Say, if she's fretful, I have bands I have myrtle rods at will, For to tame, though not to kill. Take thou my blessing thus, and go Like a lightning from her eye, THE BAG OF THE BEE. About the sweet bag of a bee And whose the pretty prize should be Which Venus hearing, thither came, Which done, to still their wanton cries, TO THE DUKE OF YORK. May his pretty Duke-ship grow Sweeter far than ever yet Showers or sunshine could beget; May the thrice three Sisters sing Prince of Helicon but he ; May his soft foot, where it treads, Gardens thence produce and meads, And those meadows full be set With the rose and violet; May his ample name be known And his actions high be told Through the world, but writ in gold. THE LITANY. In the hour of my distress, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When I lie within my bed, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the house doth sigh and weep, When the artless doctor sees When his potion and his pill, When the passing-bell doth toll, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the tapers now burn blue, And that number more than true, When the priest his last hath pray'd, 'Cause my speech is now decay'd, When, God knows, I'm tost about, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the tempter me pursu'th When the flames and hellish cries Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the Judgment is reveal'd, GRACE FOR A CHILD. Here, a little child, I stand, For a benison to fall On our meat, and on our all. Amen. THE DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. O thou, the wonder of all days! Above the rest Of all the maiden-train! We come, And bring fresh strewings to thy tomb. Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round And other flowers, lay upon The altar of our love, thy stone. Thou wonder of all maids, liest here, Of this smooth green, And all sweet meads, from whence we get The primrose and the violet. Too soon, too dear did Jephthah buy, By thy sad loss, our liberty; His was the bond and cov'nant, yet Lamented Maid! he won the day: Thy father brought with him along And in the purchase of our peace, For which obedient zeal of thine, And fresh thy hearse-cloth, we will here Receive, for this thy praise, our tears; With tears, distill'd From teeming eyes; to these we bring, To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls, When we conduct her to her groom; No more, no more, since thou art dead, We, cowslip balls, Or chains of columbines shall make, No, no; our maiden pleasures be One seed of life left, 'tis to keep A Lent for thee, to fast and weep. Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all paradise; May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence Fat frankincense; Let balm and cassia send their scent From out thy maiden-monument. |