Cbaritas Nimia,

OR, THE DEAR BARGAIN.

Lord, what is man? why should he cost Thee So dear? what had his ruin lost Thee?

Lord, what is man, that thou hast over-bought
So much a thing of nought?

Love is too kind, I see; and can
Make but a simple merchant-man.
'Twas for such sorry merchandise
Bold painters have put out his eyes.

Alas, sweet Lord, what were't to Thee
If there were no such worms as we?
Heaven ne'ertheless still Heaven would be,
Should mankind dwell

In the deep Hell:

What have his woes to do with Thee?

Let him go weep

O'er his own wounds;

Seraphims will not sleep,

Nor spheres let fall their faithful rounds.

Still would the youthful spirits sing;

And still Thy spacious palace ring;

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

And bow their flaming heads before Thee;

Still thrones and dominations would adore Thee; Still would those ever-wakeful sons of fire

Keep warm Thy praise

Both nights and days,

And teach Thy loved name to their noble lyre.

Let froward dust then do its kind;

And give itself for sport to the proud wind.
Why should a piece of peevish clay plead shares
In the eternity of Thy old cares?

Why should'st Thou bow Thy awful breast to see
What mine own madnesses have done with me?

Should not the king still keep his throne
Because some desperate fool's undone ?
Or will the World's illustrious eyes
Weep for every worm that dies?

Will the gallant sun

E'er the less glorious run?

Will he hang down his golden head,

Or e'er the sooner seek his Western bed,
Because some foolish fly

Grows wanton, and will die?

If I were lost in misery,

What was it to Thy Heaven and Thee?
What was it to Thy precious blood,

If my foul heart call'd for a flood?

What if my faithless soul and I

Would needs fall in

With guilt and sin;

What did the Lamb that He should die?

What did the Lamb that He should need,
When the wolf sins, Himself to bleed?

If my base lust

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

Lamb's bosom write

The purple name

Of my sin's shame ?

Why should His unstain'd breast make good

My blushes with His Own heart-blood?

O my Saviour, make me see

How dearly Thou hast paid for me;
That lost again, my life may prove,
As then in death, so now in love.

Sancta María Dolorum:

OR, THE MOTHER OF SORROWS:

A PATHETICAL

DESCANT UPON THE DEVOUT PLAINSONG

STABAT MATER DOLOROSA.

I.

In shade of Death's sad tree
Stood doleful she.

Ah she now by none other

Name to be known, alas, but Sorrow's Mother.
Before her eyes

Her's and the whole World's joys,

Hanging all torn, she sees; and in His woes

And pains, her pangs and throes:

Each wound of His, from every part,

All, more at home in her one heart.

II.

What kind of marble then

Is that cold man

Who can look on and see,

Nor keep such noble sorrows company?

Sure even from you

(My flints) some drops are due,

To see so many unkind swords contest
So fast for one soft breast:

While with a faithful, mutual flood,

Her eyes bleed tears, His wounds weep blood.

OF

III.

O costly intercourse

Of deaths, and worse

Divided loves. While Son and mother Discourse alternate wounds to one another,

Quick deaths that grow

And gather, as they come and go :

His nails write swords in her, which soon her heart Pays back, with more than their own smart ;

Her swords, still growing with His pain,

Turn spears, and straight come home again.

IV.

She sees her Son, her God,

Bow with a load

Of borrow'd sins; and swim

In woes that were not made for Him.

Ah! hard command

Of love! Here must she stand,

Charged to look on, and with a steadfast eye
See her life die ;

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

V.

O mother turtle-dove!

Soft source of love!

That these dry lids might borrow

Something from thy full seas of sorrow!