CHARITAS NIMIA. OR THE DEAR BARGAIN. Lord, what is man? why should he coste thee So dear? what had his ruin lost thee? Lord what is man? that thou hast overbought Love is too kind, I see; & can Alas, sweet lord, what wer't to thee In the deep hell. What have his woes to doe with thee? Let him goe weep O're his own wounds; SERAPHIMS will not sleep Nor spheares let fall their faithfull rounds. Still would The youthfull SPIRITS sing; Still would those beauteous ministers of light And bow their flaming heads before thee Both nights & dayes, And teach thy lov'd name to their noble lyre. Le[t] froward Dust then doe it's kind; Why shouldst you bow thy awful Brest to see E're the lesse glorious run? Will he hang down his golden head Growes wanton, & will dy? If I were lost in misery, What was it to thy heavn & thee? With guilt & sin, What did the Lamb, that he should dy? Bargain'd with Death & well-beseeming dust Lamb's bosom write The purple name Of my sin's shame? Why should his unstaind brest make good My blushes with his own heart-blood? O my SAVIOUR, make me see How dearly thou hast payd for me That lost again my LIFE may prove As then in DEATH, So now in love. SANCTA MARIA DOLORUM OR THE MOTHER OF SORROWS. A Patheticall descant upon the OF STABAT MATER DOLOROSA. SANCTA MARIA DOLORUM. I. N shade of death's sad TREE IN Stood Dolefull SHEE. Ah SHE! now by none other Name to be known, alas, but SORROW'S [M]Other. Her's, & the whole world's joyes, Hanging all torn she sees; and in his woes Each wound of His, from every Part, All, more at home in her one heart. II. What kind of marble than Is that cold man Nor keep such noble sorrowes company? (My Flints) some drops are due To see so many unkind swords contest Her eyes bleed TEARES, his wounds weep BLOOD. III. O costly intercourse Of deaths, & worse Divided loves. While son & mother Discourse alternate wounds to one another; Quick Deaths that grow And gather, as they come & goe: His Nailes write swords in her, which soon her heart Payes back, with more then their own smart; Her SWORDS, still growin[g] with his pain, Turn SPEARES, & straight come home again. IV. She sees her son, her GOD, Of borrowd sins; And swimme In woes that were not made for Him. Of love! Here must she stand Charg'd to look on, & with à stedfast ey Leaving her only so much Breath ง. O Mother turtle-dove! Soft sourse of love That these dry lidds might borrow Something from thy full Seas of sorrow! O in that brest Of thine (the nob[1]est nest Both of love's fires & flouds) might I recline The chill lump would relent, & prove VI. O teach those wounds to bleed This book of loves, thus writ In lines of death, my life may coppy it O let me, here, claim shares; (Great Queen of greifes) & give Me too my teares; who, though all stone, Think much that thou shouldst mourn alone. |