Page images






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
So much a thing of nought?

Love is too kind, I see; & can
Make but à simple merchant man.
'Twas for such sorry merchandise,
Bold Painters have putt out his Eyes.

Alas, sweet lord, what wer't to thee
If there were no such wormes as we?
Heav'n ne're the lesse still heavn would be,
Should Mankind dwell

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;
And still thy spatious Palace ring.

Still would those beauteous ministers of light
Burn all as bright,

And bow their flaming heads before thee
Still thrones & Dominations would adore thee
Still would those ever-wakefull sons of fire
Keep warm thy prayse

Both nights & dayes,

And teach thy lov'd name to their noble lyre.

Le[t] froward Dust then doe it's kind;
And give it self for sport to the proud wind.
Why should a peice of peevish clay plead shares
In the Eternity of thy old cares?

Why shouldst you bow thy awful Brest to see
What mine own madnesses have done with me?
Should not the king still keepe his throne
Because some desperate Fool's undone?
Or will the world's Illustrious eyes
Weep for every worm that dyes;
Will the gallant sun

E're the lesse glorious run?

Will he hang down his golden head
Or e're the sooner seek his western bed,
Because some foolish fly

Growes wanton, & will dy?

If I were lost in misery,

What was it to thy heavn & thee?
What was it to thy pretious blood
If my foul Heart call'd for a floud?
What if my faithlesse soul & I
Would needs fall in

With guilt & sin,

What did the Lamb, that he should dy?
What did the lamb, that he should need?
When the wolf sins, himself to bleed?
If my base lust,

Bargain'd with Death & well-beseeming dust
Why should the white

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.








Patheticall descant upon the
devout Plainsong







N shade of death's sad TREE


Stood Dolefull SHEE.

Ah SHE! now by none other

Name to be known, alas, but SORROW'S [M]Other.
Before her eyes

Her's, & the whole world's joyes,

Hanging all torn she sees; and in his woes
And Paines, her Pangs & throes.

Each wound of His, from every Part,

All, more at home in her one heart.


What kind of marble than

Is that cold man
Who can look on & see,

Nor keep such noble sorrowes company?
Sure ev'en from you

(My Flints) some drops are due

To see so many unkind swords contest
So fast for one soft Brest.
While with à faithfull, mutuall, floud

Her eyes bleed TEARES, his wounds weep BLOOD.


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.


She sees her son, her GOD,
Bow with a load

Of borrowd sins; And swimme

In woes that were not made for Him.
Ah hard command

Of love! Here must she stand

Charg'd to look on, & with à stedfast ey
See her life dy:

Leaving her only so much Breath
As serves to keep alive her death.


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
This hard, cold, Heart of mine!

The chill lump would relent, & prove
Soft subject for the seige of love.


O teach those wounds to bleed
In me; me, so to read

This book of loves, thus writ

In lines of death, my life may coppy it
With loyall cares.

O let me, here, claim shares;
Yeild somthing in thy sad prærogative

(Great Queen of greifes) & give

Me too my teares; who, though all stone, Think much that thou shouldst mourn alone.

« PreviousContinue »