Prophets Tombe and dost bequeath The life thou took'st from him unto his Death Vaine man the stones that on his Tombe doe lye Keepe but the score of them that made him dye Vpon the Infant Martyrs TO see both blended in one flood The Mothers Milke the Childrens blood Makes me doubt if Heaven will gather Roses hence or Lillies rather Joh. 16. Verily I say unto you yee shall weep and lament WElcome my Grife my Ioy how deare's To me my Legacy of Teares I 'le weepe and weepe and will therefore Weepe 'cause I can weepe no moreâ— Thou thou Deare Lord even thou alone Giv'st joy even when thou givest none Joh. 15. Vpon our Lords last comfortable discourse with his Disciples ALL Hybla's honey all that sweetnesse can Flowes in thy Song ô faire ô dying Swan Yet is the joy I take in 't small or none It is too sweet to be a long-liv'd one Luke 16. Dives asking a drop A Drop one drop how sweetly one faire drop Would tremble on my pearle-tipt fingers top My wealth is gone ô goe it where it will Spare this one Iewell I 'le be Dives still Marke 12. Give to Caesar And to God ALL we have is God's and yet Caesar challenges a debt Nor hath God a thinner share What ever Caesar's payments are All is God's and yet 't is true All wee have is Caesar's too All is Caesar's and what ods So long as Caesar's selfe is Gods But now they have seen and hated SEene and yet hated thee they did not see They saw Thee not that saw and hated thee No no they saw the not ô Life ô Love Who saw ought in thee that their hate could move Vpon the Thornes taken downe from our Lords head bloody KNow'st thou this Souldier 't is a much chang'd plant which yet Thy selfe did'st set 'T is chang'd indeed did Autumn e're such beauties bring To shame his Spring O! who so hard an husbandman could ever find A soyle so kind Is not the soile a kind one thinke ye that returnes Roses for Thornes Luc. 7. She began to wash his feet with teares and wipe them with the haires of her head HEer eyes flood lickes his feets faire staâ—ne Her haires flame lickes up that againe This flame thus quench't hath brighter beames This flood thus stained fairer streames On St. Peter cutting of Malchus his eare WEll Peter dost thou wield thy active sword Well for thy selfe I meane not for thy Lord. To strike at eares is to take heed there bee No witnesse Peter of thy perjury Joh. 3. But men loved darknesse rather then Light THe worlds light shines shine as it will The world will love its Darknesse still I doubt though when the World 's in Hell It will not love its Darknesse halfe so well Act. 21. I am ready not onely to be bound but to dye COme death come bands nor do you shrink my eares At those hard words mans cowardise calls feares Save those of feare no other bands feare I Nor other death then this the feare to dye On St. Peter casting away his Nets at our Saviours call THou hast the art on 't Peter and canst tell To cast thy Nets on all occasions well When Christ calls and thy Nets would have thee stâ—â— To cast them well's to cast them quite away Our Lord in his Circumcision to his Father TO thee these first fruits of my growing death For what else is my life â—o I bequeath Tast this and as thou lik'st this lesser flood Expect a Sea my heart shall make it good Thy wrath that wades heere now e're long shall swim The flood-gate shall be set wide ope for him Then let him drinke and drinke and doe his worst To drowne the wantonnesse of his wild thirst No'ws but the Nonage of my paines my feares Are yet both in their hopes not come to yeares The day of my darke woes is yet but morne My teares but tender and my death new-borne Yet may these unfledg'd griefes give fate some guesse These Cradle-torments have their towardnesse These purple buds of blooming death may bee Erst the full stature of a fatall tree And till my riper woes to age are come This knife may be the speares Praeludium On the wounds of our crucified Lord. O These wakefull wounds of thine Are they Mouthes or are they eyes Be they Mouthes or be they eyne Each bleeding part some one supplies Lo a mouth whose full-bloom'd lips At two deare a rate are roses Lo a blood-shot eye that weepes And many a cruell teare discloses O thou that on this foot hast laid Many a kisse and many a Teare Now thou shal't have all repaid Whatsoe're thy charges were This foot hath got a Mouth and lippes To pay the sweet summe of thy kisses To pay thy Teares an Eye that weeps In stead of Teares Such Gems as this is The difference onely this appeares Nor can the change offend The debt is paid in Ruby-Teares Which thou in Pearles did'st lend On our crucified Lord Naked and bloody Th' have left thee naked Lord O that they had This Garment too I would they had deny'd Thee wâ—th thy selfe they have too richly clad Opening the purple wardrobe of thy side O never could bee found Garments too good For thee to weare but these of thine owne blood Easter day RIse Heire of fresh Eternity From thy Vâ—rgin Tombe Rise mighty man of wonders and thy world with thee Thy Tombe the universall East Natures new wombe Thy Tombe faire Immortalities perfumed Nest Of all the Gloryes Make Noone gay This is the Morne This rocke buds forth the fountaine of the streames of Day In joyes white Annals live this houre When life was borne No cloud scoule on his radiant lids no tempest lowre Life by this light 's Nativity All creatures have Death onely by this Dayes just Doome is forc't to Dye Nor is Death forc't for may hee ly Thron'd in thy Grave Death will on this condition be content to Dy. On the bleeding wounds of our crucified Lord. IEsu no more it is full tide From thy hands and from thy feet From thy head and from thy side All thy Purple Rivers meet Thy restlesse feet they cannot goe For us and our eternall good As they are wont what though They swim alas in their owne flood Thy hand to give thou canst not lift Yet will thy hand still giving bee It gives but ô itself 's the Guift It drops though bound though bound 't is free But ô thy side thy deepe dig'd side That hath a double Nilus going Nor ever was the Pharian tâ—de Halfe so fruitfull halfe so flowing What need thy faire head beare a part In Teares as if thine eyes had none What need they helpe to drowne thine heart That strives in Torrents of its owne Water'd by the showres they bring The thornes that thy blest browes encloses A cruell and a costly spring Conceive proud hopes of proving Roses Not a haire but payes his River To this Red
Bee posed with the maturest feares Man trembles at wee straight shall find Love knowes no nonage nor the mind T is love not yeares or Limbes that can Make the martyr or the man Love toucht her heart and loe it beats High and burnes with such brave heats Such thirst to dye as dare drinke up A thousand coled deaths in one cup. Good reason for shee breaths all fire Her weake breast heaves with strong desire Of what shee may with fruitlesse wishes Seeke for amongst her mothers kisses Since t is not to bee had at home Shee l travell to a martyrdome No home for her confesses shee But where shee may A martyr bee Shee l to the Moores and trade with them For this unvalued Diadem Shee offers them her dearest breath With Christs name â—nt in change for death Shee l bargain with them and will give Them God and teach them how to live In him or if they this denye For him shee l teach them how to dye So shall shee leave amongst them sowne Her Lords blood or at lest her owne Farewell then all the world adeiu Teresa is no more for you Farewell all pleasures sports and joyes Never till now esteemed toyes Farewell what ever deare may bee Mothers armes or fathers knee Farewell house and farwell home Shee s for the Moores and Martyrdome Sweet not so fast Loe thy faire spouse Whom thou seek'st with so swift vowes Calls thee back and biâ—s thee como T' embrace a milder Martyrdome Blest powers forbid thy tender life Should bleed upon a barbarous knife Or some base hand have power to race Thy Breasts chast cabinet and uncase A soule kept there so sweet O no Wise heaven will never have it so Thou art Loves victim and must dye A death more misticall and high Into Loves hand thou shalt let fall A still surviving funerall His is the dart must make the death Whose stroake shall taste thy hallowed breath A dart thrice dipt in that rich Hame Which writes thy spowses radiant name Vpon the roofe of heaven where ay It shines and with a soveraigne ray Beats bright upon the burning faces Of soules which in that names sweet graces Find everlasting smiles So rare So spirituall pure and faire Must be the immortall instrument Vpon whose choice point shall be spent A life so loved and that there bee Fit executioners for thee The fairest and the first borne Loves of fire Blest Seraphims shall leave their quire And turne Loves souldiers upon thee To exercise their Archerie O how oft shalt thou complaine Of a sweet and subtile paine Of intollerable joyes Of a death in which who dyes Loves his death and dyes againe And would for ever so be slaine And lives and dyes and knowes not why To live but that he still may dy How kindly will thy gentle heart Kisse the sweetly killing dart And close in his embraces keep Those delicious wounds that weep Balsome to heale themselves with thus When these thy deaths so numerous Shall all at last dye into one And melt thy soules sweet mansion Like a soft lumpe of Incense hasted By too hot a fire and wasted Into perfuming cloudes So fast Shalt thou exhale to heaven at last In a disolving sigh and then O what aske not the tongues of men Angells cannot tell suffice Thy selfe that feel thine owne full joyes And hold them fast for ever there So soone as thou shalt first appeare The moone of maiden starres thy white Mistresse attended by such bright Soules as thy shining selfe shall come And in her first rankes make thee roome Where mongst her snowy family Immortall wellcomes wait on thee O what delight when shee shall stand And teach thy Lipps heaven wâ—th her hand On which thou now maist to thy wishes Heap up thy consecrated kisses What joy shall seize thy soule when shee Bending her blessed eyes on thee Those second smiles of heaven shall dart Her mild rayes through thy melting heart Angeâ—ls thy old friends there shall greet thee Glad at their owne home now to meet thee All thy good workes which went before And waited for thee at the doore Shall owne thee there and all in one Weave a Constellation Of Crownes with which the King thy spouse Shall build up thy triumphant browes All thy old woes shall now smile on thee And thy pains set bright upon thee All thy sorrows here shall shine And thy sufferings bee devine Teares shall take comfort and turne Gems And wrongs repent to diadems Even thy deaths shall live and new Drosse the soule which late they slew Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scarres As keep account of the Lambes warres Those rare workes where thou shalt leave witt Loves noble history with witt Taught thee by none but him while here They feed our soules shall cloath thine there Each heavenly word by whose hid flame Our hard hearts shall strike fire the same Shall flourish on thy browes and bee Both fire to us and flame to thee Whose light shall live bright in thy face By glory in our hearts by grace Thou shalt looke round about and see Thousand of crownd soules throng to bee Themselves thy crowne sonnes of thy nowes The Virgin births with which thy spowse Made fruitfull thy faire soule Goe now And with them all about thee bow To him put on heel say put on My Rosy Love that thy rich Zone Sparkeling with the sacred Hames Of thousand soules whose happy names Heaven keeps upon thy score thy bright Life brought them first to kisse the light That kindled them to starres and so Thou with the Lambe thy Lord shall goe And where so e're hee sitts his white Steps walke with him those wayes of Light Which who in death would live to see Must learne in life to dye like thee An Apologie for the precedent Hymne THus have I back againe to thy bright name Faire sea of holy fires transfused the flame I tooke from reading thee 't is to thy wrong I know that in my weak and worthlesse song Thou here art set to shine where thy full day Scarce dawnes ô pardon if I dare to say Thine own deare books are guilty for from thence I learnt to know that Love is eloquence That heavenly maxim gave me heart to try If what to other tongues is tun'd so high Thy praise might not speak English too forbid by all thy mysteries that there lye hid Forbid it mighty Love let no fond hate Of names and words so farre prejudicate Soules are not Spaniards too one frendly flood Of Baptisme blends them all into one blood Christs Faith makes but one body of all soules And loves that bodies soule no Law controules Our free trafick for heaven we may maintaine Peace sure with piety though it dwell in Spaine What soule soever in any Language can Speake heaven like hers is my soules country-man O 't is not Spanish but 't is heaven she speakes 'T is heaven that lies in ambush there and
shall the Morning see Night hangs yet heavy on the lids of Day But all his Counsellours must summon'd bee To meet their troubled Lord without delay Heralds and Messengers immediately Are sent about who poasting every way To th' heads and Officers of every band Declare who sends and what is his command 65. Why art thou troubled Herod what vaine feare Thy blood-revolving Brest to rage doth move Heavens King who doffs himselfe weake flesh to weare Comes not to rule in wrath but serve in love Nor would he this thy fear'd Crown from thee Teare But give thee a better with himselfe above Poore jealousie why should he wish to prey Vpon thy Crowne who gives his owne away 66 Make to thy reason man and mocke thy doubts Looke how below thy feares their causes are Thou art a Souldier Herod send thy Scouts See how hee 's furnish't for so fear'd a warre What armour does he weare A few thin clouts His Trumpets tender cryes his men to dare So much rude Shepheards What his steeds alas Poore Beasts a slow Oxe and a simple Asse Il fine del libro primo On a prayer booke sent to Mrs. M. R. LOe here a little volume but large booke Feare it not sweet It is not hipocrit Much larger in it selfe then in its looke It is in one rich handfull heaven and all Heavens royall Hoasts incampt thus small To prove that true schooles use to tell A thousand Angells in one point can dwell It is loves great Artillery Which here contracts it selfe and comes to lye Close coucht in your white bosome and from thence As from a snowy fortresse of defence Against the ghostly foe to take your part And fortifie the hold of your chast heart It is the Armory of light Let constant use but keep it bright You l find it yeelds To holy hand and humble hearts More swords and sheilds Then sinne hath snares or hell hath darts Onely bee sure The hands bee pure That hold these weapons and the eyes Those of turtles chast and true Wakefull and wise Here is a friend shall fight for you Hold but this booke before your heart Let prayer alone to play his part But o' the heart That studyes this high art Must bee a sure house keeper And yet no sleeper Deare soule bee strong Mercy will come ere long And bring her bosome full of blessings Flowers of never fading graces To make immortall dressings For worthy souls whose wise embraces Store up themselves for him who is alone The spouse of Virgins and the Virgins son But if the noble Bridegrome when hee comes Shall find the wandring heart from home Leaving her chast abode To gad abroad Amongst the gay mates of the god of flyes To take her pleasures and to play And keep the divells holy day To dance in the Sunneshine of some smiling but beguiling Spheare of sweet and sugred lies Some slippery paire Of false perhaps as faire Flattering but forswearing eyes Doubtles some other heart Will git the start And stepping in before Will take possession of the sacred store Of hidden sweets and holy joyes Words which are not heard with eares These tumultous shops of noise Effeactuall whispers whose stâ—â—l voyce The soule it selfe more feeles then heares Amorous Languishments Luminous trances Sights which are not seen with eyes Spirituall and soule peircing glances Whose pure and subtle lightning â—lies Home to the heart and setts the house on fire And melts it downe in sweet desire Yet doth not stay To aske the windowes leave to passe that way Delicious deaths soft exhalations Of soule deare and divine annihilations A thousand unknowne rites Of joyes and rarifyed delights An hundred thousand loves and graces And many a misticke thing Which the divine embraces Of the deare spowse of spirits with them will bring For which it is no shame That dull mortality must not know a name Of all this hidden store Of blessing and ten thousand more If when hee come Hee find the heart from home Doubtles hee will unload Himselfe some other where And powre abroad His precious sweets On the faire soule whom first hee meets O faire ô fortunate ô rich ô deare O happy and thrice happy shee Deare silver breasted dove Who ere shee bee Whose early Love With winged vowes Makes haste to meet her morning spowse And close with his immortall kisses Happy soule who never misses To improve that precious houre And every day Seize her sweet prey All fresh and fragrant as hee rises Dropping with a balmy showre A delicious dew of spices O let that happy soule hold fast Her heavenly armefull shee shall tast At once ten thousand paradises Shee shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and rosâ—all spring of those rare sweets Which with a swelling bosome there shee meets Boundlesse and infinite bottomlesse treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures Happy soule shee shall discover What joy what blisse How many heavens at once it is To have a God become her lover On Mr. G. Herberts booke intituled the Temple of Sacred Poem sent to a Gentlewoman KNow you faire on what you looke Divinest love lyes in this booke Expecting fire from your eyes To kindle this his sacrifice When your hands unty these strings Thinke you have an Angell by th' wings One that gladly will bee nigh To wait upon each morning figh To flutter in the balmy aire Of your well prefumed prayer These white plumes of his heele lend you Which every day to heaven will send you To take acquaintance of the spheare And all the smooth faced kindred there And though Herberts name doe owe These devotions fairest know That while I lay them on the shrine Of your white hand they are mine In memory of the Vertuous and Learned Lady Madre de Teresa that sought an early Martyrdome LOve thou art absolute sole Lord Of life and death To prove the word Wee need to goe to none of all Those thy old souldiers stout and tall Ripe and full growne that could reach downe With strong armes their triumphant crowne Such as could with lusty breath Speake lowd unto the face of death Their great Lords glorious name to none Of those whose large breasts built a throne For love their Lord glorious and great Wee ll see him take a private seat And make his mansion in the milde And milky soule of a soft childe Scarce had shee learnt to lisp a name Of Martyr yet shee thinkes it shame Life should so long play with that breath Which spent can buy so brave a death Shee never undertooke to know What death with love should have to doe Nor hath shee ere yet understood Why to show love shee should shed blood Yet though shee cannot tell you why Shee can love and shee can dye Scarce had shee blood enough to make A guilty sword blush for her sake Yet has shee a heart dares hope to prove How much lesse strong is death then love Bee love but there let poore sixe yeares
To the Infant Martyrs GOe smiling soules your new built Cages breake In Heav'n you 'l learne to sing ere here to speake Nor let the milky fonts that bath your thirst Bee your delay The place that calls you hence is at the worst Milke all the way On the Miracle of Loaves NOw Lord or never they 'l beleeve on thee Thou to their Teeth hast prov'd thy Deity Marke 4. Why are yee afraid O yee of little faith AS if the storme meant him Or 'cause Heavens face is dim His needs a cloud Was ever froward wind That could be so unkind Or wave so proud The Wind had need be angry and the Water black That to the mighty Neptune's self dare threaten wrack There is no storme but this Of your owne Cowardise That braves you out You are the storme that mocks Your selves you are the Rocks Of your owne doubt Besides this feare of danger there 's no danger here And he that here feares Danger does deserve his Feare On the Blessed Virgins bashfulnesse THat on her lap she casts her humble Eye 'T is the sweet pride of her Humility The faire starre is well fixt for where ô where Could she have fixt it on a fairer Spheare 'T is Heav'n 't is Heaven she sees Heavens God there lyes She can see heaven and ne're lift up her eyes This new Guest to her Eyes new Lawes hath given 'T was once looke up 't is now looke downe to Heaven Vpon Lazarus his Teares RIch Lazarus richer in those Gems thy Teares Then Dives in the Roabes he weares He scornes them now but ô they 'l sute full well With th' Purple he must weare in Hell Two went up into the Temple to pray TWo went to pray ô rather say One went to brag th' other to pray One stands up close and treads on high Where th' other dares not send his eye One neerer to Gods Altar trod The other to the Altars God Vpon the Asse that bore our Saviour HAth onely Anger an Omnipotence In Eloquence Within the lips of Love and Ioy doth dwell No miracle Why else had Baalams Asse a tongue to chide His Masters pride And thou Heaven-burthen'd Beast hast ne're a word To praise thy Lord That he should find a Tongue and vocall Thunder Was a great wonder But ô me thinkes 't is a farre greater one That thou find'st none Matthew 8. I am not worthy that thou should'st come under my roofe THy God was makâ—ng hast into thy roofe Thy humble faith and feare keepes him aloofe Hee 'l be thy Guest because he may not be Hee 'l come into thy house no into thee Vpon the Powder Day HOw fit our well-raâ—k'd Feasts doe follow All mischâ—efe comes after All Hallow I am the Doore ANd nowth'art set wide ope The Speare's sad Art Lo hath unlockt thee at the very Heart Hee to himselfe I feare the worst And hâ—s owne hope Hath shut these Doores of Heaven that durst Thus set them ope Matthew 10. The blind cured by the word of our Saviour THou speak'st the word thy word 's a Law Thou spak'st and streâ—ght the blind man saw To speake and make the blâ—nd man see Was never man Lord spakâ— lâ—ke Thee To speake thus was to speake say I Not to his Eare but to his Eye Matthew 27. And he answered them nothing O Mighty Nothing unto thee Nothing wee owe all things that bee God spake once when hee all things made Hee sav'd all when hee Nothing said The world was made of Nothing then 'T is made by Nothyng now againe To our Lord upon the Water made Wine THou water turn'st to Wine faire friend of Life Thy foe to crosse the sweet Arts of thy Reigne Distills from thence the Teares of wrath and strife And so turnes wine to Water backe againe Matthew 22. Neither durst any man from that Day aske him any more Questions Midst all the darke and knotty Snares Blacke wit or malice can or dares Thy glorious wisdome breakes the Nets And treads with uncontrouled steps Thy quel'd foes are not onely now Thy triumphes but thy Trophies tâ—o They both at once thy Conquests bee And thy Conquests memorye Stony amazement makes them stand Waiting on thy victorious hand Like statues fixed to the fame Of thy renoune and their owne shame As if they onely meant to breath To bee the Lâ—fe of their owne Death 'T was time to hold their Peace when they Had nere another word to say Yet is their silence unto thee The full sound of thy victory Their silence speakes aloud and is Thy well pronounc'd Panegyris While they speake nothing they speake all Their share in thy Memoriall While they speake nothing they proclaime Thee with the shrillest Trumpe of fame To hold their peace is all the waies These wretches have to speake thy praise Vpon our Saviours Tombe wherein never man was laid HOw Life and Death in Thee Agree Thou had'st a virgin Wombe And Tombe A Ioseph did betroth Them both It is better to go into Heaven with one eye c. ONe Eye a thousand rather and a Thousand more To fix those full-fac't Glories ô he 's poore Of Eyes that has but Argus store Yet if thou 'lt fill one poore Eye with thy Heaven and Thee O grant sweet Goodnesse that one Eye may be All and every whit of me Luk. 11. Vpon the dumbe Devill cast out and the slanderous Iewes put to silence TWo Devills at one blow thou hast laid flat A speaking Divell this a dumbe one that Wa' st thy full victories fairer increase That th' one spake or that th' other held his peace Luke 10. And a certaine Priest comming that way looked on him and passed by Why dost Thou wound my wounds ô Thou that passest by Handling turning them with an unwounded eye The calm that cools thine eye does shipwrack mine for ô Vnmov'd to see one wretched is to make him so Luke 11. Blessed be the paps which Thou hast sucked SVppose he had been Tabled at thy Teates Thy hunger feeles not what he eates Hee 'l have his Teat e're long a bloody one The Mother then must suck the Son To Pontius washing his blood-stained hands â—S murther no sin or a sin so cheape That thou need'st heape â— Rape upon 't till thy Adult'rous touch Taught her these sullied cheeks this blubber'd face She was a Nimph the meadowes knew none such Of honest Parentage of unstain'd Race The Daughter of a faire and well-fam'd Fountaine As ever Silver-tipt the side of shady mountaine See how she weeps and weeps that she appeares Nothing but Teares Each drop's a Teare that weeps for her own wast Harke how at every Touch she does complaine her Harke how she bids her frighted Drops make hast And with sad murmurs chides the Hands that stain her Leave leave for shame or else Good judge decree What water shal wash this when this hath washed thee Matthew 23. Yee build the Sepulchres of the Prophets THou trim'st a