A Hymne to God the Father.
HEARE mee, O God!
A broken heart,
best part:
Use still thy rod,
That I may prove
Therein, thy Love.
If thou hadst not
Beene sterne to mee,
But left me free,
I had forgot
My selfe and thee.
For, sin's so sweet.
As minds ill bent
Rarely repent,
Untill they meet
Their punishment.
Who more can crave
Then thou hast done:
That gav'st a Sonne,
To free a slave?
First made of nought;
Withall since bought.
Sinne, Death, and Hell,
His glorious Name
Quite overcame,
Yet I rebell,
And slight the same.
But, I'le come in,
Before my losse,
Me farther tosse,
As sure to win
Under his Crosse.
On the Nativitie of my Saviour.
I sing the birth, was borne to night,
The Author both of Life, and light;
The Angels so did sound it,
And like the ravish'd Sheep'erds said,
Who saw the light, and were afraid,
Yet search'd, and true they found it.
The Sonne of God, th' Eternall King,
That did us all salvation bring,
And freed the soule from danger; Hee whom the whole world could not take, The Word, which heaven, and earth did make; Was now laid in a Manger.
The Fathers wisedome will'd it so,
The Sonnes obedience knew no No,
Both wills were in one stature;
And as that wisedome had decreed,
The Word was now made Flesh indeed,
And took on him our Nature.
What comfort by him doe wee winne?
Who made himselfe the price of sinne,
To make us heires of glory?
To see this Babe, all innocence;
A Martyr borne in our defence;
Can man forget this Storie?
A Celebration of Charis in
ten Lyrick Peeces.
His Excuse for loving.
LET it not your wonder move,
Lesse your laughter; that I love.
Though I now write fiftie
yeares,
I have had, and have my Peeres;
Poëts, though devine are men:
Some have lov'd as old agen.
And it is not alwayes face,
Clothes, or Fortune gives the grace;
Or the feature, or the youth:
But the Language, and the Truth,
With the Ardor, and the Passion,
Gives the Lover weight, and fashion.
If
you then will read the Storie,
First, prepare you to be sorie,
That you never knew till now,
Either whom to love, or how:
But be glad, as soone with me,
When you know, that this is she,
Of whose Beautie it was sung,
She shall make the old man young.
Keepe the middle age at stay,
And let nothing high decay.
Till she be the reason why,
All the world for love may die.
I beheld her, on a Day,
When her looke out-flourisht May:
And her dressing did out-brave
All the Pride the fields than have:
Farre I was from being stupid,
For I ran and call'd on Cupid;
Love if thou wilt ever see
Marke of glorie, come with me;
Where's thy Quiver? bend thy Bow:
Here's a shaft, thou art to slow!
And (withall) I did untie
Every Cloud about his eye;
But, he had not gain'd his sight
Sooner, then he lost his might,
Or his courage; for away
Strait hee ran, and durst not stay,
Letting Bow and Arrow fall,
Nor for any threat, or Call,
Could be brought once back to looke,
I foole-hardie, there up tooke
Both the Arrow he had quit,
And the Bow: which thought to hit
This my object. But she threw
Such a Lightning (as I drew)
At my face, that tooke my sight,
And my motion from me quite;
So that there, I stood a stone,
Mock'd of all: and call'd of one
(Which with griefe and wrath I heard)
Cupids Statue with a Beard,
Or else one that plaid his Ape,
In a Hercules-his shape.
What hee suffered.
AFTER many scornes like these,
Which the prouder Beauties please,
She content was to restore
Eyes and limbes; to hurt me more
And would on Conditions, be
Reconcil'd to Love, and me
First, that I must kneeling yeeld
Both the Bow, and shaft I held
Unto her; which love might take
At her hand, with oath, to make
Mee, the scope of his next draught
Aymed, with that selfe-same shaft
He no sooner heard the Law,
But the Arrow home did draw
And (to gaine her by his Art)
Left it sticking in my heart:
Which when she beheld to bleed,
She repented of the deed,
And would faine have chang'd the fate,
But the Pittie comes too late.
Looser-like, now, all my wreake
Is, that I have leave to speake,
And in either Prose, or Song,
To revenge me with my Tongue,
Which how Dexterously I doe
Heare and make Example too.
SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love
Wherein my Lady rideth!
Each that drawes, is a Swan, or a Dove
And well the Carre Love guideth.
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