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In cæterorum Operum difficili
Felix nimis Illa, & nostræ nobile Nomen
Heu! dispare Fato
At nunc heu Lente longo in molimine Vitæ
Succurre Piæ, succurre Parenti,
O Quisquis pius es. Illi succurre Parenti,
Quam sibi tot sancta Matres habuere Parentem.
Ceu Canos monstrare suos. Succurre roganti.
On Mr. George Herberts booke intituled the Temple of Sacred Poems, sent to a Gentle-woman.
Now you faire on what you looke;
Expecting fier from your eyes,
To kindle this his sacrifice.
When your hands untie these strings,
To waite upon each morning sigh.
Of your well-perfumed praier;
These white plumes of his hee'l lend you,
And though Herbert's name doe owe
That while I lay them on the shrine
On a treatise of Charity.
Ise then, immortall maid! Religion rise!
Put on thy self in thine owne lookes; t' our eyes Be what thy beauties, not our blots have made thee, Such as (ere our darke sinnes to dust betrayed thee) Heav'n set thee down new drest; when thy bright birth Shot thee like lightning, to th' astonisht earth. RepFrom th' dawn of thy faire eye-lids wipe away, Dull mists, and melancholy clouds; take day And thine owne beames about thee, bring the best Of what so'ere perfum'd thy Eastern Nest. Girt all thy glories to thee: then sit down, Open thy booke, faire Queen, and take thy crowne. These learned leaves shall vindicate to thee, Thy holiest, humblest, hand-maid Charitie. She'l dresse thee like thy self, set thee on high, Where thou shall reach all hearts, command each eye, Lo where I see thy off'rings wake, and rise, From the pale dust of that strange sacrifice, Which they themselves were; each one putting on A majestie that may beseeme thy throne. The Holy youth of Heav'n whose golden rings Girt round thy awfull altars, with bright wings. Fanning thy faire locks (which the world beleeves, As much as sees) shall with these sacred leaves Trick their tall plumes, and in that garbe shall go, Hf not more glorious, more conspicuous tho. Be it enacted then By the faire lawes of thy firm pointed pen, God's services no longer shall put on
A sluttishnesse, for pure religion:
No longer shall our Churches frighted stones
Urns. Like God's Sanctuaries they look't of old:
Now seeme they Temples consecrate to none,
No more the Hypocrite shall th' upright bee
This shall from henceforth be the masculine theme
That keepes Religion warme; not swell a name
With those deare spoiles that wont to dresse the faire
Turning her out to tremble in the cold.
What can the poore hope from us, when we bee
Fides quæ sola justificat, non est sine
tam sola est.
O quis malè censor amarus
Tam socias negat in mutua sceptra manus?
Deme Fidem; nec aget, nec erit jam nomen Amoris :
Ergo Amor, I, morere; I magnas, Puer alme, per umbras :
O bene, quòd pharetra hoc saltem tua præstat & arcus,
O bene, quòd tuus has saltem tibi providet ignis,
Durus es, ah, quisquis tam dulcia vincula solvis;
Extráque & suprà, subter & intus eunt.
Non tam Nympha tenax, Baccho jam mista marito,
Palma, marem cui tristis hyems procul abstulit umbram,
Undique circumfert caput, omnibus annuit Euris;
At sine Amore Fides, nec tantum vivere perstat
Mortua jam nunc est: nisi demum mortua non est