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On the Prodigall.
Ell me bright boy, tell me my golden Lad,
The sick implore St. Peters shadow.
Nder thy shadow may I lurke a while,
On the still surviving marks of our Saviours wounds.
Hat ever storie of their crueltie,
Or Naile, or Thorne, or Speare have writ in thee.
A wound of thine
The dumb healed and the people enjoyned silence.
Hrist bids the dumb tongue speak, it speakes, the sound
If in the first he us'd his fingers touch,
His hands whole strength here could not be too much.
Come see the place where the Lord lay.
Hew me himself, himself (bright Sir) ô show Which way my poor teares to himself may goe; Were it enough to show the place and say
Looke Mary here, see where thy Lord once lay, Then could I show these armes of mine, and say Looke Mary here, see where thy Lord once lay.
To Pontius washing his hands.
Hy hands are wash't, but ô the water's spilt
To the infant Martyrs.
Oe smiling soules, your new built Cages breake,
Nor let the milkie fonts that bath your thirst
On the miracle of Loaves.
TOw Lord, or never, they'l beleeve on thee:
Why are ye afraid, O ye of little faith?
S if the storme meant him,
That could be so unkind?
The wind had need be angry, and the water black,
That braves you out;
You are the storme that mocks
Besides this feare of danger, ther's no danger here;
On the B. Virgins bashfullnesse.
Hat on her lap she casts her humble eye,
The faire starre is well fixt, for where, & where,
Could she have fixt it on a fairer spheare?
'Tis heaven, 'tis heaven she sees; Heaven's God there lyes, She can see heaven, and ne're lift
up her eyes:
This new guest to her eyes, new lawes hath given,
Upon Lazarus his teares.
Ich Lazarus! richer in those Gems thy Teares,
Two went up into the temple to pray.
Wo went to pray? ô rather say
Upon the asse that bore our Saviour.
Ath only anger an Omnipotence
Why else had Balaams asse
a tongue to chide
But me thinkes 'tis a farre greater one
I am not worthy that thou should'st come under my roofe.
Hy God was making hast into thy roofe, Thy humble faith, and feare, keepes him aloofe: Hee'l be thy guest, because he may not be, Hee'l come into thy house? no, into thee.
I am the Doore.
Nd now th'art set wide ope, the spear's sad art
And his owne hope
Hath shut these Doores of heaven, that durst
The blind cured by the word of our Saviour.
Hou speak'st the word (Thy word's a Law)
And he answered them nothing.
Mighty Nothing! unto thee,
To our Lord, upon the water made Wine.
Hou water turn'st to wine (faire friend of life) Thy foe to crosse the sweet arts of thy reigne Distills from thence the tears of wrath and strife, And so turnes wine to water back againe.