Ah! was it not enough that thou
By thy eternal glory didft outgo me?
Could't thou not grief's fad conqueft me allow,
But in all vict'ries overthrow me ?

Yet by confeffion will I come

Into the conqueft. Though I can do nought
Against thee, in thee I will overcome

The man, who once against thee fought.

The Agony.

PHilofophers have meafur'd mountains,

Fathom'd the depths of feas, of states and kings,
Walk'd with a staff to heav'n, and trac'd fountains:
But there are two vaft, spacious things,

The which to measure it doth more behove;
Yet few there are that found them, Sin and Love.

Who would know Sin, let him repair

Unto mount Olivet; there fhall he fee
A man fo wrung with pains, that all his hair,
His skin, his garments bloody be.

Sin is that prefs and vice, which forceth pain
To hunt his cruel food through every vein.

Who knows not love, let him affay,
And taste that juice, which on the cross a pike
Did fet abroach; then let him say,

If ever he did tafte the like.

Love is that liquor fweet and most divine,
Which my God feels as blood, but I as wine.

The Sinner.

LORD, how am I all ague when I feek

What I have treafur'd in my memory!

Since, if my foul make even with the week, Each seventh note by right is due to thee.

I find three quarries of pil'd vanities,

But fhreds of holiness, that dare not venture To fhew their face, fince cross to thy decrees; There the circumference earth is, heav'n the centre.

In fo much dregs the quinteffence is small :

The spirit and good extract of my heart
Comes to about the many hundredth part.
Yet Lord restore thy image, hear my call :

And tho' my hard heart fcarce to thee can groan,
Remember that thou once didft write in ftone.

O

Good-Friday.

MY chief good,

How fhall I meafure out thy blood?

How shall I count what thee befel,
And each grief tell?

Shall I thy woes

Number according to thy foes?

Or, fince one ftar fhew'd thy first breath,
Shall all thy death?

Or fhall each leaf,

Which falls in autumn, fcore a grief?
Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be fign
Of the true vine ?

Then let each hour

Of my whole life one grief devour;
That thy diftrefs through all may run,
And be my fun.

Or rather let

My fevral fins their forrows get:
That as each beast his cure doth know,
Each fin may fo.

SINCE blood is fitteft, Lord, 'to write
Thy forrows in, and bloody flight;
My heart hath ftore, write there, where in
One box doth lie both ink and fin:

That when fin fpies so many foes,

Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes,
All come to lodge there, fin may say,
No room for me, and fly away.

Sin being gone, oh fill the place,
And keep poffeffion with thy grace;
Left fin take courage, and return,
And all thy writings blot or burn.

Redemption.

HAVING Been tenant long to a rich Lord,

Not thriving, I refolved to be bold,

And make a fuit unto him to afford

A new small-rented leafe, and cancel th' old.

In heav'n, at his manor I him fought:

They told me there that he was lately gone About fome land, which he had dearly bought Long fince on earth, to take possession.

I ftraight return'd, and knowing his great birth,
Sought him accordingly in great reforts,

In cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts:
At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth
Of thieves and murderers: There I him espied,
Who ftraight, Your fuit is granted, faid, and died.

Bleffed body! Whither art thou thrown? No lodgings for thee, but a cold hard stone? So many hearts on earth, and yet not one Receive thee? Sure there is room within our hearts good ftore, For they can lodge tranfgreffions by the fcore; Thousands of toys dwell there, yet out of door They leave thee.

But that which fhews them large, fhews them unfit.
What ever fin did this pure rock commit,

Which holds thee now? Who hath indited it

Of murder?

Where our hard hearts have took up stones to brain thee, And miffing this most falfely did arraign thee;

Only thefe ftones in quiet entertain thee,

And order.

And as of old the law by heav'nly art
Was writ in ftone; fo thou, which also art
The letter of the word, find'ft no fit heart

To hold thee.

Yet do we still perfift as we began,
And fo fhould perish, but that nothing can,
Tho' it be cold, hard, foul, from loving man

Withhold thee.

Easter.

RISE, heart; thy Lord is rifen. Sing his praife

Without delays,

Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewife

With him may'st rise:

That, as his death calcined thee to duft,

His life may make thee gold, and much more just.

Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part

With all thy art.

The cross taught all wood to refound his name,

Who bore the fame.