ΑΝ

APOLOGIE

FOR

THE FORE-GOING HY M [NE]

as having been writt when the au-
thor was yet among the
protestantes.

TH

Hus have I back again to thy bright name (Fair floud of holy fires!) transfus'd the flame I took from reading thee, tis to thy wrong I know, that in my weak & worthlesse song Thou here art sett to shine where thy full day Scarse dawnes. O pardon if I dare to say Thine own dear bookes are guilty. For from thence I learn't to know that love is eloquence. That hopefull maxime gave me hart to try If, what to other tongues is tun'd so high, Thy praise might not speak English too; forbid (By all thy mysteryes that here ly hidde) Forbid it, mighty Love! let no fond Hate Of names & wordes, so farr præjudicate. Souls are not SPANIARDS too, one freindly floud Of BAPTISM blends them all into a blood. CHRIST's faith makes but one body of all soules A[n]d love's that body's soul, no law controwlls Our free traffique for heav'n we may maintaine Peace, sure, with piety, though it come from SPAIN. What soul so e're, in any language, can Speak heav'n like her's is my souls country-man.

O'tis not spanish, but 'tis heav'n she speaks!
'Tis heav'n that lyes in ambush there, & breaks
From thence into the wondring reader's brest;
Who feels his warm HEART into a nest

Of little EAGLES & young loves, whose high
Flights scorn the lazy dust, & things that dy.

There are now, whose draughts (as deep as hell)
Drink up al SPAIN in sack. Let my soul swell
With thee, strong wine of love! let others swimme
In puddles; we will pledge this SERAPHIM
Bowles full of richer blood then blush of grape
Was ever guilty of, Change we too 'our shape
(My soul,) Some drink from men to beasts, o then
Drink we till we prove more, not lesse, then men,
And turn not beasts, but Angels. Let the king
Me ever into these his cellars bring

Where flowes such wine as we can have of none
But HIM who trod the wine-presse all alone.
Wine of youth, life, & the sweet Deaths of love;
Wine of immortall mixture; which can prove
It's Tincture from the rosy nectar; wine
That can exalt weak EARTH; & so refine
Our dust, that at one draught, mortality
May drink it self up, and forget to dy.

THE

FLAMING HEART

UPON THE BOOK AND
Picture of the seraphical saint

TERESA,

(AS SHE IS USUALLY EX-
pressed with a SERAPHIM
b[e]side her.)

Ell meaning readers! you that come as freinds

WE And catch the pretious name this peice pretends;

Make not too much hast to' admire

That fair-cheek't fallacy of fire.
That is a SERAPHIM, they say
And this the great TERESIA.
Readers, be rul'd by me; & make
Here a well-plac't & wise mistake
You must transpose the picture quite,
And spell it wrong to read it right;
Read HIM for her, & her for him;
And call the SAINT the SERAPHIM.
Painter, what didst thou understand
To put her dart into his hand!
See, even the yeares & size of him
Showes this the mother SERAPHIM.

This is the mistresse flame; & duteous he

Her happy fire-works, here, comes down to see.

O most poor-spirited of men!

Had thy cold Pencil kist her PEN

Thou couldst not so unkindly err

To show us This faint shade for HER.
Why man, this speakes pure mortall frame;
And mockes with female FROST love's manly flame.
One would suspect thou meant'st to print
Some weak, inferiour, woman saint.
But had thy pale-fac't purple took

Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright Booke
Thou wouldst on her have heap't up all

That could be found SERAPHICALL;
What e're this youth of fire weares fair,
Rosy fingers, radiant hair,

Glowing cheek, & glistering wings,
All those fair & flagrant things,
But before all, that fiery DART

Had fill'd the Hand of this great HEART.
Doe then as equall right requires,
Since His the blushes be, & her's the fires,
Resume & rectify thy rude design;
Undresse thy Seraphim into MINE.
Redeem this injury of thy art;
Give HIM the vail, give her the dart.

Give Him the vail; that he may cover

The Red cheeks of a rivall'd lover.
Asham'd that our world, now, can show
Nests of new Seraphims here below.
Give her the DART for it is she
(Fair youth) shootes both thy shaft & THEE
Say, all ye wise & well-peirc't hearts
That live & dy amidst her darts,
What is't your tastfull spirits doe prove
In that rare life of Her, and love?
Say & bear wittnes. Sends she not
A SERAPHIM at every shott?

What magazins of immortall ARMES there shine!
Heavn's great artillery in each love-spun line.

Give then the dart to her who gives the flame;
Give him the veil, who gives the shame.

But if it be the frequent fate

Of worst faults to be fortunate;

If all's præscription; & proud wrong
Hearkens not to an humble song;
For all the gallantry of him,

Give me the suff[r]ing SERAPHIM.

His be the bravery of all those Bright things.
The glowing cheekes, the glistering wings;
The Rosy hand, the radiant Dart;

Leave HER alone THE FLAMING HEART.

Leave her that; and thou shalt leave her
Not one loose shaft but love's whole quiver.
For in love's feild was never found

A nobler weapon then a WOUND.
Love's passives are his activ'st part,
The wounded is the wounding heart.

O HEART! the æquall poise of love's both parts
Bigge alike with wound & darts.

Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same;
And walk through all tongues one triumphant FLAME.
Live here, great HEART; & love and dy & kill;
And bleed & wound; and yeild & conquer still.
Let this immortall life wherere it comes
Walk in a crowd of loves & MARTYRDOMES.
Let mystick DEATHS wait on't; & wise soules be
The love-slain wittnesses of this life of thee.
O sweet incendiary! shew here thy art,
Upon this carcasse of a hard, cold, hart,
Let all thy scatter'd shafts of light, that play
Among the leaves of thy larg Books of day,
Combin'd against this BREST at once break in
And take away from me my self & sin,
This gratious Robbery shall thy bounty be;
And my best fortunes such fair spoiles of me.
O thou undanted daughter of desires!
By all thy dowr of LIGHTS & FIRES;
By all the eagle in thee, all the dove;
By all thy lives & deaths of love;

By thy larg draughts of intellectuall day,

And by thy th[ir]sts of love more large then they;
By all thy brim-fill'd Bowles of feirce desire
By thy last Morning's draught of liquid fire;