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On the Prodigall.
Ell me bright boy, tell me my golden Lad,
Whither away so frolick? why so glad?
The sick implore St. Peters shadow.
Death's busie search I'le easily beguile;
My light's thy shadowes shadow, or ’tis done.
On the still surviving marks of our Saviours wounds.
Are in another sence,
Once I did spell
A wound of thine
Balsome for mine.
The dumb healed and the people enjoyned silence. Hrist bids the dumb tongue speak, it speakes, the sound
He charges to be quiet, it runs round: 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
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.
That labour'd to have washt thy guilt;
Must have its fountaine in thine eyes.
To the infant Martyrs. GO
Oe smiling soules, your new built Cages breake,
In heaven you'l learne to sing, ere here to speake: Nor let the milkie fonts that bath your thirst
Be your delay, The place that calls you hence, is at the worst
Milke all the way.
On the miracle of Loaves.
Why are ye afraid, O ye of little faith?
S if the storme meant him,
His needs a cloud :
Or wave so proud ?
There is no storme but this
your owne Cowardise
Of your owne doubt:
On the B. Virgins bashfullnesse.
'Hat on her lap she casts her humble eye,
'Tis the sweet pride of her humilitie. The faire starre is well fixt, for where, ô 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, 'Twas once looke up, 'tis now looke downe to heaven.
Upon Lazarus his teares.
Ich Lazarus! richer in those Gems thy Teares,
He scorns them now, but ô they'l sute full well
With th’ Purple he must weare in hell.
Two went up into the temple to pray.
? Ô rather say
Upon the asse that bore our Saviour.
Ath only anger an Omnipotence
in Eloquence? Within the lips of love and joy doth dwell
His masters pride?
To praise thy Lord? That he should find a tongue and vocall thunder
Was a great wonder, But ô me thinkes 'tis a farre greater one
That thou find'st none.
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
He to himselfe (I feare the worst)
And his owne hope
Thus set them ope.
The blind cured by the word of our Saviour.
Thou spak'st and streight the blind man saw:
And he answered them nothing.
Nothing, we owe all things that bee.
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.