            
             
               Nostra
               novis
               poterunt
               regna
               tumere
               rosis
               ?
            
             
               O
               bona
               turbatrix
               anni
               ,
               quae
               limite
               noto
            
             
               Tempora
               sub
               signis
               non
               sinis
               ire
               suis
            
             
               O
               pia
               praedatrix
               hyemis
               ,
               quae
               tristia
               mundi
            
             
               Murmura
               tam
               dulci
               sub
               ditione
               tenes
               !
            
             
               Perge
               precor
               nostris
               vim
               pulchram
               ferre
               Calendis
               :
            
             
               Perge
               precor
               menses
               sic
               numerare
               tuos
               .
            
             
               Perge
               intempestiva
               utque
               importuna
               videri
               ;
            
             
               Inque
               uteri
               titulos
               sic
               rape
               cuncta
               tui
               .
            
             
               Sit
               nobis
               sit
               saepe
               hyemes
               sic
               cernere
               nostras
            
             
               Exhaeredatas
               floribus
               ire
               tuis
               .
            
             
             
               Saepe
               sit
               has
               vernas
               hyemes
               Maiosque
               Decembres
               ,
            
             
               Has
               per
               te
               roseas
               saepe
               videre
               nives
               .
            
             
               Altera
               gens
               varium
               per
               sydera
               computet
               annum
               ,
            
             
               Atque
               suos
               ducant
               per
               ●aga
               signa
               dies
               .
            
             
               Nos
               deceat
               nimiis
               tantum
               permittere
               nimbis
               ?
            
             
               Tempora
               tam
               tetricas
               ferre
               Britanna
               vices
               ?
            
             
               Quin
               nosirum
               tibi
               nos
               omnem
               donabimus
               annum
               :
            
             
               In
               partus
               omnem
               expende
               ,
               Maria
               ,
               tuos
               .
            
             
               Sit
               tuus
               ille
               uterus
               nostri
               bonus
               arbiter
               anni
               :
            
             
               Tempus
               &
               in
               titulos
               transeat
               omne
               tuos
               .
            
             
               Namquae
               alia
               indueret
               tam
               dulcia
               nomina
               mensis
               ?
            
             
               Aut
               qua
               tam
               posset
               candidus
               ire
               toga
               ?
            
             
               Hanc
               laurum
               Ianus
               sibi
               vertice
               vellet
               utroque
               ,
            
             
               Hanc
               sibi
               vel
               tota
               Chloride
               Majus
               emet
               .
            
             
               Tota
               suam
               (
               vere
               expulso
               )
               respublica
               florum
            
             
               Reginam
               cuperent
               te
               ,
               sobolemve
               tuam
               .
            
             
               O
               bona
               sors
               anni
               ,
               cum
               cuncti
               ex
               ordine
               menses
            
             
               Hic
               mihi
               Carolides
               ,
               hic
               Marianus
               erit
               !
            
          
           
             
             
               Vpon
               Bishop
               Andrewes
               his
               Picture
               before
               his
               Sermons
               .
            
             
               THis
               reverend
               shadow
               cast
               that
               setting
               Sun
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               glorious
               course
               through
               our
               Horrizon
               run
               ,
            
             
               Left
               the
               dimme
               face
               of
               this
               dull
               Hemisphaeare
               ,
            
             
               All
               one
               great
               eye
               ,
               all
               drown'd
               in
               one
               great
               Teare
               .
            
             
               Whose
               faire
               illustrious
               soule
               ,
               led
               his
               free
               thought
            
             
               Through
               Learnings
               Vniverse
               ,
               and
               (
               vainely
               )
               sought
            
             
               Roome
               for
               her
               spatious
               selfe
               ,
               untill
               at
               length
            
             
               Shee
               found
               the
               way
               home
               ,
               with
               an
               holy
               strength
            
             
               Snathc't
               her self
               hence
               ,
               to
               Heaven
               :
               fill'd
               a
               bright
               place
               ,
            
             
               Mongst
               those
               immortall
               fires
               ,
               and
               on
               the
               face
            
             
               Of
               her
               great
               maker
               fixt
               her
               flaming
               eye
               ,
            
             
               There
               still
               to
               read
               true
               pure
               divinity
               .
            
             
               And
               now
               that
               grave
               aspect
               hath
               deign'd
               to
               shrinke
            
             
               Into
               this
               lesse
               appearance
               ;
               If
               you
               thinke
               ,
            
             
               T
               is
               but
               a
               dead
               face
               ,
               art
               doth
               here
               bequeath
               :
            
             
               Looke
               on
               the
               following
               leaves
               ,
               and
               see
               him
               breath
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Ad
               Reginam
               .
            
             
               ET
               verò
               jam
               tempus
               erat
               tibi
               ,
               maxima
               Mater
               ,
            
             
               Dulcibus
               his
               oculis
               accelerare
               diem
               :
            
             
               Tempus
               erat
               ,
               ne
               qua
               tibi
               basia
               blanda
               vacarent
               ;
            
             
               Sarcina
               ne
               collo
               sit
               minùs
               apta
               tuo
               .
            
             
               Scilicet
               ille
               tuus
               ,
               timor
               &
               spes
               ille
               suorum
               ,
            
             
               Quo
               primumes
               felix
               pignore
               facta
               parens
               ,
            
             
               Ille
               ferox
               iras
               jam
               nunc
               meditatur
               &
               enses
               ;
            
             
               Iam
               patris
               magis
               est
               ,
               jam
               magis
               ille
               suus
               .
            
             
               Indolis
               O
               stimulos
               !
               Vix
               dum
               illi
               transiit
               infans
               ;
            
             
               Iamque
               sibi
               impatiens
               arripit
               ille
               virum
               .
            
             
               Improbus
               ille
               suis
               adeò
               negat
               ire
               sub
               annis
               :
            
             
               Iam
               nondum
               puer
               est
               ,
               major
               &
               est
               puero
               ,
            
             
               Si
               quis
               in
               aulaeis
               pictas
               animatus
               in
               iras
            
             
               Stat
               leo
               ,
               quem
               docta
               cuspide
               lusit
               acus
               ,
            
             
               Hostis
               (
               io
               !
               )
               est
               ;
               neque
               enim
               ille
               alium
               dignabitur
               hostem
               ;
            
             
               Nempe
               decet
               tantus
               non
               minor
               ira
               manus
               .
            
             
               Tunc
               hasta
               gravis
               adversum
               furit
               ;
               hasta
               bacillum
               est
               :
            
             
               Mox
               falsum
               vero
               vulnere
               pectus
               hiat
               .
            
             
               Stat
               leo
               ,
               ceu
               stupeat
               tali
               bene
               fixus
               ab
               hoste
               ;
            
             
               Ceu
               quid
               in
               his
               oculis
               vel
               timeat
               vel
               amet
               ,
            
             
               Tam
               torvum
               ,
               tam
               dulce
               micane
               :
               nescire
               ●atetur
            
             
               Márs
               ne
               sub
               his
               oculis
               esset
               ,
               an
               esset
               Amor.
            
             
               Quippe
               illîc
               Mars
               est
               .
               sed
               qui
               bene
               possit
               amari
               ;
            
             
               Est
               &
               Amor
               certe
               ,
               sed
               metuendus
               Amor
               :
            
             
               Talis
               Amor
               ,
               talis
               Mars
               est
               ibi
               cernere
               ;
               qualis
            
             
               Seu
               puer
               hic
               esset
               ,
               sive
               vir
               ille
               deus
               .
            
             
               Hic
               tibi
               jam
               scitus
               succedit
               in
               oscula
               fratris
               ,
            
             
               Res
               (
               ecce
               !
               )
               in
               lusus
               non
               operosa
               tuos
               .
            
             
               Basia
               jam
               veniant
               tua
               quatacunque
               caterva
               ;
            
             
               Iam
               quocunque
               tuus
               murmure
               ludat
               amor
               .
            
             
               En
               !
               Tibi
               materies
               tenera
               &
               tractabilis
               hic
               est
               :
            
             
               Hic
               ad
               blanditias
               est
               tibi
               cera
               satis
               .
            
             
             
               Salve
               infans
               ,
               tot
               basiolis
               ,
               molle
               argumentum
               ,
            
             
               Maternis
               labiis
               dulce
               negotiolum
               ,
            
             
               O
               salve
               !
               Nam
               te
               nato
               ,
               puer
               aur●e
               ,
               natus
            
             
               Et
               Carolo
               &
               Mariae
               Tertius
               est
               oculus
               .
            
          
           
             
               Out
               of
               Martiall
               .
            
             
               
                 FOure
                 Teeth
                 thou
                 had'st
                 that
                 ranck'd
                 in
                 goodly
                 state
              
               
                 Kept
                 thy
                 Mouthes
                 Gate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 first
                 blast
                 of
                 thy
                 cough
                 left
                 two
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 second
                 ,
                 none
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 This
                 last
                 cough
                 Aelia
                 ,
                 cought
                 out
                 all
                 thy
                 feare
                 ,
              
               
                 Th'
                 hast
                 left
                 the
                 third
                 cough
                 now
                 no
                 businesse
                 here
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Out
               of
               the
               Italian
               .
               A
               Song
               .
            
             
               
                 To
                 thy
                 Lover
              
               
                 Deere
                 ,
                 discover
              
               
                 That
                 sweet
                 blush
                 of
                 thine
                 that
                 shameth
              
               
                 (
                 When
                 those
                 Roses
              
               
                 It
                 discloses
                 )
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 flowers
                 that
                 Nature
                 nameth
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 free
                 Ayre
                 ,
              
               
                 Flow
                 thy
                 Haire
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 no
                 more
                 Summers
                 best
                 dresses
                 ,
              
               
                 Bee
                 beholden
              
               
                 For
                 their
                 Golden
              
               
                 Lockes
                 ,
                 to
                 Phoebus
                 flaming
                 Tresses
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 O
                 deliver
              
               
                 Love
                 his
                 Quiver
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 thy
                 Eyes
                 he
                 shoots
                 his
                 Arrowes
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Apollo
              
               
                 Cannot
                 follow
                 :
              
               
                 Featherd
                 with
                 his
                 Mothers
                 Sparrowes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 O
                 envy
                 not
              
               
                 (
                 That
                 we
                 dye
                 not
                 )
              
               
                 Those
                 deere
                 lips
                 whose
                 doore
                 encloses
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 Graces
              
               
                 In
                 their
                 places
                 ,
              
               
                 Brother
                 Pearles
                 ,
                 and
                 sister
                 Roses
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 From
                 these
                 treasures
              
               
                 Of
                 ripe
                 pleasures
              
               
                 One
                 bright
                 smile
                 to
                 cle●re
                 the
                 weather
                 .
              
               
                 Earth
                 and
                 Heaven
              
               
                 Thus
                 made
                 even
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 will
                 he
                 good
                 friends
                 together
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 aire
                 does
                 wooe
                 thee
                 ;
              
               
                 Winds
                 cling
                 to
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Might
                 a
                 word
                 once
                 flye
                 from
                 out
                 thee
                 ▪
              
               
                 Storme
                 and
                 Thunder
              
               
                 Would
                 sit
                 under
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 keepe
                 silence
                 round
                 about
                 Thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 if
                 Natures
              
               
                 Common
                 Creatures
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 deare
                 Glories
                 dare
                 not
                 borrow
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 thy
                 Beauty
              
               
                 Owes
                 a
                 Duty
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 loving
                 ,
                 lingring
                 sorrow
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 When
                 to
                 end
                 mee
              
               
                 Death
                 shall
                 send
                 mee
              
               
                 All
                 his
                 Terrors
                 to
                 affright
                 mee
                 :
              
               
                 Thine
                 eyes
                 Graces
                 ,
              
               
                 Guild
                 their
                 faces
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 those
                 Terrors
                 shall
                 delight
                 mee
                 ▪
              
            
             
               
                 When
                 my
                 dying
              
               
                 Life
                 is
                 flying
                 ;
              
               
                 Those
                 sweet
                 Aires
                 that
                 often
                 slew
                 mee
                 ;
              
               
                 Shall
                 revive
                 mee
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 reprive
                 mee
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 many
                 Deaths
                 renew
                 mee
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Out
               of
               the
               Italian
               .
            
             
               
                 LOve
                 now
                 no
                 fire
                 hath
                 left
                 him
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 two
                 betwixt
                 us
                 have
                 divided
                 it
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 Eyes
                 the
                 Light
                 hath
                 r●st
                 him
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 heat
                 commanding
                 in
                 my
                 Heart
                 doth
                 sit
                 ,
              
               
                 O!
                 that
                 poore
                 Love
                 be
                 not
                 for
                 ever
                 spoyled
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 my
                 Heat
                 to
                 your
                 Light
                 be
                 reconciled
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 So
                 shall
                 these
                 flames
                 ,
                 whose
                 worth
              
               
                 Now
                 all
                 obscured
                 lyes
              
               
                 (
                 Drest
                 in
                 those
                 Beames
                 )
                 start
                 forth
              
               
                 And
                 dance
                 before
                 your
                 eyes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Or
                 else
                 partake
                 my
                 flames
              
               
                 (
                 I
                 care
                 not
                 whither
                 )
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 in
                 mutuall
                 Names
              
               
                 Of
                 Love
                 ,
                 burne
                 both
                 together
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Out
               of
               the
               Italian
               .
            
             
               WOuld
               any
               one
               the
               true
               cause
               find
            
             
               How
               Love
               came
               nak't
               ,
               a
               Boy
               ,
               and
               blind
               ?
            
             
               'T
               is
               this
               ;
               listning
               one
               day
               too
               long
               ,
            
             
               To
               th'
               Syrens
               in
               my
               Mistresse
               Song
               ,
            
             
               The
               extasie
               of
               a
               delight
            
             
               So
               much
               o're-mastring
               all
               his
               might
               ,
            
             
               To
               that
               one
               Sense
               ,
               made
               all
               else
               thrall
               ,
            
             
               And
               so
               he
               lost
               his
               Clothes
               ,
               eyes
               ,
               heart
               and
               all
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               In
               faciem
               Augustiff
               .
               Regis
               à
               morbillis
               integram
               .
            
             
               MVsaredt
               ;
               vocat
               alma
               parens
               Academia
               :
               Noster
            
             
               Enredit
               ,
               ore
               suo
               noster
               Apollo
               redit
               .
            
             
               Vultus
               adhuc
               suus
               ,
               &
               vultu
               sua
               purpura
               tantum
            
             
               Vivit
               ,
               &
               admixtas
               pergit
               amare
               nives
               .
            
             
               Tune
               illas
               violare
               genas
               ?
               tune
               illa
               profanis
               ,
            
             
               Morbe
               ferox
               ,
               tantas
               ire
               per
               or
               a
               notis
               ?
            
             
               Tu
               Phoebi
               faciem
               tentas
               ,
               vanissime
               ?
               Nostra
            
             
               Nee
               Phoebe
               maculas
               novit
               habere
               suas
               .
            
             
               Ipsa
               sui
               vindex
               facies
               morbum
               indignatur
               ;
            
             
               Ipsa
               sedet
               radiis
               ô
               bene
               tuta
               suis
               :
            
             
               Quippe
               illic
               deus
               est
               ,
               coelûmque
               &
               sanctius
               astrum
               ;
            
             
               Quippe
               sub
               his
               totus
               ridet
               Apollo
               genis
               .
            
             
               Quòd
               facie
               Rex
               tutus
               erat
               ,
               quòd
               caetera
               tactus
               :
            
             
               Hinc
               hominem
               Rex
               est
               fassus
               ,
               &
               inde
               deum
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               On
               the
               Frontispiece
               of
               Isaacsons
               Chronologie
               explained
               .
            
             
               IF
               with
               dictinctive
               Eye
               ,
               and
               Mind
               ,
               you
               looke
            
             
               Vpon
               the
               Front
               ,
               you
               see
               more
               then
               one
               Booke
               ▪
            
             
               Creation
               is
               
                 Gods
                 Booke
              
               ,
               wherein
               he
               writ
            
             
               Each
               Creature
               ,
               as
               a
               Letter
               filling
               it
               .
            
             
               History
               is
               Creations
               Booke
               ;
               which
               showes
            
             
               To
               what
               effects
               the
               Series
               of
               it
               goes
               .
            
             
               
               Chronologie's
               the
               Booke
               of
               Historie
               ,
               and
               beares
            
             
               The
               just
               account
               of
               
                 Dayes
                 ,
                 Moneths
              
               ,
               and
               Yeares
               ▪
            
             
               But
               Resurrection
               ,
               in
               a
               Later
               Presse
               ,
            
             
               And
               
                 New
                 Edition
              
               ,
               is
               the
               summe
               of
               these
               .
            
             
               The
               Language
               of
               these
               Bookes
               had
               all
               been
               one
               ,
            
             
               Had
               not
               th'
               
                 Aspiring
                 Tower
                 of
                 Babylon
              
            
             
               Confus'd
               the
               Tongues
               ,
               and
               in
               a
               distance
               hurl'd
            
             
               As
               farre
               the
               speech
               ,
               as
               men
               ,
               o
               th'
               new
               fill'd
               world
               .
            
             
               Set
               then
               your
               eyes
               in
               method
               ,
               and
               behold
            
             
               Times
               embleme
               ,
               Saturne
               ;
               who
               ,
               when
               store
               of
               Gold
            
             
               Coyn'd
               the
               first
               age
               ,
               Devour'd
               that
               Birth
               ,
               he
               fear'd
               ;
            
             
               Till
               History
               ,
               Times
               eldest
               Child
               appear'd
               ;
            
             
               And
               
               Phoenix-like
               ,
               in
               spight
               of
               Saturnes
               rage
               ,
            
             
               Forc'd
               from
               her
               Ashes
               ,
               Heyres
               in
               every
               age
               .
            
             
               From
               th'
               
                 rising
                 Sunne
              
               ,
               obtaining
               by
               just
               Suit
               ,
            
             
               A
               
                 Springs
                 Ingender
              
               ,
               and
               an
               
                 Autumnes
                 Fruit.
              
            
             
               Who
               in
               those
               Volumes
               at
               her
               motion
               pen'd
               ,
            
             
               Vnto
               
                 Creations
                 Alpha
              
               doth
               extend
               .
            
             
               Againe
               ascend
               ,
               and
               view
               Chronology
               ,
            
             
               By
               
                 Optick
                 Skill
              
               pulling
               farre
               History
            
             
               Neerer
               ;
               whose
               Hand
               the
               piercing
               Eagles
               Eye
            
             
               Strengthens
               ,
               to
               bring
               remotest
               Objects
               nigh
               .
            
             
             
               Vnder
               whose
               Feet
               ,
               you
               see
               the
               
                 Setting
                 Sunne
              
               ,
            
             
               From
               the
               darke
               Gnomon
               ,
               o're
               her
               Volumes
               runne
               ,
            
             
               Drown'd
               in
               eternall
               Night
               ,
               never
               to
               rise
               ;
            
             
               Till
               Resurrection
               ,
               show
               it
               to
               the
               eyes
            
             
               Of
               
               Earth-worne
               men
               ;
               and
               her
               shrill
               Trumpets
               sound
            
             
               Affright
               the
               Bones
               of
               Mortals
               from
               the
               ground
               .
            
             
               The
               Columnes
               both
               are
               crown'd
               with
               either
               Sphere
               ,
            
             
               To
               show
               Chronology
               and
               History
               beare
               ,
            
             
               No
               other
               Culmen
               ;
               then
               the
               double
               Art
               ,
            
             
               
                 Astronomy
                 ,
                 Geography
              
               ,
               impart
               .
            
          
           
             
               Or
               Thus.
               
            
             
               LEt
               hoary
               Time's
               vast
               Bowels
               be
               the
               Grave
            
             
               To
               what
               his
               Bowels
               birth
               and
               being
               gave
               ;
            
             
               Let
               Nature
               die
               ,
               (
               
               Phoenix-like
               )
               from
               death
            
             
               Revived
               Nature
               take
               a
               second
               breath
               ;
            
             
               If
               on
               Times
               right
               hand
               ,
               s●t
               fai●e
               Historie
               ;
            
             
               If
               ,
               from
               the
               seed
               of
               empty
               Ruine
               ,
               she
            
             
               Can
               raise
               so
               faire
               an
               Harvest
               :
               Let
               Her
               be
            
             
               Ne're
               so
               farre
               distant
               ,
               yet
               Chronologie
            
             
               (
               Sharpe
               sighted
               as
               the
               Eagles
               eye
               ,
               that
               can
            
             
               Out-stare
               the
               broad-beam'd
               Dayes
               Meridian
               )
            
             
               Will
               have
               a
               Perspicill
               to
               find
               her
               out
               ,
            
             
               And
               ,
               through
               the
               Night
               of
               error
               and
               dark
               doubt
               ▪
            
             
               Discerne
               the
               Dawne
               of
               Truth
               's
               eternall
               ray
               ,
            
             
               As
               when
               the
               rosie
               Morne
               budds
               into
               Day
               .
            
             
               Now
               that
               
               Time's
               Empire
               might
               be
               amply
               fill'd
               ▪
            
             
               Babels
               bold
               Artists
               strive
               (
               below
               )
               to
               build
            
             
               Ruine
               a
               Temple
               ;
               on
               whose
               fruitfull
               fall
            
             
               History
               reares
               her
               Pyramids
               more
               tall
            
             
               Then
               were
               th'
               Aegyptian
               (
               by
               the
               life
               ,
               the●e
               give
               ,
            
             
               Th'
               
                 Egyptian
                 Pyramids
              
               themselves
               must
               live
               :
               )
            
             
             
               On
               these
               she
               lifts
               the
               World
               ;
               and
               on
               their
               base
            
             
               Shewes
               the
               two
               termes
               and
               limits
               of
               
               Time's
               race
               :
            
             
               That
               ,
               the
               Creation
               is
               ;
               the
               Iudgement
               ,
               this
               ;
            
             
               That
               ,
               the
               World's
               Morning
               ,
               this
               her
               Midnight
               is
               .
            
          
           
             
               An
               Epitaph
               Vpon
               Mr.
               Ashton
               a
               conformable
               Citizen
               .
            
             
               THe
               modest
               front
               of
               this
               small
               floore
            
             
               Beleeve
               mee
               ,
               Reader
               can
               say
               more
            
             
               Then
               many
               a
               braver
               Marble
               can
               ,
            
             
               Here
               lyes
               a
               truly
               honest
               man.
            
             
               One
               whose
               Conscience
               was
               a
               thing
               ,
            
             
               That
               troubled
               neither
               Church
               nor
               King.
            
             
               One
               of
               those
               few
               that
               in
               this
               Towne
               ,
            
             
               Honour
               all
               Preachers
               ;
               heare
               their
               owne
               .
            
             
               Sermons
               he
               heard
               ,
               yet
               not
               so
               many
            
             
               As
               left
               no
               time
               to
               practise
               any
               .
            
             
               Hee
               heard
               them
               reverendly
               ,
               and
               then
            
             
               His
               practice
               preach'd
               them
               o're
               agen
               .
            
             
               His
               Parlour-Sermons
               rather
               were
               .
            
             
               Those
               to
               the
               Eye
               ,
               then
               to
               the
               Eare.
            
             
               His
               prayers
               tooke
               their
               price
               and
               strength
            
             
               Not
               from
               the
               lowdnesse
               ,
               nor
               the
               length
               .
            
             
               Hee
               was
               a
               Protestant
               at
               home
               ,
            
             
               Not
               onely
               in
               despight
               of
               Rome
               .
            
             
               Hee
               lov'd
               his
               Father
               ;
               yet
               his
               zeale
            
             
               Tore
               not
               off
               his
               Mothers
               veile
               .
            
             
               To
               th'
               Church
               hee
               did
               allow
               her
               Dresse
               ,
            
             
               True
               Beauty
               ,
               to
               true
               Holinesse
               .
            
             
             
               Peace
               ,
               which
               hee
               lov'd
               in
               Life
               ,
               did
               lend
            
             
               Her
               hand
               to
               bring
               him
               to
               his
               end
               ;
            
             
               When
               Age
               and
               Death
               call'd
               for
               the
               score
               ,
            
             
               No
               surfets
               were
               to
               reckon
               for
               .
            
             
               Death
               tore
               not
               (
               therefore
               )
               but
               sans
               strife
            
             
               Gently
               untwin'd
               his
               thread
               of
               Life
               .
            
             
               What
               remaines
               then
               ,
               but
               that
               Thou
            
             
               Write
               these
               lines
               ,
               Reader
               ,
               in
               thy
               Brow
               ,
            
             
               And
               by
               his
               faire
               Examples
               light
               ,
            
             
               Burne
               in
               thy
               Imitation
               bright
               .
            
             
               So
               while
               these
               Lines
               can
               but
               bequeath
            
             
               A
               Life
               perhaps
               unto
               his
               Death
               .
            
             
               His
               better
               Epitaph
               shall
               bee
               ,
            
             
               His
               Life
               still
               kept
               alive
               in
               Thee
               .
            
          
           
             
               Rex
               Redux
               .
            
             
               
                 I
                 Lle
                 redit
                 ,
                 redit
              
               .
               Hoc
               populi
               bona
               murmura
               vol●unt
               ;
            
             
               Publicus
               hoc
               (
               audin
               '
               ?
               )
               plausus
               ad
               astra
               refert
               :
            
             
               Hoc
               omn●
               sedet
               in
               vultu
               commune
               serenum
               ;
            
             
               Omnibus
               hinc
               una
               est
               laetitiae
               facies
               .
            
             
               Rex
               noster
               ,
               lux
               nostra
               redit
               ;
               redeuntis
               ad
               ora
            
             
               Aridet
               totis
               Anglia
               laeta
               genis
               :
            
             
               Quisque
               suos
               oculos
               oculis
               accendit
               ab
               istis
               ;
            
             
               Atque
               novum
               sacro
               sumit
               ab
               ore
               diem
               .
            
             
               Forte
               roges
               tanto
               quae
               digna
               pericula
               plausu
            
             
               Evadat
               Carolus
               ,
               quae
               mala
               ,
               quósve
               metus
               ;
            
             
               Anne
               perrerati
               male
               fida
               volumina
               ponti
            
             
               Ausa
               illum
               terris
               pene
               negare
               suis
               :
            
             
               Hospitis
               an
               nimii
               rurcus
               sibi
               conscia
               ,
               tellus
            
             
               Vix
               bene
               speratum
               reddat
               Ibera
               caput
               .
            
             
               Nil
               horum
               ;
               nec
               enim
               male
               fida
               volumina
               ponti
            
             
               Aut
               sacrum
               tellus
               vidi●
               Ibera
               caput
               .
            
             
             
               Verus
               amor
               tamen
               haec
               sibi
               falsa
               pericula
               fingit
               :
            
             
               (
               Falsa
               peric'la
               solet
               fingere
               verus
               amor
               )
            
             
               At
               Carolo
               qui
               falsa
               timet
               ,
               nec
               vera
               timeret
               :
            
             
               (
               Vera
               peric'la
               solet
               temnere
               verus
               amor
               )
            
             
               Illi
               falsa
               timens
               ,
               sibi
               vera
               pericula
               temnens
               ,
            
             
               Non
               solum
               est
               fidus
               ,
               sed
               quoque
               fortis
               amor
               .
            
             
               Interea
               nostri
               satis
               ille
               est
               causa
               triumphi
               :
            
             
               Et
               satis
               (
               ah
               !
               )
               nostri
               causa
               doloris
               erat
               .
            
             
               Causa
               doloris
               erat
               Carolus
               ,
               sospes
               licet
               esset
               ;
            
             
               Anglia
               quod
               saltem
               discere
               posset
               ,
               Abest
               .
            
             
               Et
               satis
               est
               nostri
               Carolus
               nunc
               causa
               triumphi
               ;
            
             
               Dicere
               quod
               saltem
               possumus
               ,
               
                 Ille
                 redit
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               Out
               of
               Catullus
               ,
            
             
               COme
               and
               let
               us
               live
               my
               Deare
               ,
            
             
               Let
               us
               love
               and
               never
               feare
               ,
            
             
               What
               the
               sowrest
               Fathers
               say
               :
            
             
               Brightest
               Sol
               that
               dyes
               to
               day
            
             
               Lives
               againe
               as
               blith
               to
               morrow
               ,
            
             
               But
               if
               we
               darke
               sons
               of
               sorrow
            
             
               Set
               ;
               ô
               then
               ,
               how
               long
               a
               Night
            
             
               Shuts
               the
               Eyes
               of
               our
               short
               light
               !
            
             
               Then
               let
               amorous
               kisses
               dwell
            
             
               On
               our
               lips
               ,
               begin
               and
               tell
            
             
               A
               Thousand
               ,
               and
               a
               Hundred
               score
            
             
               An
               Hundred
               ,
               and
               a
               Thousand
               more
               ,
            
             
               Till
               another
               Thousand
               smother
            
             
               That
               ,
               and
               that
               wipe
               of
               another
               .
            
             
               Thus
               at
               last
               when
               we
               have
               numbred
            
             
               Many
               a
               Thousand
               ,
               many
               a
               Hundred
               ;
            
             
             
               Wee
               'l
               confound
               the
               reckoning
               quite
               ,
            
             
               And
               lose
               our selves
               in
               wild
               delight
               :
            
             
               While
               our
               joyes
               so
               multiply
               ,
            
             
               As
               shall
               mocke
               the
               envious
               eye
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Ad
               Principem
               nondum
               natum
               .
            
             
               NAscere
               nunc
               ;
               ô
               nunc
               !
               quid
               enim
               ,
               puer
               alme
               ,
               moraris
               ?
            
             
               Nulla
               tibi
               dederit
               dulcior
               hora
               diem
               .
            
             
               Ergone
               tot
               tardos
               (
               ô
               lente
               !
               )
               morabere
               menses
               ?
            
             
               
                 Rex
                 redit
              
               .
               Ipse
               veni
               ,
               &
               dic
               bone
               ,
               
                 Gratus
                 ades
              
               .
            
             
               Nam
               quid
               Ave
               nostrum
               ?
               quid
               nostri
               verba
               triumphi
               ?
            
             
               Vagitu
               melius
               dixeris
               ista
               tuo
               .
            
             
               At
               maneas
               tamen
               :
               &
               nobis
               nova
               causa
               triumphi
            
             
               Sic
               demum
               fueris
               ;
               nec
               nova
               causa
               tamen
               :
            
             
               Nam
               ,
               quoties
               Carolo
               novus
               aut
               nova
               nascitur
               infans
               ,
            
             
               Revera
               toties
               Carolus
               ipse
               redit
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Wishes
               .
               To
               his
               (
               supposed
               )
               Mistresse
               .
            
             
               
                 WHo
                 ere
                 shee
                 bee
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 not
                 impossible
                 shee
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 shall
                 command
                 my
                 heart
                 and
                 mee
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 Where
                 ere
                 shee
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 Lock't
                 up
                 from
                 mortall
                 Eye
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 shady
                 leaves
                 of
                 Destiny
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 Till
                 that
                 ripe
                 Birth
              
               
                 Of
                 studied
                 fate
                 stand
                 forth
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 teach
                 her
                 faire
                 steps
                 to
                 our
                 Earth
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 Till
                 that
                 Divine
              
               
                 Idaea
                 ,
                 take
                 a
                 shrine
              
               
                 Of
                 Chrystall
                 flesh
                 ,
                 through
                 which
                 to
                 shine
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 Meet
                 you
                 her
                 my
                 wishes
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 speake
                 her
                 to
                 my
                 blisses
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bee
                 yee
                 call'd
                 my
                 absent
                 kisses
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 wish
                 her
                 Beauty
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 owes
                 not
                 all
                 his
                 Duty
              
               
                 To
                 gaudy
                 Tire
                 ,
                 or
                 glistring
                 shoo-ty
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Something
                 more
                 than
              
               
                 Taffata
                 or
                 Tissew
                 can
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 rampant
                 feather
                 ,
                 or
                 rich
                 fan
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 More
                 then
                 the
                 spoyle
              
               
                 Of
                 shop
                 ,
                 or
                 silkewormes
                 Toyle
              
               
                 Or
                 a
                 bought
                 blush
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 set
                 smile
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 face
                 that
                 's
                 best
              
               
                 By
                 its
                 owne
                 beauty
                 drest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 can
                 alone
                 command
                 the
                 rest
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 face
                 made
                 up
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 no
                 other
                 shop
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 what
                 natures
                 white
                 hand
                 sets
                 ope
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 cheeke
                 where
                 Youth
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Blood
                 ,
                 with
                 Pen
                 of
                 Truth
              
               
                 Write
                 ,
                 what
                 the
                 Reader
                 sweetly
                 ru'th
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Cheeke
                 where
                 growes
              
               
                 More
                 then
                 a
                 Morning
                 Rose
                 :
              
               
                 Which
                 to
                 no
                 Boxe
                 his
                 being
                 owes
                 ▪
              
            
             
               
                 Lipps
                 ,
                 where
                 all
                 Day
              
               
                 A
                 lovers
                 kisse
                 may
                 play
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 carry
                 nothing
                 thence
                 away
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Lookes
                 that
                 oppresse
              
               
                 Their
                 richest
                 Tires
                 but
                 dresse
              
               
                 And
                 cloath
                 their
                 simplest
                 Nakednesse
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 that
                 displaces
              
               
                 The
                 Neighbour
                 Diamond
                 ,
                 and
                 out
                 faces
              
               
                 That
                 Sunshine
                 by
                 their
                 owne
                 sweet
                 Graces
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Tresses
                 ,
                 that
                 weare
              
               
                 Iewells
                 ,
                 but
                 to
                 declare
              
               
                 How
                 much
                 themselves
                 more
                 pretious
                 are
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Whose
                 native
                 Ray
                 ,
              
               
                 Can
                 tame
                 the
                 wanton
                 Day
              
               
                 Of
                 Gems
                 ,
                 that
                 in
                 their
                 bright
                 shades
                 play
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Each
                 Ruby
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Pearle
                 that
                 dare
                 appeare
                 ,
              
               
                 Bee
                 its
                 owne
                 blush
                 ,
                 bee
                 its
                 owne
                 Tea●e
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 well
                 tam'd
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 whose
                 more
                 noble
                 smart
                 ,
              
               
                 Love
                 may
                 bee
                 long
                 chusing
                 a
                 Dart.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 that
                 bestow
              
               
                 Full
                 quivers
                 on
                 loves
                 Bow
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 pay
                 lesse
                 Arrowes
                 then
                 they
                 owe.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Smiles
                 ,
                 that
                 can
                 warme
              
               
                 The
                 blood
                 ,
                 yet
                 teach
                 a
                 charme
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Chastity
                 shall
                 take
                 no
                 harme
                 ▪
              
            
             
               
                 Blushes
                 ,
                 that
                 bin
              
               
                 The
                 burnish
                 of
                 no
                 sin
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 flames
                 of
                 ought
                 too
                 hot
                 within
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Ioyes
                 ,
                 that
                 confesse
                 ,
              
               
                 Vertue
                 their
                 Mistresse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 have
                 no
                 other
                 head
                 to
                 dresse
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Feares
                 ,
                 fond
                 and
                 flight
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 the
                 coy
                 Brides
                 ,
                 when
                 Night
              
               
                 First
                 does
                 that
                 longing
                 lover
                 right
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Teares
                 ,
                 quickly
                 fled
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 vaine
                 ,
                 as
                 those
                 are
                 shed
              
               
                 For
                 a
                 dying
                 Maydenhead
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Dayes
                 ,
                 that
                 need
                 borrow
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 part
                 of
                 their
                 good
                 Morrow
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 a
                 ●ore
                 spent
                 night
                 of
                 sorrow
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Dayes
                 ,
                 that
                 in
                 spight
              
               
                 Of
                 Darkenesse
                 ,
                 by
                 the
                 Light
              
               
                 Of
                 a
                 cleere
                 mind
                 are
                 Day
                 all
                 Night
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Nights
                 ,
                 sweet
                 as
                 they
                 ,
              
               
                 Made
                 short
                 by
                 lovers
                 play
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 long
                 by
                 th'
                 absence
                 of
                 the
                 Day
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Life
                 ,
                 that
                 dares
                 send
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 challenge
                 to
                 his
                 end
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 it
                 comes
                 say
                 
                   Welcome
                   Friend
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sydnaean
                 showers
              
               
                 Of
                 sweet
                 discourse
                 ,
                 whose
                 powers
              
               
                 Can
                 Crowne
                 old
                 Winters
                 head
                 with
                 flowers
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Soft
                 silken
                 Hours
                 ,
              
               
                 Open
                 sunnes
                 ;
                 shady
                 Bowers
                 ,
              
               
                 Bove
                 all
                 ;
                 Nothing
                 within
                 that
                 lowers
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 What
                 ere
                 Delight
              
               
                 Can
                 make
                 Dayes
                 forehead
                 bright
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 give
                 Downe
                 to
                 the
                 Wings
                 of
                 Night
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 her
                 whole
                 frame
                 ,
              
               
                 Have
                 Nature
                 all
                 the
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Art
                 and
                 ornament
                 the
                 shame
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Her
                 flattery
                 ,
              
               
                 Picture
                 and
                 Poesy
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 counsell
                 her
                 owne
                 vertue
                 bee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 wish
                 ,
                 her
                 store
              
               
                 Of
                 worth
                 ,
                 may
                 leave
                 her
                 poore
              
               
                 Of
                 wishes
                 ;
                 And
                 I
                 wish
                 —
                 No
                 more
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Now
                 if
                 Time
                 knowes
              
               
                 That
                 her
                 whose
                 radiant
                 Browes
                 ,
              
               
                 Weave
                 them
                 a
                 Garland
                 of
                 my
                 vowes
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 Her
                 whose
                 just
                 Bayes
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 future
                 hopes
                 can
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 trophie
                 to
                 her
                 present
                 praise
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 Her
                 that
                 dares
                 bee
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 these
                 Lines
                 wish
                 to
                 see
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 seeke
                 no
                 further
                 ,
                 it
                 is
                 shee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 shee
                 ,
                 and
                 heere
              
               
                 Lo
                 I
                 uncloath
                 and
                 cleare
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 wishes
                 cloudy
                 Character
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 May
                 shee
                 enjoy
                 it
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 merit
                 dare
                 apply
                 it
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Modesty
                 dares
                 still
                 deny
                 it
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Such
                 worth
                 as
                 this
                 is
                 .
              
               
                 Shall
                 fixe
                 my
                 flying
                 wishes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 determine
                 them
                 to
                 kisses
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Let
                 her
                 full
                 Glory
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 fancyes
                 ,
                 fly
                 before
                 yee
                 ,
              
               
                 Bee
                 ye
                 my
                 fictions
                 ;
                 But
                 her
                 story
                 .
              
            
             
               Imprimatur
               Na
               :
               Brent
               .
            
             
               FINIS
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               THE
               TABLE
               .
            
             
               
                 THe
                 Weeper
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Page
                   1
                
              
               
                 The
                 Teare
                 .
              
               
                 6
              
               
                 Divine
                 Epigrams
                 begin
                 at
                 page
                 the
              
               
                 8
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Water
                 of
                 our
                 Lords
                 Baptisme
              
               
                 8
              
               
                 
                   Act.
                   8.
                
                 on
                 the
                 Baptized
                 Aethiopian
              
               
                 8
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Miracle
                 of
                 multiplyed
                 Loaves
              
               
                 8
              
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 Sepulchre
                 of
                 our
                 Lord
              
               
                 8
              
               
                 The
                 Widows
                 Mights
              
               
                 9
              
               
                 
                   Luke
                   15.
                
                 on
                 the
                 Prodigall
              
               
                 9
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 still
                 surviving
                 markes
                 of
                 our
                 Saviours
                 wounds
              
               
                 9
              
               
                 
                   Acts
                   5.
                
                 the
                 sick
                 implore
                 St.
                 Peters
                 shadow
              
               
                 9
              
               
                 
                   Mark
                   7.
                
                 the
                 Dumbe
                 healed
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 people
                 enjoyned
                 silence
              
               
                 10
              
               
                 Mat.
                 28.
                 
                 Come
                 see
                 the
                 place
                 where
                 the
                 Lord
                 lay
              
               
                 10
              
               
                 To
                 Pontius
                 washing
                 his
                 hands
              
               
                 10
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Infant
                 Martyrs
              
               
                 10
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Miracle
                 of
                 Loaves
              
               
                 11
              
               
                 Mark.
                 
                   4.
                   
                   Why
                   are
                   ye
                   afraid
                   ,
                   O
                   ye
                   ,
                   of
                   little
                   faith
                
              
               
                 11
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 blessed
                 Virgins
                 bashfulnesse
              
               
                 12
              
               
                 Vpon
                 Lazarus
                 his
                 Teares
              
               
                 12
              
               
                 Two
                 men
                 went
                 up
                 into
                 the
                 Temple
                 to
                 pray
              
               
                 12
              
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 Asses
                 that
                 bore
                 our
                 Saviour
              
               
                 12
              
               
                 Mathew
                 
                   8.
                   
                   I
                   am
                   not
                   worthy
                   that
                   thou
                   shouldest
                   come
                   under
                   my
                   roofe
                   .
                
              
               
                 13
              
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 Powder
                 day
              
               
                 13
              
               
                 I
                 am
                 the
                 doore
              
               
                 13
              
               
                 
                   Math.
                   10.
                
                 
                 The
                 blind
                 cured
                 by
                 the
                 word
                 of
                 our
                 Saviour
              
               
                 14
              
               
                 
                 Math.
                 
                   27.
                   
                   And
                   he
                   answered
                   nothing
                   ,
                
              
               
                 14
              
               
                 To
                 our
                 Lord
                 upon
                 the
                 water
                 made
                 wine
              
               
                 14
              
               
                 Mathew
                 
                   22.
                   
                   Neither
                   durst
                   any
                   man
                   from
                   that
                   day
                   aske
                   him
                   any
                   more
                   questions
                
              
               
                 15
              
               
                 Vpon
                 our
                 Saviours
                 Tombe
                 wherein
                 never
                 man
                 was
                 laid
              
               
                 16
              
               
                 
                   It
                   is
                   better
                   to
                   goe
                   to
                   heaven
                   with
                   one
                   eye
                   ,
                
                 &c.
                 
              
               
                 16
              
               
                 
                   Luke
                   11.
                
                 
                 Vpon
                 the
                 dumb
                 divell
                 cast
                 out
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 slanderous
                 Iewes
                 put
                 to
                 silence
              
               
                 16
              
               
                 Luke
                 
                   10.
                   
                   And
                   a
                   certaine
                   Priest
                   comming
                   that
                   way
                   looked
                   on
                   him
                   and
                   passed
                   by
                
              
               
                 16
              
               
                 Luke
                 
                   11.
                   
                   Blessed
                   be
                   the
                   paps
                   which
                   thou
                   hast
                   sucked
                
              
               
                 17
              
               
                 To
                 Pontius
                 washing
                 his
                 blood-stained
                 hands
              
               
                 17
              
               
                 Math.
                 23.
                 
                 To
                 build
                 the
                 Sepulchres
                 of
                 the
                 Prophets
              
               
                 17
              
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 Infant
                 Martyrs
              
               
                 18
              
               
                 Ioh.
                 
                   16.
                   
                   Verily
                   I
                   say
                   unto
                   you
                   ,
                   yee
                   shall
                   weepe
                   and
                   lament
                
              
               
                 18
              
               
                 
                   Ioh.
                   15.
                
                 
                 Vpon
                 our
                 Lords
                 last
                 comfortable
                 discourse
                 with
                 his
                 Disciples
              
               
                 18
              
               
                 Luk.
                 
                   16.
                   
                   Dives
                
                 asking
                 a
                 drop
                 .
              
               
                 18
              
               
                 Mark.
                 12.
                 
                 Give
                 to
                 Caesar
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 God
              
               
                 19
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 they
                 have
                 seen
                 and
                 hated
              
               
                 19
              
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 Thornes
                 taken
                 down
                 from
                 our
                 Lords
                 head
                 ,
                 bloody
              
               
                 19
              
               
                 
                   Luke
                   7.
                
                 
                 Shee
                 began
                 to
                 wash
                 his
                 feet
                 with
                 teares
                 ,
                 and
                 wipe
                 them
                 with
                 the
                 haires
                 of
                 her
                 head
              
               
                 20
              
               
                 On
                 St.
                 Peter
                 cutting
                 off
                 Malchus
                 his
                 eare
              
               
                 20
              
               
                 Iohn
                 
                   3.
                   
                   But
                   men
                   loved
                   darknesse
                   rathet
                   then
                   light
                
              
               
                 20
              
               
                 Act.
                 
                   21.
                   
                   I
                   am
                   ready
                   not
                   onely
                   to
                   be
                   bound
                   ,
                   but
                   to
                   dye
                
              
               
                 20
              
               
                 On
                 St.
                 Peter
                 casting
                 away
                 his
                 nets
                 at
                 our
                 Saviours
                 call
              
               
                 20
              
               
                 Our
                 Lord
                 in
                 his
                 Circumcision
                 to
                 his
                 Father
              
               
                 21
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 wounds
                 of
                 our
                 crucified
                 Lord
              
               
                 21
              
               
                 On
                 our
                 crucified
                 Lord
                 naked
                 and
                 bloody
              
               
                 22
              
               
                 Easter
                 day
              
               
                 22
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 bleeding
                 wounds
                 of
                 our
                 crucified
                 Lord
              
               
                 23
              
               
                 Sampson
                 to
                 his
                 Dalilah
              
               
                 24
              
               
                 Psalme
                 23.
                 
              
               
                 25
              
               
                 
                 Psalme
                 137.
                 
              
               
                 27
              
               
                 A
                 Himne
                 on
                 the
                 Nativity
                 sung
                 by
                 the
                 Shephcards
              
               
                 28
              
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 death
                 of
                 a
                 Gentleman
              
               
                 31
              
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 death
                 of
                 Mr.
                 Herrys
              
               
                 32
              
               
                 Another
                 upon
                 the
                 death
                 of
                 the
                 most
                 desired
                 Master
                 Herrys
              
               
                 33
              
               
                 Another
              
               
                 36
              
               
                 His
                 Epitaph
              
               
                 38
              
               
                 An
                 Epitaph
                 upon
                 Husband
                 and
                 Wife
                 which
                 dyed
                 ,
                 and
                 were
                 buried
                 together
              
               
                 39
              
               
                 An
                 Epitaph
                 upon
                 Doctor
                 Brooke
              
               
                 40
              
               
                 Vpon
                 Master
                 Stannoughs
                 death
              
               
                 40
              
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 Duke
                 of
                 York
                 his
                 birth
                 .
                 A
                 Panegyrick
              
               
                 41
              
               
                 Vpon
                 Fords
                 two
                 Tragedyes
                 ,
                 Loves
                 Sacrifice
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 broken
                 heart
              
               
                 45
              
               
                 On
                 a
                 foule
                 morning
                 being
                 then
                 to
                 take
                 a
                 Iourney
              
               
                 45
              
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 faire
                 Aethiopian
                 sent
                 to
                 a
                 Gentlewoman
              
               
                 46
              
               
                 On
                 Marriage
              
               
                 47
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 morning
                 Satisfaction
                 for
                 sleep
              
               
                 47
              
               
                 Loves
                 Horoscope
              
               
                 49
              
               
                 Sospetto
                 d'Herode
                 Libro
                 primo
              
               
                 51
              
               
                 On
                 a
                 Prayer
                 booke
                 sent
                 to
                 Mrs
                 
                   M.
                   R.
                
                 
              
               
                 74
              
               
                 On
                 Master
                 
                   George
                   Herberts
                
                 booke
                 intituled
                 the
                 temple
                 of
                 Sacred
                 poems
                 sent
                 to
                 a
                 Gentlewoman
              
               
                 78
              
               
                 In
                 memory
                 of
                 the
                 Vertuous
                 and
                 Learned
                 Lady
                 
                   Madre
                   de
                   Teresa
                
                 ,
                 that
                 sought
                 an
                 early
                 Martyrdome
              
               
                 79
              
               
                 An
                 Apologie
                 for
                 the
                 precedent
                 Himne
              
               
                 85
              
               
                 On
                 a
                 Treatise
                 of
                 Charity
              
               
                 86
              
               
                 
                   In
                   Picturam
                   Reverendissimi
                   Episcopi
                   Dr.
                
                 Andrewes
              
               
                 89
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Assumption
              
               
                 90
              
               
                 Epitaphium
                 in
                 Dominum
                 Herrissium
              
               
                 92
              
               
                 An
                 Himne
                 for
                 the
                 circumcision
                 day
                 of
                 our
                 Lord
              
               
                 94
              
               
                 On
                 Hope
                 ,
                 by
                 way
                 of
                 Question
                 an
                 Answer
                 ,
                 between
                 
                   A.
                   Cowley
                
                 and
                 
                   R.
                   Crasnaw
                
                 .
              
               
                 96
              
               
                 
                 MVsicks
                 Duell
              
               
                 103
              
               
                 Principi
                 recens
                 natae
                 omen
                 maternae
                 Indolis
              
               
                 108
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 Virgil
                 in
                 the
                 praise
                 of
                 the
                 Spring
              
               
                 110
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 Picture
                 sent
                 to
                 a
                 friend
              
               
                 111
              
               
                 In
                 praise
                 of
                 Lessius
                 his
                 rule
                 of
                 health
              
               
                 112
              
               
                 The
                 beginning
                 of
                 Heliodorus
              
               
                 114
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 the
                 Greeke
                 ,
                 Cupids
                 Cryer
              
               
                 115
              
               
                 On
                 Nanus
                 mounted
                 upon
                 an
                 Ant
              
               
                 117
              
               
                 Vpon
                 Venus
                 putting
                 on
                 Mars
                 his
                 Armes
              
               
                 117
              
               
                 Vpon
                 the
                 same
              
               
                 017
              
               
                 In
                 Senerissimae
                 Regine
                 partum
                 Hyemalem
              
               
                 118
              
               
                 Vpon
                 Bishop
                 Andrewes
                 his
                 Picture
                 before
                 his
                 Sermons
              
               
                 120
              
               
                 Ad
                 Reginam
              
               
                 121
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 Martiall
              
               
                 122
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 the
                 Italian
                 .
                 A
                 Song
              
               
                 123
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 the
                 Italian
              
               
                 125
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 the
                 Italian
              
               
                 126
              
               
                 In
                 faciem
                 Augustiss
                 .
                 Regis
                 à
                 morbillis
                 integram
              
               
                 127
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Frontispice
                 of
                 Isaacsons
                 Chronologie
                 explained
              
               
                 128
              
               
                 Or
                 thus
              
               
                 129
              
               
                 An
                 Epitaph
                 upon
                 Master
                 Ashton
                 a
                 conformable
                 Citizen
              
               
                 130
              
               
                 Rex
                 Redux
              
               
                 131
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 Catullus
              
               
                 132
              
               
                 Ad
                 Principem
                 nondum
                 natum
              
               
                 133
              
               
                 Wishes
                 to
                 his
                 (
                 supposed
                 )
                 Mistresse
              
               
                 134
              
            
             
               FINIS
               .