UC-NRLF 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION. 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY SIDNEY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 
 
 Jratn an JKttpublfefjeti H& in tfje Britfgfj 
 
 WITH A PEEFACE, 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 LONDON: 
 JOHN WILSON, BOOKSELLER AND PUBLISHER, 
 
 93, GREAT RUSSELL STREET, W.C. 
 M.D.CCC.LXII. 
 
Underneath this sable hearse 
 Lies the subject of all verse ; 
 Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; 
 Death ! ere thou hast slain another 
 Learned, and fair, and good as she, 
 Time shall throw a dart at thee. 
 BEN 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke, and sister to the 
 celebrated Sir Philip Sidney, was the daughter of Sir 
 Henry Sidney, by Mary, the eldest daughter of John 
 Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. The excellence of 
 her private life is so well known that it is unnecessary 
 to say more than that she was the object of the admira- 
 tion and respect of the most eminent persons of the age 
 in which she lived. She secluded herself in a great 
 measure from the Court, and devoted her time to the 
 cultivation of letters, and the practice of the domestic 
 virtues. 
 
 It is believed that she was the authoress of many 
 anonymous pieces which appeared in the miscellanies of 
 the day. An Elegy on Sir Philip Sidney, in Spenser's 
 " Astrophel," and a Pastoral Dialogue in praise of 
 Astrsea (Queen Elizabeth), in Davison's " Poetical 
 Rhapsody," have been attributed to her pen. She also 
 translated from the French the tragedy of " Antonie," 
 which was then much admired, but has now almost 
 fallen into oblivion, and she united with her brother, 
 
 393 
 
4 PKEPACE. 
 
 Sir Philip, in translating the Psalms of David into 
 English verse ; a work which has always been esteemed 
 of considerable merit, but their respective shares in the 
 labour have never been ascertained with certainty. De 
 Mornay's " Discourse on Life and Death" had also the 
 honour of being done into English by her Ladyship's 
 skilful pen. 
 
 Her longest work is the poem we now submit to the 
 perusal of the public. It is on the sublime subject of 
 Our Saviour's Passion. Horace Walpole, in his " Royal 
 and Noble Authors," enumerating her various publica- 
 tions, merely mentions it as one of her works. Lodge, in 
 his " Portraits of Illustrious Personages," gives extracts 
 from the poem, but does not speak of it in very flattering 
 terms. He admits, however, that amidst the general 
 obscurity and subtlety of the style, " grand conceptions 
 sometimes flash suddenly on us from this chaos." 
 
 On the fly-leaf of the Sloane MS., No. 1303, in the 
 British Museum, is to be found this inscription : " Sum 
 liber Johannis Botterelli, Anno Domini 1600, Novembris 
 27." This volume, among other poems all written in 
 the same hand, contains the present work, under the title 
 of " The Countesse of Penbrook's Passion." 
 
 E. a. B. 
 
 Mary Sidney was born about the year 1550, and died at her house 
 in Aldersgate Street, on the 25th of September, 1621. 
 
OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION. 
 
 i 
 
 Where shall I finde that melanchollye muse 
 That never hearde of anye thing but mone, 
 And reade her passion that her pen doth use, 
 When shee and sorrowe sadlye sitt alone, 
 
 To tell the world more than the world can tell, 
 What fitts indeede most fitlye figured hell. 
 
 2 
 
 Let me not thinke once of the smallest thought, 
 Ne speake of lesse than of the greatest greife, 
 Where everye sense with sorrowe overwrought, 
 Lives but in death, dispayringe of reliefe, 
 
 Whilst thus the harte with torment torne asunder, 
 Maye of the world be cald the woefull wonder. 
 
 3 
 
 The dayes like night all darkned in distresse, 
 Pleasure become a subject all of payne, 
 The spyritt overprest with hevynesse, 
 While hopelesse horrour vexeth every vayne, 
 
 Death shakes his dart, greife hath my grave preparde, 
 Yet to more sorrowe is my spyritt sparde. 
 
6 OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION 
 
 4 
 
 The owlye eye that not endures the light [deathe, 
 
 The night crowes songe, that soundeth nought but 
 The cockatrice that killeth with her sight, 
 The poysoned ayre, that choakes the sweetest breathe, 
 
 Thunders and earthquakes all together mett, 
 
 These tell a litle how my life is sett. 
 
 5 
 
 "Where woes dissolu'de to sighes, and sighes to teares, 
 And everye teare to torment of the mynde, 
 The myndes distresse unto those deadlye feares, 
 That finde more death, than death itself e can finde, 
 
 Death to that life, that livinge can discrye, 
 
 A litle more yet of my myserye. 
 
 6 
 
 Put all the woes of all the world together, 
 Sorrowe and death sett downe in all theire pride, 
 Let myserye bringe all her muses hither, 
 With all the sorrowes that the hart may hide, 
 Then reade the fate but of my ruefull storye, 
 And saye my greife hath gotten sorrowes glorye. 
 
 7 
 
 For nature's sicknesse sometyme may have ease, 
 Fortune (though fickell) some tyme is a friende, 
 The myndes affliction patience may appease, 
 And death is cause that many tormentes ende, 
 But ever sicke, erased, greiv'd, and living, dyinge, 
 Thinke on the subject in the sorrowe lying. 
 
OUR SAVIOURS PASSION. 
 
 8 
 
 To shew the nature of my payne (alas) 
 Payne hath no nature to discrye my payne, 
 But where that payne itselfe in payne doth passe, 
 Thinke on vexations so in every vaine, 
 
 That hopelesse helpes, this endlesse payne may tell, 
 Save hell itselfe (but mynej there is no hell. 
 
 9 . 
 
 If sicknesse be a grounde of deadlye greife, 
 Consuminge care hath caught me by the harte, 
 If want of comforte, (hopelesse of releife) 
 Be further woe : so weigh my inwarde smarte, 
 
 If friendes unkindenesse, so my griefe is grounded, 
 If causlesse wronged, so my harte is wounded. 
 
 10 
 
 If love refused, so reade on my ruin, 
 If truth disgraced, so my sorrowe moved, 
 If faith abused, the grounde my torment grewe in, 
 If vertues scorned, so my death approved, 
 If death delaying, so my hart perplexed, 
 If livinge, dyinge, so my spyritt vexed. 
 
 11 
 
 My infante yeares misspent in childishe toyes, 
 
 My ryper age in rules of little reason, 
 
 My better yeares in all mistaken joyes, 
 
 My present tyme, (O most unhappye season), 
 In fruitelesse labor, and in endlesse love, 
 O what a horrour hath my harte to prove. 
 
OUR SAVIOURS PASSION. 
 
 12 
 
 I sighe to see my infancy e misspent, 
 
 I mourne to finde my youthfull life misledd, 
 
 I weepe to feele my further discontent, 
 
 I dye to trye how love is livinge deade, 
 I sighe, I mourne, I weepe, I livinge dye, 
 And yet must live to knowe more myserye. 
 
 13 
 
 The hunted harte sometymes doth leave the hounde, 
 My harte (alas) is never out of chase, 
 The linehoundes lyne sometymes is yet unfounde, 
 My bandes are hopeless of so highe a grace, 
 Sumer restores what Winter doth deprive, 
 But my harte wythered, never can revive. 
 
 14 
 
 I cannot figure sorrowes in conceite, 
 Sorrowe exceedes all figures of her sence, 
 But on my woe, when sorrowes all may wayte, 
 To see a note exceede their excellence, 
 
 Let me conclude, to see how I am wounded, 
 Sorrowe her self e is in her self e confounded. 
 
 15 
 
 But wherefore groweth this passion of this payne, 
 That thus perplexeth every inwarde parte, 
 Whence is the humor of this hatefull vayne ? 
 So dampes the spy rite and consumes the harte, 
 (Oh) let my soule with bitter teares confesse, 
 It is the grounde of all unhappynesse. 
 
OUK SAVIOURS PASSION. 
 
 16 
 
 If lacke of wealth ? I am the note of neede, 
 If lacke of friendes ? no faithe on earthe remaines, 
 If lacke of health ? see how my harte doth bleede, 
 If lacke of pleasures ? look upon my paynes, 
 
 If lacke of health, of friends, of wealth, of pleasures, 
 Say then my sorrowe must be out of measures. 
 
 17 
 
 Measure ? no measure measure can my thoughte, 
 But that one thoughte that is beyond all measure, 
 Which knowinge how my sorrowes have been wrought, 
 Can bring my harte into her highest pleasure, 
 
 Which eyther must my sorrowes cutt out quite, 
 
 Or never lett me thinke upon delight, 
 
 18 
 
 There is a lacke tha t tells me of a life, 
 There is a losse that tells me of a love, 
 Betwixt them both a state of such a strife 
 As makes my spyritt such a passion prove, 
 That lacke of one, and th'others losse alas, 
 Makes me the woefulst wretch that ever was. 
 
 19 
 
 My dearest love, that dearest bought my love, 
 
 My onelye life, by whome I onelye live, 
 
 Was never faith did such affection prove, 
 
 Or ever grace did such an honor give, 
 
 But such a lacke, and such a losse (aye me) 
 Must needes the sorrowe of all sorrowes bee. 
 
10 OUR SAVIOURS PASSION. 
 
 20 
 
 My love is fayre, yea fayrer than the sunne, 
 Which hath his light but from his fayrest love, 
 
 fayrest love, whose light is never donne, 
 And fayrest light doth such a love approve, 
 
 But such love lost, and such a light obscured, 
 Can there a greater sorrow be endured ? 
 
 21 
 
 He came from highe to live with me belowe, 
 He gave me life and shewed me greatest love, 
 Unworthy I so highe a worthe to knowe, 
 Left my cheife blisse, a baser choyce to prove, 
 I sawe his woundes, yet did I not believe him, 
 And for his goodnesse with my sinnes did greive him. 
 
 22 
 
 1 saw him faultlesse, yet I did offend him, 
 
 I saw him wronged and yet did not excuse him, 
 I sawe his foes, yet fought not to defend him, 
 I had his blessinges, yet I did abuse him 
 
 But was it myne, or my forefathers deede ? 
 
 Whose'er it was, it makes my hart to bleede. 
 
 23 
 
 To see the feete, that travayled for our goode, 
 To see the handes, that brake that livelye breade, 
 To see the heade, whereon our honor stoode, 
 To see the fruite, whereon our spyrite fedd, 
 
 Feete pearc'd, handes bored, and his heade all bleedinge, 
 Who doth not dye with such a sorrow readinge. 
 
OUR SAYIOUK S PASSION. 11 
 
 24 
 
 He plac'de all rest, and liad no restinge place, 
 He heal'd each payne, yet liv'd in sore distresse, 
 Deserv'de all good, yet liv'de in greate disgrace, 
 Gave all hartes joye, himselfe in heavynesse ; 
 
 Suffred them live, by whome himselfe was slayne, 
 (Lorde) who can live to see such love againe ? 
 
 25 
 
 A virgin's child by verities power conceivede, 
 A harmelesse man that liv'de for all men's goode, 
 A faithfull freinde that never faith deceiv'de, 
 An heavenlye fruite for hartes espetiall goode, 
 
 A spyrite all of excellence devine, 
 
 Such is the essence of this love of myne. 
 
 26 
 
 Whose mansion heaven, yet laye within a manger, 
 Who gave all foode, yet suckfc a virgin's brest, 
 Who could have kilde yet fledd a threateninge danger, 
 Who sought all quiett by his owne unrest, 
 
 Who dyed for them that highlye did offend him, 
 And lives for them that cannot comprehend him, 
 
 27 
 
 Who came no further than His Father sent him, 
 And did fulfill but what he did command him, 
 Who prayed for them that proudly e did torment him, 
 For tellinge truly of what they did demaund him, 
 Who did all good that humblye did intreate him, 
 And bare their blowes, that did unkindlye beat him. 
 
12 OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION. 
 
 28 
 
 A sweete phisitian for the bodye crazed, 
 
 An heavenlye medecine for the mynde diseased, 
 
 A present comfort for the witts amazed, 
 
 A joy full spyritt to the soule displeased, 
 
 The bodye, mynde, the witts, and spyritts joye 
 What is the world without him but annoy e. 
 
 29 
 
 He knewe the sicknesse that our soule infected, 
 And that his bloode must onelye be our cure, 
 When so our faith his sacred love affected, 
 That for our lives a death he would endure, 
 He knew his passion, yet his patience bare it, 
 (Oh !) how my soule doth sorrowe to declare it. 
 
 30 
 
 He healed the sicke, gave sight unto the blinde, 
 Speeche to the dumbe, and made the lame to goe, 
 Unto his love he never was unkinde, 
 He lov'de his friendes, and he forgave his foe, 
 And last his death for our love not refused, 
 What soule can live to see such love abused. 
 
 31 
 
 To note his wordes what wisdome they containe, 
 To note his wisdome of all worth the wonder, 
 To note his workes, what glorye they doe gayne, 
 To note his worth would heaven and earth come under, 
 To note his glorye that his angells gave him, 
 Fye that the world to such disgrace should drive him. 
 
OUK SAVIOURS PASSION. 13 
 
 32 
 
 Unseene he came, he might bee seene unto us, 
 Unwelcome seem'de that came for all our wealthe, 
 He came to dye, that he might comfort do us, 
 We slew the subject of our spyrites health e, 
 The subject? noe, the Kinge of all our glory e, 
 Weepe harte to deathe to tell the dolefull storye. 
 
 33 
 
 A lion where his force should be effected, 
 
 And yet a lambe in myldnesse of his love, 
 
 As true as turtle to his love elected, 
 
 Sure as Mounte Sion that can never move. 
 So myld a strength, so fast a truth to prove, 
 What soule can* live and lack so sweete a love. 
 
 34 
 
 He preach' d, he prayed, he fasted, and he wept, 
 
 The sweete Creator for the sinful creature, 
 
 The carefull watchman warylye he kept, 
 
 That brake the necke, even of the foulest nature, 
 And when he did to happye state restore us, 
 Shall we not weepe then to make him abhorre us ? 
 
 35 
 
 To hate a love, must argue loathsome nature, 
 To wronge a freinde must prove too foule a deede, 
 To kill thyselfe must show a cursed creature, 
 To slay thy soule no more damnation neede, 
 
 Than spoyle the fruite whereon thy spirit feedeth, 
 what a hell within thy soule it breedethe. 
 
OUR SAVIOURS PASSION. 
 
 He thought none ill, and onelye did all goode, 
 He gave all right and yet all wrong received, 
 The fiende's temptation stoutlye he withstoode, 
 Yet let himselfe by sinners be deceived, 
 
 And so at last when he was woe begone him, 
 How traytors wordes tyronized upon him. 
 
 37 
 
 His faultlesse members nayled to the crosse, 
 His holye heade was crowned all with thorns, 
 His garments given by lotts to gayne or losse, 
 His power derided all with scoffes and scorns, 
 His bodye wounded and his spyrite vexed, 
 To thinke on this what soule is not perplexed ? 
 
 38 
 
 Poore Peter wept when he his name denyed, 
 And Marye Magdelene wept for her offence, 
 His mother wept when she his death espyed, 
 But yet no teares could stand for his defence, 
 But if those wept to see his waylefull case, 
 Why dye not I to thinke on his disgrace ? 
 
 39 
 
 Happye was he that suffred death so nye Iiim 
 That at the end repentant might behold him, 
 Twice happy life that did in love so trye him, 
 As to his faith such favour did enfold him. 
 As cravinge comforte but in mercyes eyes, 
 That selfe same daye did live in paradise. 
 
OUR SAVIOUKS PASSION. 15 
 
 40 
 
 Would I had beene ordeyned to such a death, 
 To dye with him, to live with him for ever, 
 And from the ayre but of his blessed breathe, 
 To sucke the life whose love might fayle me never. 
 And drinke of that sweete springe that never wasteth, 
 And feede of that life's breade that ever lasteth. 
 
 41 
 
 Oh would my soule were made a sea of teares, 
 My eyes might watch, and never more be sleepinge, 
 My harte might beare the payne all pleasure weares, 
 So I might see him once yet in my weepinge, 
 
 When (joyfull voice), the songe might never cease, 
 My Saviour's sight hath sett my soule in peace, 
 
 42 
 
 Shall I esteeme of an ye worldlye joye, 
 That might behould the sight of such a treasure, 
 Could I be Judas to my chief est joye, 
 To gayne possession of a gracelesse pleasure ? 
 Noe ! could my soule in comforte once conceive him, 
 I hope his mercy e would not let me leave him, 
 
 43 
 
 Blest was the fishe that but the figure swallowed, 
 Of my sweete Jesus, but in Jonas' name, 
 More blessed toumbe by that sweete bodye hallowed, 
 From whence the grounde of all our glorye came, 
 Might not my soule be sinner for a wishe, 
 Would I were such a toumbe or such a fishe. 
 
16 OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION. 
 
 44 
 
 But Jonas left the sea, and came to lande, 
 And Jesus from the earth to heaven ascended, 
 Why should I then upon more wishes stande, 
 But crye for mercye where I have offended. 
 
 And say my soule unworthy is the place 
 
 Ever to see my Saviour in the face. 
 
 45 
 
 Yet let me not dispayre of my desyre, 
 Although even hell doth answere my deserte, 
 Where humble hope that pittye doth aspyre, 
 Proves pacience the pacifyinge part, 
 
 Where mercye sweete to see my soule's behaviour, 
 May graunt me grace to see and serve my Saviour. 
 
 46 
 
 Whome till I see in sorrowes endlesse anguishe, 
 All discontent with all that I can see, 
 Resolv'd in soule, in sorrowes looke to languishe, 
 Whence no conceipt but discontent may bee, 
 I will sett downe till after this worlde's hell, 
 My Saviour's sight may onlye make me well. 
 
 47 
 
 But shall I see my secreate grief give over, 
 With hope to see the glorye of my sight, 
 Or can my soule her sacred health recover 
 While no deserte doth looke upon delight 
 
 No, no, my harte is too, too full of greife, 
 
 For ever thinkinge to receive releife. 
 
OUR SAVIOURS PASSION. 17 
 
 48 
 
 The sunne is downe, the glorye of the daye, 
 The springe is past, the sweetnesse of the yeare, 
 The harvest in, wherein my harte did staye, 
 And wytheringe winter gives but ehillinge cheare, 
 And what such greife can death or sorrowe give, 
 To see His death whereby his soule doth live. 
 
 49 
 
 Mee thinkes I see, and seeinge sighe to see, 
 How in his passion patience play'd his parte, 
 And in his death, what life he gave to me, 
 In my love's sorrowe to releive my harte, 
 
 what a care doth this conclusion trye, 
 The heade must off, or else the bodye dye. 
 
 50 
 
 He was my heade, my hope, my harte, my healthe, 
 The specyall Jewell of my spyritte's joye, 
 The trustye treasure of my highest wealthe, 
 The onlye pleasure kept mee from annoye, 
 
 He was, he is, and evermore shall bee, 
 
 In life or death, the light of life to me. 
 
 51 
 
 And lett me see how sweetelye yet he lookes, 
 Even while the tears are tricklinge downe his face, 
 And for my life how well his death he brookes, 
 While my deserte was cause of his disgrace. 
 And let me wish yet while his death I see, 
 
 1 could have dyed for him that dyed for me. 
 
 c 
 
18 OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION. 
 
 52 
 
 Had I but seene him as his servantes did, 
 At sea, at land, in cyttye, and in feyld, 
 Though in himselfe he had his glorye hidde, 
 That in his grace the light of glorye helde, 
 
 Then might my sorrowe somewhat be appeased, 
 That once my soule had in his sight beene pleased. 
 
 53 
 
 But not to see him till I see him dye, 
 And that my deede was causer of his deathe, 
 How can I cease to weepe, to houle and crye, 
 To see the gaspinge of that glorious breathe, 
 That purest love unto the soule approoved, 
 And is the blessinge of the soule he loved. 
 
 54 
 
 Am I not one of that unhappye broode, 
 The pellican doth figure in her nest, 
 When I must live but by his onelye bloode, 
 In whose sweete love, my life doth onelye rest, 
 wretched byrds, but over wretched creature 
 To figure such a byrde in such a nature. 
 
 55 
 
 Did G-od himselfe ordeine it should be so, 
 
 To save my life my Saviour so to bee, 
 
 His will be done, yet let me w6epe for woe, 
 
 To be the subject, of his myserye, 
 
 That though he came to mend what was amisse, 
 He should be so the author of my blisse. 
 
OUR SAVIOUR S PASSION. 19 
 
 56 
 
 Shall I not washe his bodye with my teares, 
 
 And save the bloode that issues from his side ? 
 
 That keepes my harte from all infernall feares, 
 
 Unto my soule in penitence applied ? 
 
 Shall I not strive with Joseph for his corse, 
 And make his tombe in my soule' s true remorse ? 
 
 57 
 
 Shall I not curse those hatefull hellish feindes, 
 That led the world to work such wickednesse ? 
 And hate all them that had not bene his friendes, 
 But followed on that worke of wretch ednesse ? 
 Cutte off the heade, first handes upon him layde, 
 And helpe to hange the dogge that him betray'de. 
 
 58 
 
 Shall I not drive the watchman from the grave, 
 And watch the risinge of the sunne renowned, 
 Or goe myselfe alive into the grave, 
 To kisse the bodye where it lyes entombed ? 
 What shall I doe ? or shall I not approve, 
 For my soule' s health that so my soule did love ? 
 
 59 
 
 Oh love, the grounde of life, oh livelye love 
 Why doe I live that did not dye with thee ? 
 When in my harte I doe such horrour prove, 
 As letts my care nothinge of comforte see, 
 
 How my poore soule might once such service see, 
 To give me hope how I should come to thee. 
 
20 OUR SAVIOUR S PASSION. 
 
 60 
 
 Noe, I have runne the waye of wickednesse, 
 Forgettinge what my faith should followe most, 
 I did not thinke upon thy holynesse, 
 Nor by my sinnes what sweetnesse I have lost, 
 Oh sinne, for sinne hath compast me about, 
 That (Lorde) I knowe not where to finde thee out. 
 
 61 
 
 If in the heaven, it is too hyghe a place, 
 
 For wicked hartes to hope to clime so hye, 
 
 If in the world, the earthe is all too base, 
 
 To entertayne thy glorious majesty e, 
 If in the world, unworthy I doe reade 
 So sweete a senee to stande my soule in steade. 
 
 62 
 
 If in my harte, sinne saith, thou arte not there, 
 If in my soule, it is too foule infected, 
 If in my hope, it is too foule a feare, 
 And fearefull hope hath never faythe elected, 
 In soule or bodye hope nor feare save mee, 
 
 Where shall I seeke where my soule' s love should be ? 
 I 
 
 63 
 
 Alas the daye that ever I was borne, 
 To see how sinne hath barr'd me from my blisse, 
 And that my soule is so in tormentes torne, 
 And knowes my love, and comes not where he is, 
 
 O yet, if ever heavens hearde creatures crye, 
 
 Lorde, looke a little on my myserye. 
 
OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION. 21 
 
 Let mercye pleade in true repentantes cause, 
 Where humble prayer may heavenlye pyttye move, 
 That though my life hath broken sacred lawes, 
 My harte's contrition yet may comfort e prove. 
 Then till my soule maye my sweete Saviour see, 
 My eye may cast one longinge looke on thee. 
 
 65 
 
 And while I sitt with Marye, at the grave, 
 And full of greife as ever love may live, 
 My wounded harte some sparkes of hope may have, 
 Of such releif as glorious hand may give. 
 
 To make me well, though sinne hath death deserved, 
 In heaven for me there is a place reserved. 
 
 66 
 
 Which sacred truth until my soule doth tast, 
 To slake the sorrowe of this harte of myne, 
 My wearye life in woefull thought must passe, 
 While soule and bodye humblye I resigne, 
 
 Unto those glorious holye handes of his, 
 
 Who is the hope of my eternall blisse. 
 
 67 
 
 But can I leave to thinke upon the thinge, 
 That I can never part out of my thought ? 
 Or can I cease of his sweete love to sing, 
 Who by his blood his creatures comforte wrought, 
 Or can I live to thinke that he should dye 
 In whom the hope of all my life doth lye ? 
 
22 OUR SAVIOURS PASSION. 
 
 68 
 
 Noe, Jet me thiiike upon his life and deathe, 
 And after deathe his ever life agayne, 
 He breath'd out life, and givinge us his breath, 
 Reviv'de our soules that in our sinnes were slayne. 
 His life so goode, as never-death deserved, 
 And by his death our ever lives preserved. 
 
 69 
 
 Did he not washe his poore apostle ? s feete ? 
 Came he not rydinge on a syllye asse ? 
 Did he not heale the cripples in the streete ? 
 And feede a worlde where little victualls was ? 
 
 Did not his love most true affection trye ? 
 
 To dye for us that we might never dye ? 
 
 70 
 
 Was never infant showed such humblenesse, 
 Was never man did speake as this man did, 
 Was never lover shew'd such faithfullnesse, 
 Was never true man, such a torture bidde, 
 Was never state contayned such a storye, 
 Was never angell worthy such a glorye. 
 
 71 
 
 Oh glorious glorye, in all glorye glorious, 
 Angells rejoyced at his incarnation, 
 Oh powerful vertue, of all power victorious, 
 In true redemption of his best creation. 
 
 Oh glorious life that made the divells wonder, 
 Oh glorious death that trode the divells under. 
 
OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION. 
 
 72 
 
 Thus in his breath, his life, his death, all glorye, 
 He did receive, who was himselfe the same, 
 The statelye substance of the sacred storye, 
 From whence the grounde of highest glorye came, 
 From highest power to highest glorye raysed, 
 And all the rest of heaven with glorye praysed. 
 
 73 
 
 Was ever such a gratitude approved, 
 Since heaven and earth for man, and ma*n was made 
 For onlye God, who helde him his beloved, 
 Till gracelesse sinne did make his glorye fade, 
 That he whome angells with such reverence used 
 Should be by man so cruellye abused. 
 
 74 
 
 O lively e image of thy father's love, 
 O lovely e image of thy father's life, 
 O pure conceite that doth this concorde prove, 
 That all augmented bredd no thought of strife, 
 But yet the same in state of all his glorye, 
 Is found the brightnesse of the father's glorye. 
 
 75 
 
 Should ever such a glorye be refused, 
 
 By those that were in dutye to adore it ? 
 
 Or could so greate a glorye be abused, 
 
 When angells tremble when they stand afore it ? 
 
 man, woe man, to wounde thy soule so sore, 
 
 To lose thy glorye soe for evermore. 
 
24 OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION. 
 
 76 
 
 Behould the heavens what sorrowe they did showe, 
 And how the earth her dolor did discrye, 
 The sunne was dark, and in the earth belowe, 
 The buryed bodyes show'd their agonye, 
 
 The temple rent, the heavens with anger moved, 
 To see the death of the Divine Beloved. 
 
 77 
 
 And yet thou man fall little didst regarde, 
 What thou hadst done unto thy dearest love, 
 Thou madst more reckoninge of the world's rewarde, 
 Than of the blessinge of thy soule's behove, 
 But wretched man, discend into thy thought, 
 And with thy sorrowes weare thy selfe to nought. 
 
 78 
 
 Yet some there were, the smaller summe were they, 
 That joyed to see the summe of all their joye, 
 They watch' d by night, and walked in the daye, 
 And were not choked with the worldes annoye, 
 But followed on their heavenlye love alone, 
 Would God in heaven, that I were such a one. 
 
 79 
 
 But aye me wretch, all wretched as I am, 
 Unworthy all to followe such a freinde, 
 In sweete remembrance of whose sweetest name, 
 The joyes beginne, that never make an ende, 
 Let me but weepe, and sorrowe till I see, 
 How mercy's love will cast one looke on me. 
 
OUR SAVIOURS PASSION. 25 
 
 80 
 
 And lett me heare but what my Saviour saithe, 
 
 He once did dye that I might ever live, 
 
 And that my soule by her assured faithe, 
 
 May seeke the comforte that his grave doth give. 
 That for his love, who sorrowes here so sore, 
 May joye in heaven, and never sorrowe more. 
 
 81 
 
 O joye above all joyes that ever were, 
 Could I conceive but halfe thyne excellence, 
 Or have a hope to give attendance there, 
 Where thou dost keepe thy royall residence, 
 And on my knees thy holye name adore, 
 Were my soule well, she should desire no more. 
 
 82 
 
 To see the daye that from on highe is springinge, 
 To guide our feete into the waye of peace, 
 To heare the virgins playinge, angells singinge, 
 The psalmes of glorye that shall never cease, 
 To heare the sounde of such an heavenlye quire, 
 Would it not joye thy soule to see and heare? 
 
 83 
 
 To see the saintes and martires in their places, 
 By highest grace with heavenlye glorye crowned, 
 To see the kissinges and the sweete embraces, 
 Of blessed souls by constant faithe renowned, 
 To see the grounde and all the sweete agreinge, 
 Were not these sightes all sweetlye worth the seeinge. 
 
26 OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION. 
 
 84 
 
 The diamonde, rubye, saphire, and such like, 
 Of pretious jemmes that are the worldlinge's joyes, 
 And greatest princes for their crownes do seeke, 
 To heavenlye treasure are but triflinge toyes, 
 Wherewith the Holye Cyttye all is paved, 
 And all the walls are rounde aboute engraved. 
 
 85 
 
 Where He that sittes on the supernall throne, 
 In majestye most glorious to behold, 
 And holdes the scepter of the world alone, 
 Hath not His garments of imbrodered gold, 
 
 But He is cloth* d with truth and right eousnesse, 
 Where angells all doe singe with joyfulnesso. 
 
 86 
 
 Oh, would my soule out of some angells winge, 
 By humble fate might gaine one heavenlye penne, 
 And write in honour of my glorious Kinge, 
 The joys of angells, and the life of men, 
 
 That all the world might fall upon their faces, 
 To heare the glorye of his heavenlye graces. 
 
 87 
 
 But since I see his wondrous worth is suche, 
 As doth exceede all reach of humane sence, 
 That all the earth, unworthy is to touch, 
 The smallest tittle of his excellence. 
 
 Let me referre unto some angell's glorye, 
 The happye writinge of this heavenlye storye. 
 
OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION. 27 
 
 Where heavenlye love is cause of holye life, 
 And holye life increaseth heavenlye love, 
 Where peace establish' d without feare or strife, 
 Doth prove the blessinge of the soules behove, 
 
 Where thirst, nor hunger, griefe, nor sorrowe dwelleth, 
 But peace in joye, and joye in peace excelleth. 
 
 89 
 
 Where the sweete kinge that on the white horse rydeth, 
 
 Upon the winges of the celestiall winde, 
 
 Neare whose sweete ayre no blastinge breathe abydeth, 
 
 Nor standes the tree that he doth fruitelesse finde, 
 But makes all tremble where his glorye goes, 
 Yea, where his myldnesse most his mercy showes. 
 
 90 
 
 O joy full feare, on vertue's love all founded, 
 O vertuous love in mercy's glorye graced, 
 O gracious love on faithe in mercy grounded, 
 O faithfull love in heavenlye favour placed, 
 
 O settled love that cannot be removed, 
 
 O gracious love, of glorye so beloved. 
 
 91 
 
 Where virgin's joye in their e virginity e, 
 
 The virtuous spouse in undefiled bedd, 
 
 The true divines in true divinytye, 
 
 The gratious members in their glorious heade, 
 The sinners joye for to escape damnation, 
 And faithfull soules rejoyce in their salvation. 
 
28 OUR SAVIOURS PASSION. 
 
 92 
 
 Where sicke men joye to see their sweetest health e, 
 
 The prisoned joye to see their libertye, 
 
 The poore rejoyce to see their sweetest wealth, 
 
 The vertuous to adore the Deitye, 
 But I unworthye most of all to see, 
 The eye of mercye cast one look on me. 
 
 93 
 
 But can my harte thus leave her holye love ? 
 
 Or cease to sing of this her highest sweete ? 
 
 Hath patience no more passions for to prove ? 
 
 Hath fancye labored out both hands and feete ? 
 Or hath invention strayn'd her veine so sore, 
 That witt, nor will, hath power to write no more ? 
 
 94 
 
 Noe, heavens forbidd that ever faithfull harte, 
 Should have a weary e harte of doinge well, 
 But that the soule maye summon everye parte, 
 Of everye sence where anye thought may dwelle, 
 That may discharge the dutye of this care, 
 To penne His praise that is without compare. 
 
 95 
 
 But since no eye can look on Him and live, 
 Nor harte can love, but lookinge on His love, 
 Behold the glorye that His grace doth give, 
 In all His workes that doth His wonders prove, 
 
 That all the world may finde their wills too weake, 
 But of the smallest of His praise to speake. 
 
OUR SAYIOUK'S PASSION. 29 
 
 96 
 
 Behold the earth how sweetlye shee bringes forthe 
 Her trees, her flowers, her hearbes, and every grasse, 
 Of sundrye nature of most secrett worth, 
 And how each braunche doth others beautye passe, 
 
 Both beastes, and byrdes, and fishes, wormes and flyes, 
 
 How each their highe Creator gloryfyes. 
 
 97 
 
 The lions strength doth make him stand as kinge, 
 
 The unicorn e doth kill the poy son's power, 
 
 The roaringe bull doth make the woodes to ringe, 
 
 The tygre doth the cruel wolf devour, 
 
 The elephant the wayghtye burthen beares, 
 
 And raveninge wolves are good yet for their heires. 
 
 98 
 
 To see the greyhounde course, the hounde in chase, 
 Whilst little dormouse sleepeth out her eyne, 
 The lambes and rabbits sweetlye run at base, 
 Whilst highest trees the little squirriles clime, 
 
 The crawlinge worms out creepinge in the showers, 
 And how the snayles do clime the loftye towers. 
 
 99 
 
 To see the whale make furrowes in the seas, 
 Whilst suddenlye the dolphin strikes him deade, 
 Which havinge founde the depth of his disease, 
 Upon the shore doth make his dyinge bedd, 
 
 Where heavens doe worke for weaker hartes behove, 
 Doth not this grace a worke of glory e prove ? 
 
30 OUR SAVIOURS PASSION. 
 
 100 
 
 But since that all skye, sea, or earth contaynes, 
 
 Was made for man, and man was onelye made, 
 
 For onelye God that onelye giveth grace, 
 
 And that one glorye that can never fade, 
 Shall man forgett to give all glorye due, 
 Unto his G-od from whom all glorye grewe ? 
 
 101 
 
 But lett me come a little higher yett, 
 To sunne and moone, and everye starre of light, 
 To see how ech doth in his order sitt, 
 Where everye one doth keepe his order right, 
 And all these guide these darkened eyes of ours, 
 Give these not glorye to the highest powers ? 
 
 102 
 
 No, let not man showe himselfe so ungratefull, 
 Unto his God that all in love did make him, 
 By thankelesse thoughtes that make his spyrite hatefull, 
 Unto his kinge that never will forsake him, 
 But let his soule to God all glorye give, 
 In whome doth all love, life, and glorye live. 
 
 103 
 
 And lett me wretch (unworthye most of all, 
 To lift myne eyes unto his lonely e seate) 
 Before the seate (but of his mercy e) fall, 
 And of his mercye but the leave intreate, 
 
 That with his servantes I may sitt and singe, 
 
 An halleluja to my heavenlye kinge. 
 
OUR SAVIOURS PASSION. 31 
 
 104 
 
 Come all the world and call jour wittes together, 
 Borrowe some pennes from out the angell's winges, 
 Intreate the heavens to send the muses hether, 
 To helpe your soules to write of sacred thinges, 
 Prophane conceites must all be cast awaye, 
 The night is past, and you must take the daye. 
 
 105 
 
 Speake not of sinne it hath no party e here, 
 But write of grace, and whence our glorye grewe, 
 Thinke of the love that to his life is dear, 
 And of the lyfe to whome all love is due, 
 
 And then sitt downe in glorye all to singe, 
 
 All to the glorye of your glorious Kinge. 
 
 106 
 
 First make your groundes of faithfull holynesse, 
 
 Then your divisions of devine desires, 
 
 Let all your restes be hopes of happynesse, 
 
 Which mercyes musicJce in the soule requires, 
 Let all your sharpes be feares of faithfull hartes, 
 And lett the flatts be deathes of your desertes. 
 
 107 
 
 Yet rise and/aZZ, as hope and feare directes, 
 The nature of ech note, in space, or line, 
 And let your voyces carry e such effectes, 
 As maye approve your passions are divine, 
 
 Then lett your consorte all agree in one, 
 
 To God above all glorye be alone. 
 
32 OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION. 
 
 108 
 
 Then lett your dyttye be the dearest thought, 
 That maye revive the dyinge harte of love, 
 That onlye merc^e in thy soule hath wrought, 
 The happye' comforte in the heavens to prove. 
 Then lett your* soules unto the heavens ascend, 
 And lett the closes all in glorye end. 
 
 109 
 
 Glorye to Him that sitteth on the throne, 
 With all the host of all the heaven attended, 
 Who all thinges made, and governes all alone, 
 Vanquished his foes, and all his flocke defended, 
 And by his power his chosen soules preserveth, 
 To singe his prayse that so all prayse deserveth. 
 
 110 
 
 And whilst all soules are to their glorye singinge, 
 Let me poore wretch not whollye hold my peace, 
 But let my teares from mercyes glorye springinge, 
 Keep tyme to that sweete songe may never cease, 
 That while my soule doth thus my God adore, 
 I maye yet singe AMEN, although no more. 
 
 * Songes. 
 
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