Only another head

I have, another heart and breast,
Another mufic, making live, not dead,
Without whom I could have no rest,
In him I am well dreft.

Christ is my only head,
My alone only heart and breast,
My only mufic, ftriking me e'en dead :
That to the old man I may rest,

And be in him new dreft.

So holy in my

head,

Perfect and light in my dear breast,

My doctrine tun'd by Christ, (who is not dead,
But lives in me while I do reft)
Come people, Aaron's drest.

H

The Odour. 2 Cor. 2.

WOW fweetly doth My Mafter found, My Mafter!
As ambergris leaves a rich fcent

Unto the tafter:

So do these words a fweet content,
An oriental fragrancy, My Mafter.
With these all day I do perfume my mind,
My mind ev'n thrust into them both;
That I might find

What cordials make this curious broth,
This broth of smells that feeds and fats my mind.
My Mafter, fhall I fpeak? O that to thee

My Servant were a little fo,

As flesh may be:

That these two words might creep and grow
To fome degree of fpicinefs unto thee!

Then should the Pomander, which was before
A fpeaking fweet, mend by reflection,
And tell me more :

For pardon of my imperfection

Would warm and work it fweeter than before.
For when My Mafter, which alone is sweet,
And ev'n in my unworthinefs pleafing,
Shall call and meet,

My Servant, as thee not displeasing;
That call is but the breathing of the fweet.
This breathing would with gains by fweet'ning me
(As fweet things traffick when they meet)
Return to thee,

And fo this new commerce and sweet hould all my life employ and busy me.

The sphere of virtue and each Thining grace,
As plainly as that above doth fhow;
This were the better sky, the brighter place.
God hath made ftars the foil

To fet off virtues, griefs to fet off finning;
Yet in this wretched world we toil,

As if grief were not foul, nor virtue winning.

THE

The Forerunners.

HE harbingers are come. See, see their mark: White is their colour, and behold my head: But muft they have my brain ? muft they difpark Those sparkling notions, which therein were bred ? Muft dulnefs turn me to a clod?

Yet have they left me, Thou art fill my God.

T

B

Y

G

So

Good men ye be, to leave me my best room,
Ev'n all my heart, and what is lodged there:
I pafs not, I, what of the reft become,
So, Thou art ftill my God, be out of fear.
He will be pleased with that ditty;
And if I please him, I write fine and witty.

Farewell sweet phrafes, lovely metaphors:
But will you leave me thus ? when ye before
Of stews and brothels only knew the doors,
Then did I wash you with my tears, and more,

Brought you to Church well dreft, and clad : My God must have my best, ev'n all I had.

Lovely enchanting language, fugar-cane,
Honey of rofes, whither wilt thou fly ?
Hath fome fond lover tic'd thee to thy bane ?
And wilt thou leave the Church and love a fty?
Fy, thou wilt foil thy broider'd coat,
And hurt thyself, and him that fings the note.

Let foolish lovers, if they will love dung,
With canvass, not with arras, clothe their fhame:
Let folly speak in her own native tongue.
True beauty dwells on high: Ours is a flame
But borrow'd thence to light us thither.
Beauty and beauteous words fhould go together.

Yet, if you go, I pafs not; take your way:
For, Thou art fill my God, is all that ye
Perhaps with more embellishment can fay.
Go, birds of fpring: Let winter have his fee;
Let a bleak palenefs chalk the door,
So all within be livelier than before.

PRESS

The Rose.

RESS me not to take more pleasure
In this world of sugar'd lies,

And to use a larger measure

Than my ftrict, yet welcome fize.

First, there is no pleasure here:
Colour'd griefs indeed there are,
Blufhing woes, that look as clear,
As if they could beauty spare.

Or if fuch deceits there be,

Such delights I meant to say; There are no fuch things to me, Who have pass'd my right away.

But I will not much oppose

Unto what you now advise :

Only take this gentle rofe,

And therein my answer lies.

What is fairer than a rofe?

What is fweeter? yet it purgeth.

Purgings enmity disclose,

Enmity forbearance urgeth.

If then all the worldlings prize
Be contracted to a rofe;
Sweetly there indeed it lies,

But it biteth in the close.

So this flower doth judge and fentence
Worldly joys to be a scourge:

For they all produce repentance,
And repentance is a purge.

Not a word or look

I affect to own,

But by book,

And thy book alone.

Though I fail, I weep:
Though I halt in pace,
Yet I creep

To the throne of grace.
Then let wrath remove,
Love will do the deed:
For with love

Stony hearts will bleed.

Love is swift of foot;
Love's a man of war,

And can shoot,

And can hit from far.