The Father's wisdom willed it so,
The Son's obedience knew no No,

Both wills were in one stature;
And as that wisdom had decreed,
The Word was now made Flesh indeed,

And took on him our nature.

What comfort by him do we win,
Who made himself the price of sin,

To make us heirs of glory!
To see this Babe, all innocence,
A martyr born in our defence ;

Can man forget this story?

A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS.

IN TEN LYRIC PIECES.

3

I.

HIS EXCUSE FOR LOVING.

Let it not

your

wonder move, Less your laughter, that I love.

,

Though I now write fifty years,
I have had, and have my peers;
Poets, though divine, are men:
Some have loved as old again.
And it is not always 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 story,
First, prepare you to be sorry,
That you never knew till now,
Either whom to love, or how:
But be glad, as soon with me,
When

you know that this is she,
Of whose beauty it was sung,
She shall make the old man young.
Keep the middle age at stay,
And let nothing high decay,
Till she be the reason, why,
All the world for love die.

may

I beheld her, on a day,
When her look out-flourished May;
And her dressing did outbrave
All the pride the fields then have;
Far I was from being stupid,
For I ran and called on Cupid :

“Love, if thou wilt ever see
Mark of glory, come with me;
Where's thy quiver ? bend thy bow:
Here's a shaft, -thou art too slow !"
And withal, I did untie
Every cloud about his eye.
But he had not gained his sight
Sooner than he lost his might,
Or his courage;

for

away Straight he ran, and durst not stay, Letting bow and arrow fall, Nor for any threat, or call, Could be brought once back to look. I, foolhardy, there up took 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 took my sight, And my motion from me quite; So that there I stood a stone, Mocked of all, and called of one, (Which with grief and wrath I heard,) Cupid's statue with a beard; Or else one that played his ape, In a Hercules his shape.

After many scorns like these,
Which the prouder beauties please,

She content was to restore
Eyes and limbs; to hurt me more,
And would, on conditions, be
Reconciled to Love and me:
First, that I must kneeling yield
Both the bow and shaft I held
Unto her; which Love might take
At her hand, with oaths, to make
Me the scope of his next draft,
Aimed with that selfsame shaft.
He no sooner heard the law,
But the arrow home did draw,
And, to gain her by his art,
Left it sticking in my heart :
Which when she beheld to bleed,
She repented of the deed,
And would fain have changed the fate,
But the pity comes too late.
Loser-like, now, all my

wreak
Is, that I have leave to speak,
And in either prose or song,
To revenge me with my tongue ;
Which how dexterously I do,
Hear, and make example too.

See the chariot at hand here of Love,

Wherein my lady rideth !
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

And well the car Love guideth.

As she goes, all hearts do duty

Unto her beauty;
And, enamored, do wish, so they might

But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she

would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light

AU that Love's world compriseth !
Do but look on her hair, it is bright

As Love's star when it riseth !
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother

Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows such a grace

Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements'

strife.

you

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,

Before rude hands have touched it? Have marked but the fall o' the snow

Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver ?

Or swan's down ever ?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier?

Or the nard in the fire ?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!