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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.
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.

II.

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.

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,
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.

v.

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[l]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.

VI.

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.

VII.

Yea let my life & me
Fix here with thee,

And at the Humble foot

Of this fair TREE take our eter[n]all root.

That so we may

At least be in loves way;

And in these chast warres while the wing'd wounds flee
So fast'twixt him & thee,

My brest may catch the kisse of some kind dart,
Though as at second hand, from either heart.

VIII.

O you, your own best Darts
Dear, dolefull hearts!

Hail; & strike home & make me see
That wounded bosomes their own weapons be.
Come wounds! come darts!

Nail'd hands! & peirced hearts!

Come your whole selves, sorrow's great son & mother!
Nor grudge à yonger-Brother

Of greifes his portion, who (had all their due)
One single wound should not have left for you.

IX.

Shall I, sett there

So deep a share

(Dear wounds) & onely now

In sorrows draw no Dividend with you?
O be more wise

I[f] not more soft, mine eyes!

Flow, tardy founts! & into decent showres
Dissolve my Dayes & Howres.

And if thou yet (faint soul!) deferr

To bleed with him, fail not to weep with her.

X.

Rich Queen, lend some releife;
At least an almes of greif

To'a heart who by sad right of sin

Could prove the whole summe (too sure) due to him. By all those stings

Of love, sweet bitter things,

Which these torn hands transcrib'd on thy true heart
O teach mine too the art

To study him so, till we mix
Wounds; and become one crucifix.

XI.

O let me suck the wine

So long of this chast vine

Till drunk of the dear wounds, I be

A lost Thing to the world, as it to me.
O faithfull freind

Of me & of my end!

Fold up my life in love; and lay't beneath
My dear lord's vitall death.

Lo, heart, thy hope's whole Plea! Her pretious Breath
Powr'd out in prayrs for thee; thy lord's in death.

J

UPON

THE

BLEEDING

CRUCIFIX

A

SONG.

I.

Esu, no more! It is full tide.
From thy head & from thy feet,

From thy hands & from thy side
All the purple Rivers meet.

II.

What need thy fair head bear a part
In showres, as if thine eyes had none?
What need They help to drown thy heart,
That strives in torrents of it's own?

III.

Thy restlesse feet now cannot goe

For us & our eternall good.

As they were ever wont.

What though?

They swimme. Alas, in their own floud.

IV.

Thy hands to give, thou canst not lift; Yet will thy hand still giving be.

It gives but ô, it self's the gift.

It gives though bound; though bound 'tis free.

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