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In cæterorum Operum difficili

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Felix nimis Illa, & nostræ nobile Nomen
Invidia Volucris facili q[u]e funere surgens
Mater odora sui nitidæ nova fila juventæ,
Et festinatos peragit sibi fata per ignes.
Illa, haud natales tot tardis mensibus horas
Tam miseris tenuata moris, salutu velut uno
In nova secla rapit sese, & caput omne decoras
Explicat in frondes, roseg repullulat ortu.
Cinnameos simul Illa rogos conscenderit, omnem
Læta bibit Phoebum, & jam jam victricibus alis
Plaudit humum, Cinerésque suos.

Heu! dispare Fato
Nos ferimur; Seniorg suo sub Apolline Phoenix
Petrensis Mater, dubias librata per auras
Pendet adhuc, quæritg sinum in quo ponat inertes
Exuvias, spoliis suæ Reparata Senecta
Ore Pari surgat, Similig per omnia Vultu.
At nunc heu nixu secli melioris in ipso
Deliquium patitur!-

At nunc heu Lentæ longo in molimine Vitæ
Interea moritur! Dubio stant Moenia vultu
Parte sui Pulchra, & fratres in fœdera Muros
Invitant fr[u]strà, nec respondentia Saxis
Saxa suis. Mærent Opera intermissa, manúsq;

Succurre Piæ, succurre Parenti,

O Quisquis pius es. Illi succurre Parenti,

Quam sibi tot sante Matres habuere Parentem.
Quisquis es, 6 Tibi, crede, Tibi tot hiantia ruptis
Manibus Ora loqui! Matrem Tibi, crede, verendam
Muros tam longo laceros senió situque

Ceu Canos monstrare suos. Succurre roganti.
Per Tibi Plena olim, per jam Sibi Sicca precatur
Ubera, nè desis Senio. Sic longa Juventus.
Te foveat, querulæ nunquam cessura Senecta.

On Mr. George Herberts booke intituled the Temple of Sacred Poems, sent to a Gentle-woman.


Now you

faire on what you looke; Divinest love lyes in this booke: Expecting fier from your eyes,

To kindle this his sacrifice.

When your hands untie these strings,
Think yo'have an Angell by the wings.
One that gladly will be nigh,

To waite upon each morning sigh.
To flutter in the balmy aire,

Of your well-perfumed praier;

These white plumes of his hee'l lend you,
Which every day to heaven will send you:
To take acquaintance of the spheare,
And all the smooth-fac'd kindred there.

And though Herbert's name doe owe
These devotions, fairest, know

That while I lay them on the shrine
Of your white hand, they are mine.



On a treatise of Charity.

Ise then, immortall maid! Religion rise!

Put on thy self in thine owne lookes; t' our eyes Be what thy beauties, not our blots have made thee, Such as (ere our darke sinnes to dust betrayed thee) Heav'n set thee down new drest; when thy bright birth Shot thee like lightning, to th' astonisht earth. From th' dawn of thy faire eye-lids wipe away, Dull mists, and melancholy clouds; take day And thine owne beames about thee, bring the best Of what so'ere perfum'd thy Eastern Nest. Girt all thy glories to thee: then sit down, Open thy booke, faire Queen, and take thy crowne. These learned leaves shall vindicate to thee, Thy holiest, humblest, hand-maid Charitie. She'l dresse thee like thy self, set thee on high, Where thou shall reach all hearts, command each eye, Lo where I see thy off'rings wake, and rise, From the pale dust of that strange sacrifice, Which they themselves were; each one putting on A majestie that may beseeme thy throne. The Holy youth of Heav'n whose golden rings Girt round thy awfull altars, with bright wings Fanning thy faire locks (which the world beleeves, As much as sees) shall with these sacred leaves Trick their tall plumes, and in that garbe shall go, If not more glorious, more conspicuous tho. Be it enacted then By the faire lawes of thy firm pointed pen, God's services no longer shall put on

A sluttishnesse, for pure religion :

No longer shall our Churches frighted stones
Lie scatter'd like the burnt and martyr'd bones
Of dead Devotion; nor faint marbles weep
In their sad ruines; nor Religion keep
A melancholy mansion in those cold

Urns. Like God's Sanctuaries they look't of old:

Now seeme they Temples consecrate to none,
Or to a new God desolation.

No more the Hypocrite shall th' upright bee
Because he's stiffe, and will confesse no knee :
While others bend their knee, no more shalt thou
(Disdainefull dust and ashes) bend thy brow;
Nor on God's Altar cast two scortching eyes
Bak't in hot scorn, for a burnt sacrifice:
But (for a Lambe) thy tame and tender heart
New struck by love, still trembling on his dart;
Or (for two Turtle Doves) it shall suffice
To bring a paire of meek and humble eyes.

This shall from henceforth be the masculine theme
Pulpits and pens shall sweat in; to redeeme
Vertue to action, that life-feeding flame

That keepes Religion warme; not swell a name
Of faith, a mountaine word, made up of aire,

With those deare spoiles that wont to dresse the faire
And fruitfull Charities full breasts (of old)

Turning her out to tremble in the cold.

What can the poore hope from us, when we bee
Uncharitable ev'n to Charitie?

Fides quæ sola justificat, non est sine
Spe & Dilectione.




tam sola est. O quis malè censor amarus
Tam socias negat in mutua sceptra manus?

Deme Fidem; nec aget, nec erit jam nomen Amoris :
Et vel erit, vel aget quid sine Amore Fides?

Ergo Amor, I, morere; I magnas, Puer alme, per umbras:
Elysiis non tam numen inane locis.

O bene, quòd pharetra hoc saltem tua præstat & arcus,
Nè tibi in extremos sit pyra nulla rogos!

O bene, quòd tuus has saltem tibi providet ignis,
In tu aquas possis funera ferre, faces!

Durus es, ah, quisquis tam dulcia vincula solvis;
Quæ ligat, & quibus est ipse ligatus Amor.
O bene junctarum divortia sæva sororum,
Tam penitus mixtas quæ tenuêre manus!
Nam quæ (tam varia) in tam mutua viscera vivunt?
Aut ubi, quæ duo sunt, tam propè sunt eadem?
Alternis sese circùm amplectuntur in ulnis:

Extráque & suprà, subter & intus eunt.

Non tam Nympha tenax, Baccho jam mista marito,
Abdidit in liquidos mascula vina sinus.

Compare jam dempto, saltem sua murmura servat
&in viduos vivit amara modos.

At Fidei sit demptus Amor; non illa dolebit,

Non erit impatiens, ægráque: jam moritur.
Palma, marem cui tristis hyems procul abstulit umbram,
Protinus in viridem procubuit faciem?

Undique circumfert caput, omnibus annuit Euris;
Siqua maritalem misceat aura comam :
Ah misera, expectat longùm, lentumque expirat,
Et demum totis excutitur foliis.

At sine Amore Fides, nec tantum vivere perstat
Quo dici possit vel moritura Fides.

Mortua jam nunc est: nisi demum mortua non est
Corporea hæc, animâ deficiente, domus.

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