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النشر الإلكتروني

OF THE

TRANSFIGURATION OF OUR LORD.

Yr that in lowly valleyes weeping sate,

And taught your bumble soules to mourne of late
For sinnes, and suff'rings breeding griefes and
feares,

And made the riuers bigger with your teares;
Now cease your sad complaints, till fitter time,
And with those three belou'd apostles clime
To lofty Thabor, where your happy eyes
Shall see the Sunne of Glory brightly rise:
Draw neere, and euer blesse that sacred hill,
That there no heate may parch, no frost may kill,
The tender plants, nor any thunder blast
That top, by which all mountaines are surpast.
By steepe and briery paths ye must ascend :
But if ye know to what high scope ye tend,
No let nor danger can your steps restraine,
The crags will easie seeme, the thickets plaine.
Our Lord there stands, not with his painefull crosse
Laid on his shoulders, mouing you to losse
Of precious things, nor calling you to beare
That burden, which so much base worldlings feare.
Here are no promist hopes obscur'd with clouds,
No sorrow with dim vailes true pleasure shrowds,
But perfect joy, which here discover'd shines,
To taste of heauenly light your thoughts inclines,
And able is to weane deluded mindes

From food delight, which wretched mortals blinds:
Yet let not sense so much your reason sway,
As to desire for euer here to stay,
Refusing that sweet change which God prouides,
To those whom with his rod and staffe he guides:
Your happinesse consists not now alone

In those high comforts, which are often throwne
In plenteous manner from our Sauiour's hand,
To raise the fall'n, and cause the weake to stand:
Bot ye are blest, when, being trodden downe,
Ye taste his cup, and weare his thorny crowne.

ON ASCENSION DAY.

Yz that to Heau'n direct your curious eyes,
And send your minds to walk the spacious skies,
See how the Maker to your selues you brings,
Who sets his noble markes on meanest things:
And hauing man aboue the angels plac'd,
The lowly Earth more than the Heau'n hath grac'd.
Poore clay! each creature thy degrees admires;
First, God in thee a living soule inspires,

Whose glorious beames hath made thee farre more
bright

Than is the Sunne, the spring of corp'rall light:
He rests not here, but to himselfe thee takes,
And thee dinine by wondrous vnion makes.
What region can afford a worthy place
For his exalted flesh? Heau'n is too base,
He scarce would touch it in his swift ascent,
The orbes fled backe (like Iordan) as he went:
And yet be daign'd to dwell a while on Earth,
As paying thankefall tribute for his birth:
But now this body all God's works excels,
And hath no place, but God, in whom it dwels,

AN ODE OF THE BLESSED TRINITIE.
MVSE, that art dull and weake,

Opprest with worldly paine,
If strength in thee remaine,

Of things diuine to speake:

Thy thoughts awhile from vrgent cares restraine, And with a chearefull voice thy wonted silence breake.

No cold shall thee benumme,
Nor darknesse taint thy sight;
To thce new heate, new light,
Shall from this obiect come,

My pen shall giue thee leaue hereafter to be dumbe.
Whose praises if thou now wilt sound aright,

Whence shall we then begin
To sing, or write of this,
Where no beginning is?

Or if we enter in,

Where shall we end? The end is endlesse blisse;
Thrice happy we, if well so rich a thread we spinne.

For Thee our strings we touch,
Thou that art Three, and One,
Whose essence, though vnknowne,
Beleeu'd is to be such;

To whom what ere we giue, we giue thine owne,
And yet no mortall tongue can giue to thee so much.

See, how in vayne we trie

To find some tipe, t' agree
With this great One in Three,
Yet can none such descrie,

If any like, or second were to thee,

Thy hidden nature then were not so deepe and high.

Here faile inferiour things,

The Sunne, whose heate and light
Make creatures warme and bright,
A feeble shadow brings:

The Sunne shewes to the world his Father's might, With glorious raies, from both our fire (the spirit) springs.

Now to this toplesse hill
Let vs ascend more neare,
Yet still within the spheare

Of our connat❜ral ski'l,

We may behold how in our soules we beare
An vnderstanding pow'r, ioyn'd with effectual will.
We can no higher goe
To search this point diuine;
Here it doth chiefly shine,
This image must it show:

These steppes as helpes our humble minds incline, T'embrace those certaine grounds, which from true faith must flow.

To him these notes direct,
Who not with outward hands,
Nor by his strong commands,
Whence creatures take effect:
While perfectly himselfe he ynderstands,
Begets another selfe, with equall glory deckt.

From these, the spring of loue,

The holy Ghost proceeds,

Who our affection feeds

With those cleare flames, which moue
From that eternall Essence which them breeds,
And strike into our soules, as lightning from aboue.

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Canst thou now make, or hast thou euer made,
Thy seruants happy in those things that fade?
fleare this my challenge, one example bring
Of such perfection; let him be the king
Of all the world, fearing no outward cheek,
And guiding others by his voice or beck:
Yet shall this man at eu'ry moment find
More gall than hony in his restlesse mind.

dumb,

Behold this garland, whence such vertues come, Such glories shine, such piercing beames are throwne,

As make thee blind, and turne thee to a stone. And thou, whose wand'ring feet were running downe

WHAT darknes clouds my senses! Ilath the day Now, monster, since my words haue struck thee
Forgot his season, and the Sunne his way?
Doth God withdraw his all-sustaining might,
And works no more with his faire creature light,
While Heau'n and Earth for such a losse complaine,
And turne to rude vnformed heapes againe?
My paces with intangling briers are bound,
And all this forrest in deepe silence drownd,
Here must my labour and my journey cease,
By which in vaine I sought for rest and peace;
But now perceiue that man's vnquiet mind,
In all his waies can onely darknesse find.
Here must I starue and die, vnlesse some light
Point out the passage from this dismall night.

WORLD.

Distressed Pilgrim, let not causelesse feare
Depresse thy hopes, for thou hast comfort neare,
Which thy dull heart with splendour shall inspire,
And guide thee to thy period of desire.
Cleare vp thy browes, and raise thy fainting eyes,
See how my glitt'ring palace open lies
For weary passengers, whose desp'rate case
I pitie, and prouide a resting place.

PILGRIM.

O thou whose speeches sound, whose beauties
shine!

Not like a creature, but some pow'r diuine,
Teach me thy stile, thy worth and state declare,
Whose glories in this desert hidden are.

WORLD.

I am thine end, Felicity my name;
The best of wishes, Pleasures, Riches, Fame,
Are humble vassals, which my throne attend,
And make you mortals happy when I send :
In my left hand delicious fruits I hold,
To feede them who with mirth and ease grow old :
Afraid to lose the fleeting dayes and nights,
They seaze on times, and spend it in delights.
My right hand with triumphant crownes is stor'd,
Which all the kings of former times ador'd:
These gifts are thine: then enter where no strife,
No griefe, no paine, shall interrupt thy life.

VERTUE.

Stay, hasty wretch! here deadly serpents dwell, And thy next step is on the brinke of Hell:

Th' infernall steepenesse, looke vpon this crowne :
Within these folds lie hidden no deceits,
No goblen lures, on which perdition waites:
But when thine eyes the prickly thornes haue past,
See in the circle boundlesse ioyes at last.

PILGRIM.

These things are now most cleare, thee I imbrace :
Immortall wreath, let worldlings count thee base,
Choyce is thy matter, glorious is thy shape,
Fit crowne for them who tempting dangers scape.

AN ACT OF CONTRITION.

WHEN first my reason, dawning like the day,
Disperst the clouds of childish sense away :
God's image fram'd in that superior tow'r,
Diuinely drew mine vnderstanding pow'r
To thinke vpon his greatnesse, and to feare
His darts of thunder, which the mountaines teare.
And when with feeble light my soule began
T acknowledge him a higher thing than man,
My next discourse, erected by his grace,
Concciues hira free from bounds of time or place,
And sees the furthest that of him is knownė,
Ali spring from him, and he depends of none.
The steps which in his various workes are seal'd,
The doctrines in his sacred church reueal'd,
Were all receio'd as truths into my mind,
Yet durst I breake his lawes, O strangely blind!
My festring wounds are past the launcing cure,
Which terrour giues to thoughts at first impure :
No helpe remaines these vlcers to remoue,
Vnlesse I scorch them with the flames of loue.
Lord, from thy wrath my soule appeales, and Bye
To gracious beames of those indulgent eyes,
Which brought me first from nothing, and sustain
My life, lest it to nothing turne againe,

Which in thy Sonne's blood washt my parents' siune,

And taught me waies eternall blisse to winne.
The starres which guide my barke with heau'nly
My boords in shipwrack after many falls: [calls,
In these I trust, and, wing'd with pleasing hope,
Attempt new fight to come to thee, my scope,
Whome I esteeme a thousand times more deare
Than worldly things, which faire and sweet appeare.
Rebellious flesh, which thee so oft offends,
Presents her teares: alas! a poore amends,
But thou accept'st them. Hence they precious
As lining waters which from Eden flow.
With these I wish my vitall blood may runne,
Ere new eclipses dimme this glorious Sunne :
And yeeld my selfe afflicting paines to take
For thee, my spouse, and onely for thy sake.
Hell could not fright me with immortall fire,
Were it not arm'd with thy forsaking ire:
Nor should I looke for comfort and delight
la Heau's, if Heau'n were shadow'd from thy sight.

IN DESOLATION.

[grow,

O THOU, who sweetly bend'st my stubborne will,
Who send'st thy stripes to teach, and not to kill:
Thy chearefull face from me no longer hide,
Withdraw these clouds, the scourges of my pride;
I sinke to Hell, if I be lower throwne:
I see what man is, being left alone.

My substance, which from nothing did begin,
Is worse then nothing by the waight of sin:
I see my selfe in such a wretched state,
As neither thoughts conceiue, or words relate.
How great a distance parts vs! for in thee
Is endlesse good, and boundlesse ill in mee.
All creatures proue me abiect, but how low,
Thou onely know'st, and teachest me to know.
To paint this basenesse, nature is too base;
This darknesse yeelds not but to beames of grace.
Where shall I then this piercing splendour find?
Or found, how shall it guide me, being blind?
Grace is a taste of blisse, a glorious gift,
Which can the soule to heau'nly comforts lift.
It will not shine to me, whose mind is drown'd
In sorrowes, and with worldly troubles bound.
It will not daigne within that house to dwell,
Where drinesse raignes, and proud distractions
swell.

Perhaps it sought me in those lightsome dayes
Of my first feruour, when few winds did raise
The waues, and ere they could full strength obtaine,
Some whisp'ring gale straight charmed them downe
again :

If solid vertues dwell not but in paine,
I will not wish that golden age againe,
Because it flow'd with sensible delights
Of heauenly things: God hath created nights
As well as dayes, to decke the varied globe;
Grace comes as oft clad in the dusky robe
Of desolation, as in white attire,
Which better fits the bright celestiall quire.
Some in foule seasons perish through despaire,
But more thro' boldnesse when the daies are faire.
This then must be the med'cine for my woes,
To yeeld to what my Sauiour shall dispose:
To glory in my basenesse, to reioyce
In mine afflictions, to obey his voyce,
As weli when threatnings my defects reproue,
As when I cherisht am with words of loue,
To say to him, in eu'ry time and place,
"Withdraw thy comforts, so thou leaue thy grace."

When all seem'd calm, and yet the Virgin's child,
On my deuotions in his manger smild;
While then I simply walkt, nor heed could take
Of complacence, that slye deceitfull snake;
When yet I had not dang'rously refus'd
So many calls to vertue, nor abus'd
The spring of life, which I so oft enioy'd,
Nor made so many good intentions voyd,
Deseruing thus that grace should quite depart,
And dreadfull hardnesse should posscsse my heart:
Yet in that state this onely good I found,
That fewer spots did then my conscience wound,
Though who can censure, whether in those times,
The want of feeling seem'd the want of crimes?

IN SPIRITUALL COMFORT.
ENOUGH delight, O mine eternall good!

I feare to perish in this fiery flood:
And doubt, least beames of such a glorious light
Should rather blind me, than extend my sight:
For how dare mortals here their thoughts erect
To taste those ioyes, which they in Heau'n expect?
But God inuites them in his boundlesse loue,
And lifts their heauy minds to things aboue.
Who would not follow such a pow'rful guide
Immid'st of flames, or through the raging tide?
What carelesse soule will not admire the grace
Of such a Lord, who knowes the dang'rous place
In which his seruants liue; their natiue woes,
Their weake defence, and fury of their focs:
And casting downe to Earth these golden chaines,
From Hel's steepe brinke their sliding steps re-

straines?

His deare affection flies with wings of haste;
He will not stay till this short life be past:
But in this vale, where teares of griefe abound,
He oft with teares of ioy his friends hath drown'd.
Man, what desir'st thou? Wouldst thou purchase
health,

Great honour, perfect pleasure, peace, and wealth?
All these are here, and in their glory raigne :
In other things these names are false and vaine.
True wisdome bids vs to this banquet haste,
That precious nectar may renew the taste
Of Eden's dainties, by our parents lost
For one poore apple, which so deare would cost,
That eu'ry man a double death should pay,
But Mercy comes the latter stroke to stay,
And (leauing mortall bodies to the knife
Of Justice) strines to saue the better life.
No sou'raigne med'cine can be halfe so good
Again t destruction, as this angel's food,
This inward illustration, when it finds

A seate in humble and indiff'rent minds.
If wretched men contemne a Sunne so bright,
Dispos'd to stray and stumble in the night,
And seeke contentment where they oft haue
knowne

By dearc experience, that there can be none,
They would much more neglect their God, their
end,

If ought were found whereon they might depend,

Within the compasse of the gen'rall frame: Or if some sparkes of this celestiall flame Had not ingrau'd this sentence in their brest: "In him that made them is their onely rest."

AN ACT OF HOPE.

SWEET Hope is soueraigne comfort of our life:
Our joy in sorrow, and our peace in strife:
The dame of beggers, and the queene of kings:
Can these delight in height of prosp'rous things,
Without expecting still to keepe them sure?
Can those the weight of heauy wants endure,
Vnlesse perswasion i stant paine allay,
Reseruing spirit for a better day?

Our God, who planted in his creatures' brest
This stop, on which the wheeles of passion rest,
Hath rays'd, by beames of his abundant grace,
This strong affection to a higher place.
It is the second vertue which attends
That soule, whose motion to his sight ascends.
Rest here, my mind, thou shalt no longer stay
To gaze vpon these houses made of clay :
Thou shalt not stoope to honours, or to lands,
Nor golden balles, where sliding fortune stands :
If no false colours draw thy steps amisse,
Thou hast a palace of eternall blisse,
A paradise from care, and feare exempt,
An obiect worthy of the best attempt.
Who would not for so rich a country fight?
Who would not runne, that sees a goale so bright?
O thou who art our Author and our End,
On whose large mercy chaines of hope depend;
Lift me to thee by thy propitious hand:
For lower I can find no place to stand.

OF TEARES.

BEHOLD what riuers feeble nature spends,
And melts vs into seas at losse of friends!
Their mortall state this fountaine neuer dries,
But fills the world with worlds of weeping eies.
Man is a creature borne, and nurst in teares,
He through his life the markes of sorrow beares;
And dying, thinkes he can no off'ring haue
More fit than teares distilling on his graue.
We must these floods to larger bounds extend ;
Such streames require a high and noble end.
As waters in a chrystall orbe contain'd
Aboue the starry firmament are chain'd
To coole the fury of those raging flames,
Which eu'ry lower spheare by motion frames:
So this continuall spring within thy head
Must quench the fires in other members bred.
If to our Lord our parents had been true,
Our teares had been like drops of pleasing dew:
But sinne hath made them full of bitter paines,
Vntimely children of afflicted braines:

Yet they are chang'd, when we our sinnes lament,
To richer pearles than from the East are sent.

OF SINNE.

WHAT pensill shall I take, or where begin, To paint the vgly face of odious Sinne ?

Man sinning oft, though pardon'd oft, exceeds
The falling angels in malicious deeds:
When we in words would tell the sinner's shame,
To call him Diuell is too faire a name.
Should we for euer in the chaos dwell,
Or in the lothsome depth of gaping Hell:
We there no foule and darksome formes shall find
Sufficient to describe a guilty mind.

Search thro' the world, we shall not know a thing,
Which may to reason's eye more horrour bring,
Than disobedience to the Highest cause,
And obstinate auersion from his lawes.
The sinner will destroy God, if he can.

O what bath God deseru'd of thee, poore man,
That thou should'st boldly strive to pull him downe
From his high throne, and take away his crowne
What blindnesse moues thee to vnequall fight?
See how thy fellow creatures scorne thy might,
Yet thou prouok'st thy Lord, as much too great,
As thou too weake for his imperiall seate!
Behold a silly wretch distracted quite,
Extending towards God his feeble spite,
And by his poys'nous breath his hopes are faire
To blast the skies, as it corrupts the aire.
Vpon the other side thou mayst perceine
A mild Commander, to whose army cleaue
The sparkling starres, and each of them desires
To fall and drowne this rebell in their fires.
The cloudes are ready this proud foe to tame,
Full fraught with thunderbolts, and lightnings'

flame.

The Earth, his mother, greedy of his doome,
Expects to open her vnhappy wombe,

That this degen'rate sonne may liue no more,
So chang'd from that pure man, whom first she
bore.

The sauage beasts, whose names his father gaue,
To quell this pride, their Maker's licence craue.
The fiends, his masters, in this warlike way
Make sute to seaze him as their lawfull prey.
No friends are left: then whither shall be flie?
To that offended King, who sits on high,
Who hath deferr'd the battell, and restrain'd
His souldiers, like the winds in fetters chain'd:
For let the sinner leaue his hideous maske,
God will as soone forgiue, as he shall aske.

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Vaine honour is a play of diuers parts,

Where fained words and gestures please our hearts;
The flatter'd audience are the actor's friends;
But lose that title when the fable ends.
The faire desire that others should behold,
Their clay well featur'd, their well temper'd mould,
Ambitious mortals make their chiefe pretence,
To be the obiects of delighted sense:
Yet oft the shape and hue of basest things
More admiration moues, more pleasure brings.
Why should we glory to be counted strong?
This is the praise of beasts, the pow'r of wrong:
And if the strength of many were inclos'd
Within one brest, yet when it is oppos'd
Against that force which art or nature frame,
It melts like waxe before the scorching flame.
We cannot in these outward things be blest;
For we are sure to lose them; and the best
Of these contentments no such comfort beares,
As may waigh equall with the doubts and feares
Which fixe our minds on that vncertaine day,
When these shall faile, most certaine to decay.
From length of life no happinesse can come,
But what the guilty feele, who, after doome,
Are to the lothsome prison sent againe,
And there must stay to die with longer paine.
No earthly gift lasts after death, but fame;
This gouernes men more carefull of their name
Than of their soules, which their vngodly taste
Dissolues to nothing, and shall proue at last
Farre worse than nothing; prayses come too late,
When man is not, or is in wretched state.

But these are ends which draw the meanest hearts:
Let vs search deepe and trie our better parts:
O knowledge! if a Heau'n on Earth could be,
I would expect to reape that blisse in thee:
But thou art blind, and they that haue thy light,
More clearely know, they liue in darksome night.
See, man, thy stripes at schoole, thy paines abroad,
Thy watching, and thy palenesse, well bestow'd:
These feeble helpes can scholars neuer bring
To perfect knowledge of the plainest thing:
And some to such a height of learning grow,
They die perswaded, that they nothing know.
In vaine swift houres spent in deepe study slide,
Valesse the purchast doctrine curbe our pride.
The soule, perswaded that no fading loue
Can equall her imbraces, seekes aboue :
And now aspiring to a higher place,

Is glad that all her comforts here are base.

OF SICKNESSE.

THE end of sicknesse, health, or death, declare
The cause as happy, as the sequells are.
Vaine mortals! while they striue their sense to
please,

Endure a life worse than the worst disease:
When sports and ryots of the restlesse night,
Breede dayes as thicke possest with fenny light:
How oft haue these (compell'd by wholsome
paine)

Return'd to sucke sweet Nature's brest againe, And then could in a narrow compasse find Strength for the body, clearenesse in the mind? And if Death come, it is not he whose dart, Whose scalpe, and bones, afflict the trembling beart:

(As if the painters with new art would striue,
For feare of bugs, to keepe poore men aliue)
But one, who from thy mother's wombe hath been
Thy friend and strict companion, though voscene,
To leade thee in the right appointed way,
And crowne thy labours at the conqu'ring day.
Vngratefull men, why doe you sicknesse loath,
Which blessings giue in Heau'n, or Earth, or both?

OF TRUE LIBERTY.

He that from dust of worldly tumults flies, May boldly open his vndazled eyes, To reade wise Nature's booke, and with delight Surueyes the plants by day, and starres by night, We neede not trauaile, seeking wayes to blisse: He that desires contentment, cannot misse: No garden walles this precious flower imbrace: It common growes in eu'ry desart place. Large scope of pleasure drownes vs like a flood, To rest in little, is our greatest good. Learne ye that clime the top of Fortune's wheele, That dang'rous state which ye disdaine to feele: Your highnesse puts your happinesse to flight, Your inward comforts fade with outward light, Vulesse it be a blessing not to know This certaine truth, lest ye should pine for woe, To see inferiours so diuinely blest With freedome, and your selues with fetters prest. Ye sit like pris'ners barr'd with doores aud chaines, And yet no care perpetuall care restraines. Ye striue to mixe your sad conceits with ioyes, By curious pictures and by glitt'ring toyes, While others are not hind'red from their ends, Delighting to conuerse with bookes or friends, And liuing thus retir'd, obtaine the pow'r To reigne as kings, of euery sliding houre: They walke by Cynthiae's light, and lift their eyes To view the ord'red armies in the skies. The Heau'ns they measure with imagin'd lines, And when the northerne hemisphere declines, New constellations in the south they find, Whose rising may refresh the studious mind. In these delights, though freedome shew more high Few can to things aboue their thoughts apply. But who is he that cannot cast his looke On earth, and read the beauty of that booke? A bed of smiling flow'rs, a trickling spring, A swelling riuer, more contentment bring Than can be shadow'd by the best of art: Thus still the poore man hath the better part.

AGAINST

INORDINATE LOUE OF CREATURES. Au! who would loue a creature? who would place His heart, his treasure, in a thing so base? Which time consuming, like a moth destroyes, And stealing Death will rob him of his ioyes. Why lift we not our minds aboue this dust? Haue we not yet perceiu'd that God is just, And hath ordain'd the obiects of our loue To be our scourges, when we wanton proue? Go, carelesse man, in vaine delights proceed, Thy fansies and thine outward senses feede,

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