The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations

¶ The H. Scriptures. I. OH Book! infinite sweetnesse! let my heart Suck ev'ry letter, and a hony gain, Precious for any grief in any part; To cleare the breast, to mollifie all pain. Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make A full eternitie: thou art a masse Of strange delights, where we may wish & take, Ladies, look here; this is the thankfull glasse That mends the lookers eyes: this is the well That washes what it shows. Who can indeare Thy praise too much? thou art heav'ns Lieger here, Working against the states of death and hell. Thou art joyes handsell: heav'n lies flat in thee, Subject to ev'ry mounters bended knee.

II. OH that I knew how all thy lights combine, And the configurations of their glorie! Seeing not onely how each verse doth shine, But all the constellations of the storie. This verse marks that, and both do make a motion Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie: Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion, These three make up some Christians destinie: Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good, And comments on thee: for in ev'ry thing Thy words do finde me out, & parallels bring, And in another make me understood. Starres are poore books, & oftentimes do misse: This book of starres lights to eternall blisse.

¶ The Holdfast. Ithreatened to observe the strict decree Of my deare God with all my power and might: But I was told by one, it could not be; Yet I might trust in God to be my light. Then will I trust, said I, in him alone. Nay, ev'n to trust in him, was also his: We must confesse that nothing is our own. Then I confesse that he my succour is: But to have nought is ours, not to confesse That we have nought. I stood amaz'd at this, Much troubled, till I heard a friend expresse, That all things were more ours by being his. What Adam had, and forfeited for all, Christ keepeth now, who cannot fail or fall.

¶ The Invitation. Come ye hither all, whose taste Is your waste; Save your cost, and mend your fare. God is here prepar'd and drest, And the feast, God, in whom all dainties are. Come ye hither all, whom wine Doth define, Naming you not to your good: Weep what ye have drunk amisse, And drink this, Which before ye drink is bloud. Come ye hither all, whom pain Doth arraigne, Bringing all your sinnes to sight: Taste and fear not: God is here In this cheer, And on sinne doth cast the fright. Come ye hither all, whom joy Doth destroy, While ye graze without your bounds: Here is joy that drowneth quite Your delight, As a floud the lower grounds. Come ye hither all, whose love Is your dove, And exalts you to the skie: Here is love, which having breath Ev'n in death, After death can never die. Lord, I have invited all, And I shall Still invite, still call to thee: For it seems but just and right In my sight, Where is all, there all should be.

¶ The Jews. Poore nation, whose sweet sap and juice Our cyens have purloin'd, and left you drie: Whose streams we got by the Apostles sluce, And use in baptisme, while ye pine and die: Who by not keeping once, became a debter; And now by keeping lose the letter: Oh that my prayers! mine, alas! Oh that some Angel might a trumpet sound; At which the Church falling upon her face Should crie so loud, untill the trump were drown'd, And by that crie of her deare Lord obtain, That your sweet sap might come again!

¶ The Method. POore heart, lament. For since thy God refuseth still, There is some rub, some discontent, Which cools his will. Thy Father could Quickly effect, what thou dost move; For he is Power: and sure he would; For he is Love. Go search this thing, Tumble thy breast, and turn thy book. If thou hadst lost a glove or ring, Wouldst thou not look? What do I see Written above there? Yesterday I did behave me carelesly, When I did pray. And should Gods eare To such indifferents chained be, Who do not their own motions heare? Is God lesse free? But stay! what's there? Late when I would have something done, I had a motion to forbear, Yet I went on. And should Gods eare, Which needs not man, be ty'd to those Who heare not him, but quickly heare His utter foes? Then once more pray: Down with thy knees, up with thy voice. Seek pardon first, and God will say, Glad heart rejoyce.

¶ The Odour, 2. Cor. 2. How sweetly doth My Master sound! My Master! As Amber-greese leaves a rich sent Unto the taster: So do these words a sweet content, An orientall fragrancie, My Master. With these all day I do perfume my minde, My minde ev'n thrust into them both; That I might finde What cordials make this curious broth, This broth of smells, that feeds and fats my minde. My Master, shall I speak? O that to thee My servant were a little so, As flesh may be; That these two words might creep & grow To some degree of spicinesse to thee! Then should the Pomander, which was before A speaking sweet, mend by reflection, And tell me more: For pardon of my imperfection Would warm and work it sweeter then before. For when My Master, which alone is sweet, And ev'n in my unworthinesse pleasing, Shall call and meet, My servant, as thee not displeasing, That call is but the breathing of the sweet. This breathing would with gains by sweetning me (As sweet things traffick when they meet) Return to thee. And so this new commerce and sweet Should all my life employ, and busie me.

¶ The Pearl. Matth. 13. I Know the wayes of learning; both the head And pipes that feed the presse, and make it runne; What Reason hath from Nature borrowed, Or of it self, like a good huswife, spunne In laws and policie; what the starres conspire, What willing Nature speaks, what forc'd by fire; Both th' old discoveries, and the new-found seas, The stock and surplus, cause and historie: All these stand open, or I have the keyes: Yet I love thee. I know the wayes of Honour, what maintains The quick returns of courtesie and wit: In vies of favours whether partie gains, When glorie swells the heart, and moldeth it To all expressions both of hand and eye, Which on the world a true-love-knot may tie, And bear the bundle, wheresoe're it goes: How many drammes of spirit there must be To sell my life unto my friends or foes: Yet I love thee.

I know the wayes of Pleasure, the sweet strains, The lullings and the relishes of it; The propositions of hot bloud and brains; What mirth and musick mean; what love and wit Have done these twentie hundred yeares, and more: I know the projects of unbridled store: My stuffe is flesh, not brasse; my senses live, And grumble oft, that they have more in me Then he that curbs them, being but one to five: Yet I love thee. I know all these, and have them in my hand: Therefore not sealed, but with open eyes I flie to thee, and fully understand Both the main sale, and the commodities; And at what rate and price I have thy love; With all the circumstances that may move: Yet through the labyrinths, not my groveling wit, But thy silk twist let down from heav'n to me, Did both conduct and teach me, how by it To climbe to thee.

§ The Pilgrimage. I Travell'd on, seeing the hill, where lay My expectation. A long it was and weary way. The gloomy cave of Desperation I left on th' one, and on the other side The rock of Pride. And so I came to phansies medow strow'd With many a flower: Fain would I here have made abode, But I was quicken'd by my houre. So to cares cops I came, and there got through With much ado. That led me to the wilde of passion, which Some call the wold; A wasted place, but sometimes rich. Here I was robb'd of all my gold, Save one good Angel, which a friend had ti'd Close to my side. At length I got unto the gladsome hill, Where lay my hope, Where lay my heart; and climbing still, When I had gain'd the brow and top, A lake of brackish waters on the ground Was all I found. With that abash'd and struck with many a sting Of swarming fears, I fell, and cry'd, Alas my King! Can both the way and end be tears? Yet taking heart, I rose, and then perceiv'd I was deceiv'd.

My hill was further: so I flung away, Yet heard a crie Just as I went, None goes that way And lives: If that be all, said I, After so foul a journey death is fair, And but a chair.

¶ The Posie. Let wits contest, And with their words and posies windows fill: Lesse then the least Of all thy mercies, is my posie still. This on my ring, This by my picture, in my book I write: Whether I sing, Or say, or dictate, this is my delight. Invention rest, Comparisons go play, wit use thy will: Lesse then the least Of all Gods mercies, is my posie still.

¶ The Priesthood. Blest Order, which in power dost so excell, That with th'one hand thou liftest to the skie, And with the other throwest down to hell In thy just censures; fain would I draw nigh, Fain put thee on, exchanging my lay-sword For that of th'holy word. But thou art fire, sacred and hallow'd fire; And I but earth and clay: should I presume To wear thy habit, the severe attire My slender compositions might consume. I am both foul and brittle; much unfit To deal in holy Writ. Yet have I often seen, by cunning hand And force of fire, what curious things are made Of wretched earth. Where once I scorn'd to stand, That earth is fitted by the fire and trade Of skilfull artists, for the boards of those Who make the bravest shows. But since those great ones, be they ne're so great, Come from the earth, from whence those vessels come; So that at once both feeder, dish, and meat Have one beginning and one finall summe: I do not greatly wonder at the sight, If earth in earth delight.

But th' holy men of God such vessels are, As serve him up, who all the world commands: When God vouchsafeth to become our fare, Their hands convey him, who conveys their hands. O what pure things, most pure must those things be, Who bring my God to me! Wherefore I dare not, I, put forth my hand To hold the Ark, although it seem to shake Through th' old sinnes and new doctrines of our land. Onely, since God doth often vessels make Of lowly matter for high uses meet, I throw me at his feet. There will I lie, untill my Maker seek For some mean stuffe whereon to show his skill: Then is my time. The distance of the meek Doth flatter power. Lest good come short of ill In praising might, the poore do by submission What pride by opposition.

The Printers to the Reader. He dedication of this work having been made by the Authour to the Divine Majestie onely, how should we now presume to interest any mortall man in the patronage of it? Much lesse think we it meet to seek the recommendation of the Muses, for that which himself was confident to have been inspired by a diviner breath then flows from Helicon. The world therefore shall receive it in that naked simplicitie, with which he left it, without any addition either of support or ornament, more then is included in it self. We leave it free and unforestalled to every mans judgement, and to the benefit that he shall finde by perusall. Onely for the clearing of some passages, we have thought it not unfit to make the common Reader privie to some few particularities of the condition and disposition of the Person;

Being nobly born, and as eminently endued with gifts of the minde, and having by industrie and happy education perfected them to that great height of excellencie, whereof his fellowship of Trinitie Colledge in Cambridge, and his Orator-ship in the Universitie, together with that knowledge which the Kings Court had taken of him, could make relation farre above ordinarie. Quitting both his deserts and all the opportunities that he had for worldly preferment, he betook himself to the Sanctuarie and Temple of God, choosing rather to serve at Gods Altar, then to seek the honour of State-employments. As for those inward enforcements to this course (for outward there was none) which many of these ensuing verses bear witnesse of, they detract not from the freedome, but adde to the honour of this resolution in him. As God had enabled him, so he accounted him meet not onely to be called, but to be compelled to this service: Wherein his faith•full discharge was such, as may make him justly a companion to the primitive Saints, and a pattern or more for the age he lived in.

To testifie his independencie upon all others, and to quicken his diligence in this kinde, he used in his ordinarie speech, when he made mention of the blessed name of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, to adde, My Master. Next God, he loved that which God himself hath magnified above all things, that is, his Word: so as he hath been heard to make solemne protestation, that he would not part with one leaf thereof for the whole world, if it were offered him in exchange. His obedience and conformitie to the Church and the discipline thereof was singularly remarkable Though he abounded in private devotions, yet went he every morning and evening with his familie to the Church; and by his example, exhortations, and encouragements drew the greater part of his parishioners to accompanie him dayly in the publick celebration of Divine Service.

As for worldly matters, his love and esteem to them was so little, as no man can more ambitiously seek, then he did earnestly endeavour the resignation of an Ecclesiasticall dignitie, which he was possessour of. But God permitted not the accomplishment of this desire, having ordained him his instrument for reedifying of the Church belonging thereunto, that had layen ruinated almost twenty yeares. The reparation whereof, having been uneffectually attempted by publick collections, was in the end by his own and some few others private free-will-offerings succesfully effected. With the remembrance whereof, as of an especiall good work, when a friend went about to comfort him on his death-bed, he made answer, It is a good work, if it be sprinkled with the bloud of Christ: otherwise then in this respect he could finde nothing to glorie or comfort himself with, neither in this, nor in any other thing. And these are but a few of many that might be said, which we have chosen to premise as a glance to some parts of the ensuing book, and for an example to the Reader. We conclude all with his own Motto, with which he used to conclude all things that might seem to tend any way to his own honour; Lesse then the least of Gods mercies.

¶ The Pulley. When God at first made man, Having a glasse of blessings standing by; Let us (said he) poure on him all we can: Let the worlds riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span. So strength first made a way; Then beautie flow'd, then wisdome, honour, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone of all his treasure Rest in the bottome lay. For if I should (said he) Bestow this jewell also on my creature, He would adore my gifts in stead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature, So both should losers be. Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlesnesse: Let him be rich and wearie, that at least, If goodnesse leade him not, yet wearinesse May tosse him to my breast.

¶ The Quidditie. MY God, a verse is not a crown, No point of honour, or gay suit, No hawk, or banquet, or renown, Nor a good sword, nor yet a lute: It cannot vault, or dance, or play; It never was in France or Spain; Nor can it entertain the day With a great stable or demain: It is no office, art, or news, Nor the Exchange, or busie Hall: But it is that which while I use I am with thee, and Most take all.

¶ The Quip. THe merrie world did on a day With his train-bands and mates agree To meet together, where I lay, And all in sport to geere at me. First, Beautie crept into a rose, Which when I pluckt not, Sir, said she, Tell me, I pray, Whose hands are those? But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Then Money came, and chinking still, What tune is this, poore man? said he: I heard in Musick you had skill. But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Then came brave Glorie puffing by In silks that whistled, who but he? He scarce allow’d me half an eie. But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Then came quick Wit and Conversation, And he would needs a comfort be, And, to be short, make an Oration. But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Yet when the houre of thy designe To answer these fine things shall come; Speak not at large; say, I am thine: And then they have their answer home.

¶ The Reprisall. I Have consider'd it, and finde There is no dealing with thy mighty passion: For though I die for thee, I am behinde; My sinnes deserve the condemnation. O make me innocent, that I May give a disentangled state and free: And yet thy wounds still my attempts defie, For by thy death I die for thee. Ah! was it not enough that thou By thy eternall glorie didst outgo me? Couldst thou not griefs sad conquests me allow, But in all vict'ries overthrow me? Yet by confession will I come Into the conquest. Though I can do nought Against thee, in thee I will overcome The man, who once against thee fought.

¶ The Rose. Presse me not to take more pleasure In this world of sugred lies, And to use a larger measure Then my strict, yet welcome size. First, there is no pleasure here: Colour'd griefs indeed there are, Blushing woes, that look as cleare As if they could beautie spare. Or if such deceits there be, Such delights I meant to say; There are no such things to me, Who have pass'd my right away. But I will not much oppose Unto what you now advise: Onely take this gentle rose, And therein my answer lies. What is fairer then a rose? What is sweeter? yet it purgeth. Purgings enmitie disclose, Enmitie forbearance urgeth. If then all that worldlings prize Be contracted to a rose; Sweetly there indeed it lies, But it biteth in the close. So this flow'r doth judge and sentence Worldly joyes to be a scourge: For they all produce repentance, And repentance is a purge. But I health, not physick choose: Onely though I you oppose, Say that fairly I refuse, For my answer is a rose.

The Sacrifice. OH all ye, who passe by, whose eyes and minde To worldly things are sharp, but to me blinde; To me, who took eyes that I might you finde: Was ever grief like mine? The Princes of my people make a head Against their Maker: they do wish me dead, Who cannot wish, except I give them bread: Was ever grief like mine? Without me each one who doth now me brave, Had to this day been an Egyptian slave. They use that power against me, which I gave! Was ever grief like mine? Mine own Apostle, who the bag did beare, Though he had all I had, did not forbeare To sell me also, and to put me there: Was ever grief, &c. For thirty pence he did my death devise, Who at three hundred did the ointment prize, Not half so sweet as my sweet sacrifice: Was ever grief, &c. Therefore my soul melts, and my hearts deare treasure Drops bloud (the onely beads) my words to measure: Oh let this cup passe, if it be thy pleasure: Was ever grief, &c. These drops being temper'd with a sinners tears, Balsome are for both the Hemispheres: Curing all wounds, but mine; all, but my fears: Was ever grief, &c.

Yet my Disciples sleep: I cannot gain One houre of watching; but their drowsie brain Comforts not me, and doth my doctrine stain: Was ever grief like mine? Arise, arise, they come. Look how they runne. Alas! what haste they make to be undone! How with their lanterns do they seek the sunne! Was ever grief, &c. With clubs and staves they seek me, as a thief, Who am the way of truth, the true relief; Most true to those, who are my greatest grief: Was ever grief, &c. Judas, dost thou betray me with a kisse? Canst thou finde hell about my lips? and misse Of life, just at the gates of life and blisse? Was ever grief, &c. See, they lay hold on me, not with the hands Of faith, but furie: yet at their commands I suffer binding, who have loos'd their bands: Was ever grief, &c. All my Disciples flie; fear puts a barre Betwixt my friends and me. They leave the starre, That brought the wise men of the East from farre. Was ever grief, &c. Then from one ruler to another bound They leade me; urging, that it was not sound What I taught: Comments would the text confound: Was ever grief, &c.

The Priest and rulers all false witnesse seek 'Gainst him, who seeks not life, but is the meek And ready Paschal Lambe of this great week: Was ever grief, &c. Then they accuse me of great blasphemie, That I did thrust into the Deitie, Who never thought that any robberie: Was ever grief like mine? Some said, that I the Temple to the floore In three dayes raz'd, and raised as before. Why, he that built the world can do much more: Was ever grief, &c. Then they condemne me all with that same breath, Which I do give them daily, unto death. Thus Adam my first breathing rendereth: Was ever grief, &c. They binde, and leade me unto Herod: he Sends me to Pilate. This makes them agree; But yet their friendship is my enmitie: Was ever grief, &c. Herod and all his bands do set me light, Who teach all hands to warre, fingers to fight, And onely am the Lord of hosts and might: Was ever grief, &c. Herod in judgement sits, while I do stand; Examines me with a censorious hand: I him obey, who all things else command: Was ever grief, &c. The Jews accuse me with despitefulnesse; And vying malice with my gentlenesse, Pick quarrels with their onely happinesse: Was ever grief, &c.

I answer nothing, but with patience prove If stony hearts will melt with gentle love. But who does hawk at eagles with a dove? Was ever grief, &c. My silence rather doth augment their crie; My dove doth back into my bosome flie, Because the raging waters still are high: Was ever grief like mine? Heark how they crie aloud still, Crucifie: It is not fit he live a day, they crie, Who cannot live lesse then eternally: Was ever grief, &c. Pilate a stranger holdeth off; but they, Mine own deare people, cry, Away, away, With noises confused frighting the day: Was ever grief, &c. Yet still they shout, and crie, and stop their eares, Putting my life among their sinnes and fears, And therefore wish my bloud on them and theirs: Was ever grief, &c. See how spite cankers things. These words aright Used, and wished, are the whole worlds light: But hony is their gall, brightnesse their night: Was ever grief, &c. They choose a murderer, and all agree In him to do themselves a courtesie: For it was their own cause who killed me: Was ever grief, &c. And a seditious murderer he was: But I the Prince of peace; peace that doth passe All understanding, more then heav'n doth glasse: Was ever grief, &c.

Why, Cesar is their onely King, not I: He clave the stonie rock, when they were drie; But surely not their hearts, as I well trie: Was ever grief, &c. Ah! how they scourge me! yet my tendernesse Doubles each lash: and yet their bitternesse Windes up my grief to a mysteriousnesse: Was ever grief like mine? They buffet me, and box me as they list, Who grasp the earth and heaven with my fist, And never yet, whom I would punish, miss'd: Was ever grief, &c. Behold, they spit on me in scornfull wise, Who by my spittle gave the blinde man eies, Leaving his blindnesse to mine enemies: Was ever grief, &c. My face they cover, though it be divine. As Moses face was vailed, so is mine, Lest on their double-dark souls either shine: Was ever grief, &c. Servants and abjects flout me; they are wittie: Now prophesie who strikes thee, is their dittie. So they in me denie themselves all pitie: Was ever grief, &c. And now I am deliver'd unto death, Which each one calls for so with utmost breath, That he before me well nigh suffereth: Was ever grief, &c.

Weep not, deare friends, since I for both have wept When all my tears were bloud, the while you slept: Your tears for your own fortunes should be kept: Was ever grief, &c. The souldiers leade me to the common hall; There they deride me, they abuse me all: Yet for twelve heav'nly legions I could call: Was ever grief, &c. Then with a scarlet robe they me aray; Which shews my bloud to be the onely way, And cordiall left to repair mans decay: Was ever grief like mine? Then on my head a crown of thorns I wear: For these are all the grapes Sion doth bear, Though I my vine planted and watred there: Was ever grief, &c. So sits the earths great curse in Adams fall Upon my head: so I remove it all From th' earth unto my brows, and bear the thrall: Was ever grief, &c. Then with the reed they gave to me before, They strike my head, the rock from whence all store Of heav'nly blessings issue evermore: Was ever grief, &c. They bow their knees to me, and cry, Hail king, What ever scoffes or scornfulnesse can bring, I am the floore, the sink, where they it fling: Was ever grief, &c.

Yet since mans scepters are as frail as reeds, And thorny all their crowns, bloudie their weeds; I who am Truth, turn into truth their deeds: Was ever grief, &c. The souldiers also spit upon that face, Which Angels did desire to have the grace, And Prophets once to see, but found no place: Was ever grief, &c. Thus trimmed forth they bring me to the rout, Who Crucifie him, crie with one strong shout. God holds his peace at man, and man cries out: Was ever grief, &c. They leade me in once more, and putting then Mine own clothes on, they leade me out agen. Whom devils flie, thus is he toss'd of men: Was ever grief like Mind? And now wearie of sport, glad to ingrosse All spite in one, counting my life their losse, They carrie me to my most bitter crosse: Was ever grief, &c. My crosse I bear my self, untill I faint: Then Simon bears it for me by constraint, The decreed burden of each mortall Saint: Was ever grief, &c. O all ye who passe by, behold and see; Man stole the fruit, but I must climbe the tree; The tree of life to all, but onely me: Was ever grief, &c.

Lo, here I hang, charg'd with a world of sinne, The greater world o'th' two; for that came in By words, but this by sorrow I must win: Was ever grief, &c. Such sorrow, as if sinfull man could feel, Or feel his part, he would not cease to kneel, Till all were melted, though he were all steel: Was ever grief, &c. But, O my God, my God! why leav'st thou me, The sonne, in whom thou dost delight to be? My God, my God———— Never was grief like mine. Shame tears my soul, my bodie many a wound; Sharp nails pierce this, but sharper that confound; Reproches, which are free, while I am bound: Was ever grief, &c. Now heal thy self, Physician; now come down. Alas! I did so, when I left my crown And fathers smile for you, to feel his frown: Was ever grief like mine? In healing not my self, there doth consist All that salvation, which ye now resist; Your safetie in my sicknesse doth subsist: Was ever grief, &c. Betwixt two theeves I spend my utmost breath, As he that for some robberie suffereth. Alas! what have I stollen from you? death: Was ever grief, &c.

A king my title is, prefixt on high; Yet by my subjects am condemn'd to die A servile death in servile companie: Was ever grief, &c. They gave me vineger mingled with gall, But more with malice: yet, when they did call, With Manna, Angels food, I fed them all: Was ever grief, &c. They part my garments, and by lot dispose My coat, the type of love, which once cur'd those Who sought for help, never malicious foes: Was ever grief, &c. Nay, after death their spite shall further go: For they will pierce my side, I full well know; That as sinne came, so Sacraments might flow: Was ever grief, &c. But now I die; now all is finished. My wo, mans weal and now I bow my head. Onely let others say, when I am dead, Never was grief like mine.

¶ The Search. Whither, O, whither art thou fled, My Lord, my Love? My searches are my daily bread; Yet never prove. My knees pierce th'earth, mine eies the skie; And yet the sphere And centre both to me denie That thou art there. Yet can I mark how herbs below Grow green and gay; As if to meet thee they did know, While I decay. Yet can I mark how starres above Simper and shine, As having keyes unto thy love, While poore I pine. I sent a sigh to seek thee out, Deep drawn in pain, Wing'd like an arrow: but my scout Returns in vain. I tun'd another (having store) Into a grone; Because the search was dumbe before: But all was one. Lord, dost thou some new fabrick mold Which favour winnes, And keeps the present, leaving th' old Unto their sinnes? Where is my God? what hidden place Conceals thee still? What covert dare eclipse thy face? Is it thy will? O let not that of any thing: Let rather brasse, Or steel, or mountains be thy ring, And I will passe. Thy will such an intrenching is, As passeth thought: To it all strength, all subtilties Are things of nought.

Thy will such a strange distance is, As that to it East and West touch, the poles do kisse, And parallels meet. Since then my grief must be as large, As is thy space, Thy distance from me; see my charge, Lord, see my case. O take these barres, these lengths away; Turn, and restore me: Be not Almightie, let me say, Against, but for me. When thou dost turn, and wilt be neare; What edge so keen, What point so piercing can appeare To come between? For as thy absence doth excell All distance known: So doth thy nearenesse bear the bell, Making two one.

¶ The Sinner. LOrd, how I am all ague, when I seek What I have treasur'd in my memorie! Since, if my soul make even with the week, Each seventh note by right is due to thee. I finde there quarries of pil'd vanities, But shreds of holinesse, that dare not venture To shew their face, since crosse to thy decrees: There the circumference earth is, heav'n the centre. In so much dregs the quintessence is small: The spirit and good extract of my heart Comes to about the many hundredth part. Yet Lord restore thine image, heare my call: And though my hard heart scarce to thee can grone, Remember that thou once didst write in stone.

¶ The Size. COntent thee, greedie heart. Modest and moderate joyes to those, that have Title to more hereafter when they part, Are passing brave. Let th’ upper springs into the low Descend and fall, and thou dost flow. What though some have a fraught Of cloves and nutmegs, and in cinamon sail? If thou hast wherewithall to spice a draught, When griefs prevail, And for the future time art heir To th’ Isle of spices, is’t not fair? To be in both worlds full Is more then God was, who was hungrie here. Wouldst thou his laws of fasting disanull? Enact good cheer? Lay out thy joy, yet hope to save it? Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? Great joyes are all at once; But little do reserve themselves for more; Those have their hopes; these what they have renounce, And live on score: Those are at home; these journey still, And meet the rest on Sions hill. Thy Saviour sentenc’d joy, And in the flesh condemn’d it as unfit, At least in lump: for such doth oft destroy; Whereas a bit Doth tice us on to hopes of more, And for the present health restore.

A Christians state and case Is not a corpulent, but a thinne and spare, Yet active strength: whose long and bonie face Content and care Do seem to equally divide, Like a pretender, not a bride. Wherefore sit down, good heart; Grasp not at much, for fear thou losest all. If comforts fell according to desert, They would great frosts and snows destroy: For we should count, Since the last joy. Then close again the seam, Which thou hast open'd: do not spread thy robe In hope of great things. Call to minde thy dream, An earthly globe, On whose meridian was engraven, These seas are tears, and heav'n the haven.

¶ The Sonne. Let forrain nations of their language boast, What fine varietie each tongue affords: I like our language, as our men and coast: Who cannot dresse it well, want wit, not words. How neatly do we give one onely name To parents issue and the sunnes bright starre! A sonne is light and fruit; a fruitfull flame Chasing the fathers dimnesse, carri'd farre From the first man in th' East, to fresh and new Western discov'ries of posteritie. So in one word our Lords humilitie We turn upon him in a sense most true: For what Christ once in humblenesse began, We him in glorie call, The Sonne of Man.

¶ The Starre. BRight spark, shot from a brighter place, Where beams surround my Saviours face, Canst thou be any where So well as there? Yet, if thou wilt from thence depart,  Take a bad lodging in my heart; For thou canst make a debter, And make it better. First with thy fire-work burn to dust  Folly, and worse then folly, lust: Then with thy light refine, And make it shine. So disengag'd from sinne and sicknesse,  Touch it with thy celestiall quicknesse, That it may hang and move After thy love. Then with our trinitie of light,  Motion, and heat, let's take our flight Unto the place where thou Before didst bow. Get me a standing there, and place  Among the beams, which crown the face Of him, who dy'd to part Sinne and my heart. That so among the rest I may  Glitter, and curle, and winde as they: That winding is their fashion Of adoration. Sure thou wilt joy, by gaining me  To flie home like a laden bee Unto that hive of beams And garland-streams.

¶ The Storm. IF as the windes and waters here below Do flie and flow, My sighs and tears as busie were above; Sure they would move And much affect thee, as tempestuous times Amaze poore mortals, and object their crimes. Starres have their storms, ev'n in a high degree, As well as we. A throbbing conscience spurred by remorse Hath a strange force: It quits the earth, and mounting more and more, Dares to assault thee, and besiege thy doore. There it stands knocking, to thy musicks wrong, And drowns the song. Glorie and honour are set by till it An answer get. Poets have wrong'd poore storms: such dayes are best; They purge the aire without, within the breast.

¶ The Temper. HOw should I praise thee, Lord! how should my rymes Gladly engrave thy love in steel, If what my soul doth feel sometimes, My soul might ever feel! Although there were some fourtie heav'ns, or more, Sometimes I peere above them all; Sometimes I hardly reach a score, Sometimes to hell I fall. O rack me not to such a vast extent; Those distances belong to thee: The world's too little for thy tent, A grave too big for me. Wilt thou meet arms with man, that thou dost stretch A crumme of dust from heav'n to hell? Will great God measure with a wretch? Shall he thy stature spell? O let me, when thy roof my soul hath hid, O let me roost and nestle there: Then of a sinner thou art rid, And I of hope and fear. Yet take thy way; for sure thy way is best: Stretch or contract me thy poore debter: This is but tuning of my breast, To make the musick better. Whether I flie with angels, fall with dust, Thy hands made both, and I am there. Thy power and love, my love and trust Make one place ev'ry where.

¶ The Temper. IT cannot be. Where is that mightie joy,  Which just now took up all my heart?   Lord, if thou must needs use thy dart, Save that, and me; or sin for both destroy. The grosser world stands to thy word and art;   But thy diviner world of grace   Thou suddenly dost raise and race, And ev'ry day a new Creatour art. O fix thy chair of grace, that all my powers   May also fix their reverence:   For when thou dost depart from hence, They grow unruly, and sit in thy bowers. Scatter, or binde them all to bend to thee:   Though elements change, and heaven move,   Let not thy higher Court remove, But keep a standing Majestie in me.

OH King of grief! (a title strange, yet true, To thee of all kings onely due) Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee, Who in all grief preventest me? Shall I weep bloud? why, thou hast wept such store That all thy bodie was one doore. Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold? 'Tis but to tell the tale is told. My God, my God, why dost thou part from me? Was such a grief as cannot be. Shall I then sing, skipping, thy dolefull storie, And side with thy triumphant glorie? Shall thy strokes be my stroking? thorns, my flower? Thy rod, my posie? crosse, my bower? But how then shall I imitate thee, and Copie thy fair, though bloudie hand? Surely I will revenge me on thy love, And trie who shall victorious prove. If thou dost give me wealth; I will restore All back unto thee by the poore. If thou dost give me honour; men shall see The honour doth belong to thee. I will not marry; or, if she be mine, She and her children shall be thine. My bosome friend, if he blaspheme thy name, I will tear thence his love and fame. One half of me being gone, the rest I give Unto some Chappell, die or live. As for thy passion—But of that anon, When with the other I have done. For thy predestination, I'le contrive, That three yeares hence, if I survive, I'le build a spittle, or mend common wayes, But mend mine own without delayes. Then I will use the works of thy creation, As if I us'd them but for fashion. The world and I will quarrell; and the yeare Shall not perceive, that I am here. My musick shall finde thee, and ev'ry string Shall have his attribute to sing; That all together may accord in thee, And prove one God, one harmonie. If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appeare, If thou hast giv'n it me, 'tis here. Nay, I will reade thy book, and never move Till I have found therein thy love; Thy art of love, which I'le turn back on thee, O my deare Saviour, Victorie! Then for thy passion—I will do for that— Alas, my God, I know not what.

¶ The Water-course. Thou who dost dwell and linger here below, Since the condition of this world is frail, Where of all plants afflictions soonest grow; If troubles overtake thee, do not wail: For who can look for lesse, that loveth {  ⁠Life?/Strife?⁠ But rather turn the pipe, and waters course To serve thy sinnes, and furnish thee with store Of sov'raigne tears, springing from true remorse: That so in purenesse thou mayst him adore, Who gives to man, as he sees fit, {  ⁠Salvation./Damnation.⁠

¶ The Windows. LOrd, how can man preach thy eternall word? He is a brittle crazie glasse: Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford This glorious and transcendent place, To be a window, through thy grace. But when thou dost anneal in glasse thy storie, Making thy life to shine within The holy Preachers; then the light and glorie More rev'rend grows, & more doth win; Which else shows watrish, bleak, & thin. Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one When they combine and mingle, bring A strong regard and aw: but speech alone Doth vanish like a flaring thing, And in the eare, not conscience ring.

¶ The World. LOve built a stately house; where Fortune came: And spinning phansies, she was heard to say, That her fine cobwebs did support the frame, Whereas they were supported by the same: But Wisdome quickly swept them all away. Then Pleasure came, who liking not the fashion, Began to make Balcones, Terraces, Till she had weakned all by alteration: But rev'rend laws, and many a proclamation Reformed all at length with menaces. Then enter'd Sinne, and with that Sycomore, Whose leaves first sheltred man from drought & dew, Working and winding slily evermore, The inward walls and Sommers cleft and tore: But Grace shor'd these, and cut that as it grew. Then Sinne combin'd with Death in a firm band To rase the building to the very floore: Which they effected, none could them withstand. But Love and Grace took Glorie by the hand, And built a braver Palace then before.

¶ The bunch of grapes. JOy, I did lock thee up: but some bad man Hath let thee out again: And now, me thinks, I am where I began Sev’n yeares ago: one vogue and vein, One aire of thoughts usurps my brain I did towards Canaan draw; but now I am Brought back to the Red sea, the sea of shame. For as the Jews of old by Gods command Travell'd, and saw no town; So now each Christian hath his journeys spann'd: Their storie pennes and sets us down. A single deed is small renown. Gods works are wide, and let in future times: His ancient justice overflows our crimes. Then have we too our guardian fires and clouds; Our Scripture-dew drops fast: We have our sands and serpents, tents and shrowds; Alas! our murmurings come not last. But where's the cluster? where's the taste Of mine inheritance? Lord, if I must borrow, Let me as well take up their joy, as sorrow.

But can he want the grape, who hath the wine? I have their fruit and more. Blessed be God, who prosper'd Noahs vine, And made it bring forth grapes good store. But much more him I must adore, Who of the Laws sowre juice sweet wine did make, Ev'n God himself, being pressed for my sake.

¶ Time. MEeting with Time, slack thing, said I, Thy sithe is dull; whet it for shame. No marvell Sir, he did replie, If it at length deserve some blame:  But where one man would have me grinde it,  Twentie for one too sharp do finde it. Perhaps some such of old did passe, Who above all things lov’d this life; To whom thy sithe a hatchet was, Which now is but a pruning knife.  Christs coming hath made man thy debter,  Since by thy cutting he grows better. And in his blessing thou art blest: For where thou onely wert before An executioner at best; Thou art a gard’ner now, and more,  An usher to convey our souls  Beyond the utmost starres and poles. And this is that makes life so long, While it detains us from our God. Ev’n pleasures here increase the wrong, And length of dayes lengthen the rod.  Who wants the place, where God doth dwell,  Partakes already half of hell. Of what strange length must that needs be, Which ev’n eternitie excludes! Thus farre Time heard me patiently: Then chafing said, This man deludes:  What do I here before his doore?  He doth not crave lesse time, but more.

¶ To all Angels and Saints. OH glorious spirits, who after all your bands See the smooth face of God, without a frown Or strict commands; Where ev'ry one is king, and hath his crown, If not upon his head, yet in his hands: Not out of envie or maliciousnesse Do I forbear to crave your speciall aid: I would addresse My vows to thee most gladly, blessed Maid, And Mother of my God, in my distresse. Thou art the holy Mine, whence came the gold, The great restorative for all decay In young and old; Thou art the Cabinet where the jewell lay: Chiefly to thee would I my soul unfold: But now (alas!) I dare not; for our King, Whom we do all joyntly adore and praise, Bids no such thing: And where his pleasure no injunction layes, ('Tis your own case) ye never move a wing. All worship is prerogative, and a flower Of his rich crown, from whom lyes no appeal At the last houre: Therefore we dare not from his garland steal, To make a posie for inferiour power.

Although then others court you, if ye know What's done on earth, we shall not fare the worse, Who do not so; Since we are ever ready to disburse, If any one our Masters hand can show.

¶ Trinitie Sunday. LOrd, who hast form'd me out of mud, And hast redeem'd me through thy bloud, And sanctifi'd me to do good; Purge all my sinnes done heretofore: For I confesse my heavie score, And I will strive to sinne no more. Enrich my heart, mouth, hands in me; With faith, with hope, with charitie; That I may runne, rise, rest with thee.

¶ Ungratefulnesse. LOrd, with what bountie and rare clemencie Hast thou redeem'd us from the grave! If thou hadst let us runne, Gladly had man ador'd the sunne, And thought his god most brave; Where now we shall be better gods then he. Thou hast but two rare cabinets full of treasure, The Trinitie, and Incarnation: Thou hast unlockt them both, And made them jewels to betroth The work of thy creation Unto thy self in everlasting pleasure. The statelier cabinet is the Trinitie, Whose sparkling light accesse denies: Therefore thou dost not show This fully to us, till death blow The dust into our eyes: For by that powder thou wilt make us see. But all thy sweets are packt up in the other; Thy mercies thither flock and flow: That as the first affrights, This may allure us with delights; Because this box we know; For we have all of us just such another. But man is close, reserv'd, and dark to thee: When thou demandest but a heart, He cavils instantly. In his poore cabinet of bone Sinnes have their box apart, Defrauding thee, who gavest two for one.

¶ Unkindnesse. LOrd, make me coy and tender to offend. In friendship, first I think, if that agree, Which I intend, Unto my friends intent and end. I would not use a friend, as I use Thee. If any touch my friend, or his good name, It is honour and my love to free His blasted fame From the least spot or thought of blame. I could not use a friend, as I use Thee. My friend may spit upon my curious floore: Would he gave gold? I lend it instantly; But let the poore, And thou within them starve at doore. I cannot use a friend, as I use Thee. When that my friend pretendeth to a place, I quit my interest, and leave it free: But when thy grace Sues for my heart, I thee displace; Nor would I use a friend, as I use Thee. Yet can a friend what thou hast done fulfill? O write in brasse, My God upon a tree His bloud did spill Onely to purchase my good-will: Yet use I not my foes, as I use thee.

¶ Vanitie. THe fleet Astronomer can bore And thred the spheres with his quick-piercing minde: He views their stations, walks from doore to doore, Surveys, as if he had design'd To make a purchase there: he sees their dances, And knoweth long before Both their full-ey'd aspects, and secret glances. The nimble Diver with his side Cuts through the working waves, that he may fetch His deerly-earned pearl, which God did hide On purpose from the ventrous wretch; That he might save his life, and also hers, Who with excessive pride Her own destruction and his danger wears. The subtil Chymick can devest And strip the creature naked, till he finde The callow principles within their nest: There he imparts to them his minde, Admitted to their bed-chamber, before They appeare trim and drest To ordinarie suitours at the doore. What hath not man sought out and found, But his deare God? who yet his glorious law Embosomes in us, mellowing the ground With showres and frosts, with love & aw; So that we need not say, Where's this command? Poore man, thou searchest round To finde out death, but missest life at hand.

¶ Vanitie. POore silly soul, whose hope and head lies low; Whose flat delights on earth do creep and grow; To whom the starres shine not so fair, as eyes; Not solid work, as false embroyderies; Heark and beware, lest what you now do measure And write for sweet, prove a most sowre displeasure. O heare betimes, lest thy relenting May come too late! To purchase heaven for repenting Is no hard rate. If souls be made of earthly mold, Let them love gold; If born on high, Let them unto their kindred flie: For they can never be at rest, Till they regain their ancient nest. Then silly soul take heed; for earthly joy Is but a bubble, and makes thee a boy.

¶ Vertue. SWeet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridall of the earth and skie: The dew shall weep thy fall to night; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye: Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie; My musick shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Onely a sweet and vertuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.

¶ Whitsunday. LIsten sweet Dove unto my song, And spread thy golden wings in me;  Hatching my tender heart so long, Till it get wing, and flie away with thee. Where is that fire which once descended  On thy Apostles? thou didst then  Keep open house, richly attended, Feasting all comers by twelve chosen men. Such glorious gifts thou didst bestow,  That th' earth did like a heav'n appeare;  The starres were coming down to know If they might mend their wages, and serve here. The sunne, which once did shine alone,  Hung down his head, and wisht for night,  When he beheld twelve sunnes for one Going about the world, and giving light. But since those pipes of gold, which brought  That cordiall water to our ground,  Were cut and martyr'd by the fault Of those, who did themselves through their side wound Thou shutt'st the doore, and keep'st within;  Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink:  And if the braves of conqu'ring sinne Did not excite thee, we should wholly sink. Lord, though we change, thou art the same;  The same sweet God of love and light:  Restore this day, for thy great Name, Unto his ancient and miraculous right.