Waiting on Thy victorious hand,
Like statues fixed to the fame

Of Thy renown, and their own shame :
As if they only meant to breathe,

To be the life of their own death.

"Twas time to hold their peace when they
Had ne'er another word to say:

Yet is their silence unto Thee,
The full sound of Thy victory :
Their silence speaks aloud, and is
Thy well pronounced panegyris.

While they speak nothing, they speak all
Their share in Thy memorial.

While they speak nothing, they proclaim
Thee with the shrillest trump of fame.
To hold their peace is all the ways
These wretches have to speak Thy praise.

Upon our Saviour's Tomb, wherein never man was laid.

It is better to go into Heaven with one Eye, &c.
NE Eye? a thousand rather, and a thousand more,
To fix those full-faced glories. O, he's poor
Of eyes that has but Argus' store;

Yet, if thou'lt fill one poor eye with Thy Heaven and

Thee,

O grant, sweet Goodness, that one eye may be

All, and every whit of me.

LUKE XI.

Upon the dumb Devil cast out, and the slanderous
Jews put to silence.

WO devils at one blow Thou hast laid flat,
A speaking devil this, a dumb one that;
Was't Thy full victory's fairer increase
That th' one spake, or that th' other held his peace?

LUKE X.

And a certain Priest coming that way, looked on him, and passed by.

HY dost thou wound my wounds, O thou that passest by,

Handling and turning them with an

unwounded eye?

The calm that cools thine eye does shipwreck mine, for O, Unmoved to see one wretched is to make him so!

LUKE XI.

Blessed be the Paps which Thou hast sucked.

UPPOSE He had been tabled at thy teats,
Thy hunger feels not what He eats :

He'll have His teat ere long, a bloody one,—

The mother then must suck the Son.

To Pontius washing his blood-stained Hands.
S murder no sin? or a sin so cheap,

That thou need'st heap

A rape upon't? till thy adult'rous touch
Taught her these sullied cheeks, this blubber'd face.
She was a nymph, the meadows knew none such,
Of honest parentage, of unstain'd race,
The daughter of a fair and well-famed fountain,
As ever silver-tipp'd the side of shady mountain.
See how she weeps, and weeps, that she appears
Nothing but tears;'

Each drop's a tear that weeps for her own waste.
Hark, how at every touch she does complain her!
Hark, how she bids her frighted drops make haste,

And with sad murmurs chides the hands that stain her! Leave, leave for shame, or else, good judge, decree, What water shall wash this, when this hath washèd thee.

MATTHEW XXIII.

Ye build the Sepulchres of the Prophets.

HOU trimm'st a Prophet's tomb, and dost
bequeath

The life thou took'st from him unto his death.

Vain man! the stones that on his tomb do lie
Keep but the score of them that made him die.

Upon the Infant Martyrs.

O see both blended in one flood,

The mothers' milk, the children's blood,

Makes me doubt if Heaven will gather

Roses hence, or lilies rather.

JOHN XVI.

Verily I say unto you, Ye shall weep and lament.

ELCOME, my grief, my joy; how dear's
To me my legacy of tears!

I'll weep, and weep, and will therefore

Weep, 'cause I can weep no more.

Thou, Thou, dear Lord, even Thou alone,
Giv'st joy, even when Thou givest none.

JOHN XV.

Upon our Lord's last comfortable Discourse with His
Disciples.

LL Hybla's honey, all that sweetness can,
Flows in thy song, O fair, O dying swan!
Yet is the joy I take in't small or none;

It is too sweet to be a long-lived one.

LUKE XVI.

Dives asking a Drop.

DROP, one drop, how sweetly one fair drop Would tremble on my pearl-tipp'd finger's top! My wealth is gone, O, go it where it will, Spare this one jewel, I'll be Dives still!

MARK XII.

Give to Caesar

And to God

LL we have is God's, and yet

Cæsar challenges a debt;

Nor hath God a thinner share,

Whatever Cæsar's payments are;

All is God's; and yet, 'tis true,

All we have is Cæsar's too.
All is Cæsar's; and what odds,
So long as Cæsar's self is God's?

But now they have seen and hated. EEN? and yet hated Thee? they did not see, They saw Thee not, that saw and hated Thee: No, no, they saw Thee not, O Life! O Love! Who saw aught in Thee that their hate could move?

Upon the Crown of Thorns, taken from our Blessed Lord's Head, all bloody.

NOW'ST thou this, soldier? 'tis a much

changed plant, which yet

Thyself didst set.

'Tis changed indeeed; did Autumn e'er such beauties bring

To shame his Spring?*

O who so hard an husbandman did ever find

A soil so kind?

Is not the soil a kind one which returns

Roses for thorns?

She began to wash His Feet with Tears and wipe them with the Hairs of her Head.

ER eyes' flood licks His feet's fair stain,

Her hair's flame licks up that again.

This flame thus quench'd hath brighter beams,

This flood thus stainèd fairer streams.

* These two lines are not in the version of the Paris edition of 1652.