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Whatever man possesses, God hath lent,
And to his audit liable is ever,

To reckon, how, and where, and when he spent:
Then thus thou bragg'st, thou art a great receiver:
Little my debt, when little is my store: [more.
The more thou hast, thy debt still grows the

But seeing God himself descended down
T' enrich the poor by his rich poverty;
His meat, his house, his grave, were not his own,
Yet all is his from all eternity:

Let me be like my head, whom I adore:
Be thou great, wealthy, I still base and poor.

CONTEMNENTI

CONTINUAL burning, yet no fire or fuel,
Chill icy frosts in midst of summer's frying,
A hell most pleasing, and a heav'n most cruel,
A death still living, and a life still dying,

And whatsoever pains poor hearts can prove,
I feel, and utter, in one word, I love.

Two fires, of love and grief, each upon either,
And both upon one poor heart ever feeding:
Chill cold despair, most cold, yet cooling neither,
In midst of fires his icy frosts is breeding:

So fires and frosts, to make a perfect hell,
Meet in one breast, in one house friendly dwell.

Tir'd in this toilsome way (my deep affection)
I ever forward run, and never ease me:
I dare not swerve, her eye is my direction:
A heavy grief, and weighty love oppress me, [me:
Desire and hope, two spurs, that forth compell'd
But awful fear, a bridle, still withheld me.
Twice have I plung'd, and flung, and strove to cast
This double burden from my weary heart:
Fast though I run, and stop, they sit as fast:
Her looks my bait, which she doth seld' impart :
Thus fainting, still some inn I wish and crave;
Either her maiden bosom, or my grave.

A VOW.

[ed;

By hope and fear, by grief and joy opprest,
With deadly hate, more deadly love infected;
Without, within, in body, soul, distrest;
Little by all, least myself respected,
But most, most there, where most I lov'd, neglect-
Hated, and hating life, to death I call;
Who scorns to take what is refus'd by all.
Whither, ah, whither then wilt thou betake thee,
Despised wretch, of friends, of all forlorn, [thee?
Since hope, and love, and life, and death forsake
Poor soul, thy own tormenter, others' scorn!
Whether, poor soul, ah, whither wilt thou turn?
What inn, what host (scorn'd wretch) wilt thou
now choose thee?
[fuse thee.

The common host, and inn, death, grave, re

To thee, great Love, to thee I prostrate fall,
That right'st in love the heart in false love swerved:
On thee, true Love, on thee I weeping call ;*
I, who am scorn'd, where with all truth I served,
On thee, so wrong'd, where thou hast so deserved:

Disdain'd, where most I lov'd, to thee I plain me, Who truly lovest those, who (fools) disdain thee.. Thou never-erring way, in thee direct me; [me: Thou hated Love, with thy firm love respect me; Thou death of death, oh, in thy death engrave Thou freest servant, from this yoke unslave me: Glorious salvation, for thy glory save me.

So neither love, nor hate, scorn, death, shall [thee. But with thy love, great Love, I still shall love

move me;

ON WOMEN'S LIGHTNESS.

WHO SOWs the sand? or ploughs the easy shore?
Or strives in nets to prison in the wind?
Yet I, (fond 1) more fond, and senseless more,
Thought in sure love a woman's thoughts to bind.
Fond, too fond thoughts, that thought in love

to tie

One more inconstant than inconstancy!

Look as it is with some true April day, [flowers;
Whose various weather stores the world with
The Sun his glorious beams doth fair display,
Then rains, and shines again, and straight it lowers,
And twenty changes in one hour doth prove;
So, and more changing is a woman's love.
Or as the hairs which deck their wanton heads,
Which loosely fly, and play with every wind,
And with each blast turn round their golden threads;
Such as their hair, such is their looser mind:

The difference this, their hair is often bound; But never bonds a woman might embound." False is their flattering colour, false and fading; False is their flattering tongue; false every part, Their hair is forg'd, their silver foreheads shading; False are their eyes, but falsest is their heart:

Then this in consequence must needs ensue; All must be false, when every part's untrue. Fond then my thoughts, which thought a thing so vain !

Fond hopes, that anchor on so false a ground! Fond love, to love what could not love again! Fond heart, thus fir'd with love, in hope thus drown'd: [est I, Fond thoughts, fond heart, fond hope; but fondTo grasp the wind, and love inconstancy!

A REPLY UPON THE FAIR M. S.

A DAINTY maid, that draws her double name
From bitter sweetness, (with sweet bitterness)
Did late my skill and faulty verses blame,
And to her loving friend did plain confess,
That I my former credit foul did shame,
And might no more a poet's name profess:

The cause that with my verse she was offended,
For women's levity I discommended.
Too true you said, that poet I was never,
And I confess it (fair) if that content ye,
That when I play'd, the poet less than ever;
Not, for of such a verse I now repent me,
(Poets to feign, and make fine lies endeavour)
But I the truth, truth (ah!) too certain sent ye:

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Then that I am no poet I deny not;

For when their lightness I condemn, I lie not.
But if my verse had lied against my mind,
And praised that which truth cannot approve,
And falsely said, they were as fair as kind,
As true as sweet, their faith could never move,
But sure is link'd where constant love they find,
That with sweet braving they vie truth and love;
If thus I write, it cannot be deny'd
But I a poet were, so foul I lied.

But give me leave to write as I have found:
Like ruddy apples at their outsides bright,
Whose skin is fair, the core or heart unsound;
Whose cherry-check the eye doth much delight,
But inward rottenness the taste doth wound:
Ah! were the taste so good as is the sight,

To pluck such apples (lost with self same price)
Would back restore us part of Paradise.

But truth hath said it, (truth who dare deny !)
Men seldom are, more seldom women sure:
But if (fair sweet) thy truth and constancy
To better faith thy thoughts and mind procure,
If thy firm truth could give firm truth the lie,
If thy first love will first and last endure;

[thee,

Thou more than woman art, if time so proves And he more than a man, that loved loves thee.

AN APOLOGY FOR THE PREMISES TO THE LADY
CULPEPPER.
WHO with a bridle strives to curb the waves?
Or in a cypress chest locks flaming fires?
So when love anger'd in thy bosom raves,
And grief with love a double flame inspires,

By silence thou may'st add, but never less it:
The way is by expressing to repress it.

Who then will blame affection not respected,
To vent in grief the grief that so torments him?
Passion will speak in passion, if neglected:
Love that so soon will chide, as soon repents him;
And therefore boyish love's too like a boy,
With a toy pleas'd, displeased with a toy.

Have you not seen, when you have chid or sought,
That lively picture of your lovely beauty,
Your pretty child, at first to lowr or pout,
But soon again reclaim'd to love and duty;
Forgets the rod, and all her anger ends,
Plays on your lap, or on your neck depends:
Too like that pretty child is childish love,
That when in anger he is wrong'd, or beat,
Will rave and chide, and every passion prove,
But soon to smiles and fawns turns all his beat,
And prays, and swears he never more will do it;
Such one is love: alas, that women know it!

But if so just excuse will not content ye,
But still you blame the words of angry love,
Here I recant, and of those words repent me:
In sign hereof I offer now to prove,

That changing women's love is constant ever,
And men, though ever firm, are constant never.
For men that to one fair their passions bind,
Must ever change, as do those changing fairs;
So as she alters, alters still their mind,

And with their fading loves their love impairs:

Therefore, still moving, as the fair they loved Most do they move, by being most unmoved. But women, when their lovers change their graces, What first in them they lov'd, love now in others, Affecting still the same in divers places; . So never change their love, but change their lovers: Therefore their mind is firm and constant prov'd, Seeing they ever love what first they lov'd. Their love tied to some virtue, cannot stray, Shifting the outside oft, the inside never: But men (when now their loves dissolv'd to clay Indeed are nothing) still in love persever:

How then can such fond men be constant made, That nothing love, or but (a nothing) shade? What fool commends a stone for never moving? Or blames the speedy heav'ns for ever ranging? Cease then, foud men, to blaze your constant loving;

Love's fiery, winged, light, and therefore changing: Fond man, that thinks such fire and air to fetter! All change; men for the worse, women for better.

TO MY ONLY CHOSEN VALENTINE AND WIFE.

ANAGRAM.

}

Maystress Elizabeth Vincent
Is my breast's chaste Valentine.
THINK not (fair love) that chance my hand directed
To make my choice my chance; blind chance and
hands

Could never see what most my mind affected;
But Heav'n (that ever with chaste true love stands)
Lent eyes to see what most my heart respected:
Then do not thou resist what Heav'n commands;
But yield thee his, who must be ever thine;
My heart thy altar is, my breast thy shrine;
Thy name for ever is, My breast's chaste Valentine.

A TRANSLATION OF BOETHIUS, THE THIRD BOOK AND

LAST VERSE.

HAPPY man, whose perfect sight
Views the overflowing light!
Happy man, that canst unbind
The earth-bars pounding up the mind!
Once his wife's quick fate lamenting
Orpheus sat, his hair all renting,
While the speedy woods came running,
And rivers stood to hear his cunning;
And the lion with the hart
Join'd side to side to hear his art:
Hares ran with the dogs along,
Not from dogs, but to his song.
But when all his verses turning
Only fann'd his poor heart's burning,
And his grief came but the faster,
(His verse all easing, but his master)
Of the higher powers complaining,
Down he went to Hell disdaining:
There his silver lutestrings hitting,
And his potent verses fitting,
All the sweets that e'er he took
From his sacred mother's brook,
What his double sorrow gives him,
And love, that doubly double grieves him,

There he spends to move deaf Hell, Charming devils with his spell, And with sweetest asking leave Does the lords of ghosts deceive. The dog, whose never quiet yell Affrights sad souls in night that dwell, Pricks up now his thrice two ears; To howl, or bark, or whine he fears: Struck with dumb wonder at those songs, He wish'd more ears, and fewer tongues. Charon amaz'd his oar foreslows, While the boat the sculler rows. Tantal might have eaten now The fruit as still as is the bough; But he (fool!) no hunger fearing, Starr'd his taste, to feed his hearing. Ixion, though his wheel stood still, Still was rapt with music's skill. At length the judge of souls with pity Yields, as conquer'd with his ditty; Let's give back his spouse's hearse, Purchas'd with so pleasing verse: Yet this law shall bind our gift, He turn not, till h'as Tartar left. Who to laws can lovers draw? Love in love is only law: Now almost he left the night, When he first turn'd back his sight; And at once, while her he ey'd, His love he saw, and lost, and dy'd. So, who strives out of the night To bring his soul to joy in light, Yet again turns back his eye To view left Hell's deformity; Though he seems enlighten'd more, Yet is blacker than afore.

When with time's shadows this false glory wanes, You die again; but this your glory gains.

UPON MY BROTHER MR. G. F. HIS BOOK INTITULED
CHRIST'S VICTORY AND TRIUMPH.

FOND lads, that spend so fast your posting time,
(Too posting time, that spends your time as fast)
To chant light toys, or frame some wanton rhyme,
Where idle boys may glut their lustful taste;
Or else with praise to clothe some fleshly slime
With virgin roses, and fair lilies chaste:

While itching bloods, and youthful cares adore it; [abhor it. But wiser men, and once yourselves will most But thou, (most near, most dear) in this of thine Hast prov'd the Muses not to Venus bound; Such as thy matter, such thy Muse, divine: Or thou such grace with Mercy's self bast found, That she herself deigns in thy leaves to shine; Or stol'n from Heav'n, thou brought'st this verse to ground, [thunder, Which frights the numbed soul with fearful And soon with honeyed dews thaws it 'twixt joy and wonder.

Then do not thou malicious tongues esteem; (The glass, through which an envious eye doth

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A TRANSLATION OF BOETHIUS, BOOK SECond, verse SEVENTH.

[tion,

WHO only honour secks with prone affection,
And thinks that glory is his greatest bliss;
First let him view the Heav'n's wide-stretched sec-
Then in some map the Earth's short narrowness:
Well may he blush to see his name not able
To fill one quarter of so brief a table.

Why then should high-grown minds so much rejoice

To draw their stubborn necks from man's subjection: [voice For though loud fame stretch high her prattling To blaze abroad their virtue's great perfection; Though goodly titles of their house adorn them With ancient heraldry, yet death doth scorn them:

The high and base lie in the self same grave; No difference there between a king and slave. Where now are true Fabricius' bones remaining: Who knows where Brutus, or rough Cato lives! Only a weak report, their names sustaining, In records old a slender knowledge gives:

Yet when we read the deeds of men inhumed, Can we by that know them long since consumed? Now therefore lie you buried and forgotten; Nor can report frustrate encroaching death: Or if you think when you are dead and rotten, You live again by fame, and vulgar breath: VOL VI.

UPON

THE BISHOP OF EXON, DR. HALL, HIS MEDITATIONS. Most wretched soul, that here carousing pleasure, Hath all his Heav'n on Earth; and ne'er distressed Enjoys these fond delights without all measure, And freely living thus, is thus deceased! Ah, greatest curse, so to be ever blessed! For where to live is Heav'n, 'tis Hell to die. Ah, wretch! that here begins Hell's misery! Most blessed soul, that, lifted up with wings Of faith and love, leaves this base habitation, And scorning sluggish Earth, to Heav'n up springs; On Earth, yet still in Heav'n by meditation; With the soul's eye foreseeing th' heavenly station: Then 'gins his life, when he's of life bereaven. Ah, blessed soul! that here begins his Heaven!

UPON

THE CONTEMPLATIONS OF THE BISHOP OF EXCESTER,
GIVEN TO THE LADY E. W. AT NEW-YEAR'S TIDE.
This little world's two little stars are eyes,
And he that all eyes framed, fram'd all others
Downward to fall, but these to climb the skies,
There to acquaint them with their starry brothers;
Planets fix'd in the head, (their sphere of sense)
Yet wand'ring still thro' Heav'n's circumference,
The intellect being their intelligence.

M

Dull then that heavy soul, which ever bent
On Earth and earthly toys, his Heav'n neglects;
Content with that which cannot give content:
What thy foot scorning kicks, thy soul respects.
Fond soul! thy eye will up to Heav'n erect

thee;

Thou it direct'st, and must it now direct thee?
Dull, heavy soul! thy scholar must correct thee.
Thrice happy soul, that guided by thine eyes,
Art mounted up unto that starry nation;
And leaving there thy sense, enterest the skies,
Ensbrin'd and fainted there by contemplation!
Heav'n thou enjoy'st on Earth, and now bereaven
Of life, a new life to thy soul is given.
Thrice happy soul, that hast a double Heaven!
That sacred hand, which to this year hath brought
you,

Perfect your years, and with your years, his graces;
And when his will unto his will hath wrought you,
Conduct your soul unto those happy places,

Where thousand joys, and pleasures ever new,
And blessings thicker than the morning dew,
With endless sweets, rain on that heav'nly crew.

THESE ASCLEPIADS OF MR. H. S. TRANSLATED AND
ENLARGED.

Ne verbum mihi sit mortua litera,
Nec Christi meritum gratia vanida;
Sed verbum fatuo sola scientia,

Et Christus misero sola redemptio.

UNLETTER'D Word, which never ear could hear;
Unwritten Word, which never eye could see,
Yet syllabled in flesh-spell'd character,
That so to senses thou might'st subject be;

Since thou in bread art stampt, in print art read,
Let not thy print-stamp'd word to me be dead.
Thou all-contriving, all deserving Spirit,
Made flesh to die, that so thou might'st be mine,
That thou in us, and we in thee might merit,
We thine, thou ours; thou human, we divine;

Let not my dead life's merit, my dead heart
Forfeit so dear a purchas'd death's desert.
Thou Sun of wisdom, knowledge infinite,
Made folly to the wise, night to profane;
Be I thy Moon, oh, let thy sacred light
Increase to th' full, and never, never wane:

Wise folly in me set, fond wisdom rise,
Make me renounce my wisdom, to be wise.
Thou Life eternal, purest blessedness,
Made mortal, wretched, sin itself, for me;
Show me my death, my sin, my wretchedness,
That I may flourish, shine, and live in thee:

So I with praise shall sing thy life, death's story,
O thou my merit, life, my wisdom, glory!

CERTAIN OF THE ROYAL PROPHET'S PSALMS
METAPHRASED.

PSALM XLII.

Which agrees with the tune of Like the hermit
poor.

Look as an hart with sweat and blood imbrued,
Chas' and emboss'd, thirsts in the soil to be;
So my poor soul, with eager foes pursued, [thee:
Looks, longs, O Lord, pines, pants, and faints, for

When, O my God! when shall I come in place
To see thy light, and view thy glorious face?
I dine and sup with sighs, with groans and tears,
While all thy foes mine ears with taunting load;
"Who now thy cries, who now thy prayer hears?
Where is," say they, "where is thy boasted God???
My molten heart, deep plung'd in sad despairs,
Runs forth to thee in streams of tears and prayers.
With grief I think on those sweet now past days,
When to thy house my troops with joy I led:
We sang, we danc'd, we chanted sacred lays;
No men so haste to wine, no bride to bed.

Why droop'st, my soul? why faint'st thou in my
breast?

Wait still with praise; his presence is thy rest.
My famish'd soul, driv'n from thy sweetest word,
(From Hermon hill, and Jordan's swelling brook)
To thee laments, sighs deep to thee, O Lord!
To thee sends back her hungry, longing look:
Floods of thy wrath breed floods of grief and
fears;

[tears.
And floods of grief breed ficods of plaints and
His early light with morn these clouds shall clear,
These dreary clouds, and storms of sad despairs:
Sure am I in the night his songs to hear,
Sweet songs of joy, as well as he my prayers.

I'll say," My God, why slight'st thou my distress,
While all my foes my weary soul oppress ?"

My cruel foes both thee and me upbraid;
They cut my heart, they vaunt that bitter word,
"Where is thy trust? where is thy hope?" they

said;

"Where is thy God? where is thy boasted Lord ?" Why droop'st, my soul? why faint'st thou in my breast?

Wait still with praise; his presence is thy rest.

PSALM XLIII.

Which may be sung as the Widow, or Mock Widow,

O LORD! before the morning
Gives Heaven warning
To let out the day,

My wakeful eyes

Look for thy rise,

And wait to let in thy joyful ray.

Lank hunger here peoples the desert cells,
Here thirst fills up the empty wells:

How longs my flesh for that bread without leaven!

How thirsts my soul for that wine of Heaven!

Such (oh!) to taste thy ravishing grace!
Such in thy house to view thy glorious face!

Thy love, thy light, thy face's
Bright-shining graces,
(Whose unchanged ray
Knows, nor morn's dawn
Nor evening's wane)

How far surmount they life's winter day!
My heart to thy glory tunes all his strings;
My tongue thy praises cheerly sings:
And till I slumber, and death shall undress me,
Thus will I sing, thus will I bless thee.
"Fill me with love, oh! fill me with praise!
So shall I vent due thanks in joyful lays."

When night all eyes hath quenched,

And thoughts lie drenched

In silence and rest;
Then will I all

Thy ways recal,

And look on thy light in darkness best.
When my poor soul, wounded, had lost the field,
Thou wast my fort, thou wast my shield.
Safe in thy trenches I boldly will vaunt me,
There will I sing, there will I chant thee;
There I'll triumph in thy banner of grace,
My conq'ring arms shall be thy arms' embrace.

My foes from deeps descending,
In rage transcending,
Assaulting me sore,
Into their Hell,

Are headlong fell;

There shall they lie, there howl, and roar: There let deserv'd torments their spirits tear; Feel they worst ills, and worse yet fear: But with his spouse thine anointed in pleasure Shall reign, and joy past time or measure: There new delights, new pleasures, still spring: Haste there, oh! haste, my soul, to dance and sing.

PSALM CXXVII.

To the tune of that psalm.

Ir God build not the house, and lay
The ground-work sure; whoever build,
It cannot stand one stormy day:
If God be not the city's shield;

If he be not their bars and wall,

In vain is watch-tower, men, and all. Though then thon wak'st when others rest, Though rising thou prevent'st the Sun; Though with lean Care thou daily feast, Thy labour's lost, and thou undone :

But God his child will feed and keep,
And draw the curtains to his sleep.

Though th' hast a wife fit, young, and fair,
An heritage heirs to advance;

Yet canst thou not command an heir;
For heirs are God's inheritance:

He gives the seed, the bud, the bloom;
He gives the harvest to the womb.

And look, as arrows, by strong arm
In a strong bow drawn to the head,
Where they are meant, will surely harm,
And if they hit, wound deep and dead;
Children of youth are even so;
As harmful, deadly, to a foe.
That man shall live in bliss and peace,
Who fills his quiver with such shot:
Whose garners swell with such increase,
Terrour and shame assail him not;

And though his foes deep hatred bear,
Thus arm'd, he shall not need to fear.

PSALM CXXXVII.

To be sung as, See the building. WHERE Perah's flowers Perfume proud Babel's bowers,

And paint her wall;
There we lay'd asteeping,
Our eyes in endless weeping,
For Sion's fall.

Our feasts and songs we laid aside,
On forlorn willows

(By Perah's billows)

We hung our harps, and mirth and joy defy'd, That Sion's ruins should build foul Babel's pride.

Our conqu'rors vaunting

With bitter scoffs and taunting,

Thus proudly jest:

"Take down your harps, and string them, Recal your songs, and sing them,

For Sion's feast."

Were our harps well tun'd in every string,
Our heart-strings broken,

Throats drown'd, and soaken

With tears and sighs, how can we praise and sing
The King of Heaven under an heathen king?

In all my mourning,
Jerusalem, thy burning

If I forget;

Forget thy running,

My hand, and all thy cunning,

To th' harp to set.

Let thy mouth, my tongue, be still thy grave;
Lie there asleeping,

For Sion weeping:

Oh! let mine eyes in tears thy office have;
Nor rise, nor set, but in their briny wave,

Proud Edom's raging,

Their hate with blood assuaging,
And vengeful sword,
Their cursed joying

In Sion's walls destroying,

Remember, Lord;

Forget not, Lord, their spiteful cry, "Fire and deface it,

Destroy and rase it;

Oh, let the name of Sión ever die !"
Thus did they roar, and us and thee defy.

So shall thy towers,

And all thy princely bowers,

Proud Babel, fall:

Him ever blessed,

Who th' oppressor hath oppressed,

Shall all men call:

Thrice blest, that turns thy mirth to groans;
That burns to ashes

Thy towers, and dashes

Thy brats 'gainst rocks, to wash thy bloody stones With thine own blood, and pave thee with thy bones.

PSALM &

BLESSED, who walk'st not in the worldling's way; Blessed, who with foul sinners wilt not stand: Blessed, who with proud mockers dar'st not stay ; Nor sit thee down amongst that scornful band. Thrice blessed man, who in that heavenly light Walk'st, stand'st, and sitt'st, rejoicing day and

night.

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