LUKE 2. Quærit Jesum suum Maria, &c.

AND

Nd is he gone, whom these armes held but now
Their hope, their vow?

Did ever greife, & joy in one poore heart

Soe soone change part?

?

Hee's gone. the fair'st flower, that e're bosome drest, My soules sweet rest.

My wombes chast pride is gone, my heaven-borne boy; And where is joy?

Hee's gone.

My joyes, &

Hee's gone.

& his lov'd steppes to wait upon,
My joy is gone.

hee are gone; my greife, & I
Alone must ly.

not leaving with me, till he come,
One smile at home.

Oh come then.

Make hast, &

bring Thy mother her lost joy:
Oh come, sweet boy.

come, or e're my greife, & I
Make hast, & dy.

Peace, heart! the heavens are angry.

Rival thy teares.

I was mistaken.

all their spheres

some faire sphære, or other Was thy blest mother.

What, but the fairest heaven, could owne the birth

Of soe faire earth?

Yet sure thou did'st lodge heere. this wombe of mine Was once call'd thine.

Oft have these armes thy cradle envied,

Beguil'd thy bed.

Oft to thy easy eares hath this shrill tongue

Trembled, & sung.

Oft have I wrapt thy slumbers in soft aires,
And stroak't thy cares.

Oft hath this hand those silken casements kept,
While their sunnes slept.

Oft have my hungry kisses made thine eyes

Too early rise.

Oft have I spoild my kisses daintiest diet,
To spare thy quiet.

Oft from this breast to thine my love-tost heart
Hath leapt, to part.

Oft my lost soule have I bin glad to seeke
On thy soft cheeke.

Oft have these armes alas! show'd to these eyes
Their now lost joyes.

Dawne then to me, thou morne of mine owne day,
And lett heaven stay.

Oh, would'st thou heere still fixe thy faire abode,
My bosome God:

What hinders, but my bosome still might be
Thy heaven to Thee?

Whosoever shall loose his life &c. MATH. 16. 25.

Oe I may gaine thy death, my life I'le give. (My life's thy death, & in thy death I live.) Or else, my life, I'le hide thee in his grave, By three daies losse æternally to save.

In cicatrices Domini Jesu.

Ome, brave soldjers, come, & see

Co Mighty love's Artillery.

This was the conquering dart; & loe
There shines his quiver, there his bow.
These the passive weapons are,

That made great Love, a man of warre.
The quiver, that he bore, did bide
Soe neare, it prov'd his very side.
In it there sate but one sole dart;
A peircing one. his peirced heart.
His

weapons were nor steele, nor brasse :
The weapon, that he wore, he was.
For bow his unbent hand did serve,
Well strung with many a broken nerve.
Strange the quiver, bow, & dart!
A bloody side, & hand, & heart!
But now the feild is wonne : & they
(The dust of Warre cleane wip'd away)
The weapons now of triumph be,
That were before of Victorie.

In amorem divinum (Hermannus Hugo).

Eternall love! what 'tis to love thee well,

AB

None, but himselfe, who feeles it, none can tell.

But oh, what to be lov'd of thee as well,

None, not himselfe, who feeles it, none can tell.

Upon a Gnatt burnt in a candle.

Ittle-buzzing-wanton elfe,

Perish there, & thanke thy selfe.
Thou deserv'st thy life to loose,
For distracting such a Muse.
Was it thy ambitious aime
By thy death to purchase fame ?
Didst thou hope he would in pitty
Have bestow'd a funerall ditty
On thy ghoast? & thou in that
To have outlived Virgills gnatt?
No. the treason, thou hast wrought,
Might forbid the[e] such a thought.
If that night's worke doe miscarry,
Or a syllable but vary,

A greater foe thou shalt me find,
The destruction of thy kind.
Phoebus, to revenge thy fault,
In a fiery trapp thee caught;

That thy winged mates might know it,
And not dare disturbe a Poet.
Deare, & wretched was thy sport,
Since thyselfe was crushed for't.
Scarcely had that life a breath,
Yet it found a double death;
Playing in the golden flames,
Thou fell'st into an inky Thames;
Scorch'd, & drown'd. That petty sunne
A pretty Icarus hath undone.

TH

Petronius.

Ales Phasiacis petita Colchis &c.

He bird, that's fetch't from Phasis floud, Or choicest hennes of Africk-brood; These please our palates. & why these? 'Cause they can but seldome please. Whil'st the goose soe goodly white, And the drake yeeld noe delight, Though his wings conceited hewe Paint each feather, as if new. These for vulgar stomacks be, And rellish not of rarity.

But the dainty Scarus, sought

In farthest clime; what e're is bought
With shipwracks toile, oh, that is sweet,
'Cause the quicksands hanselld it.
The pretious Barbill, now groune rife,
Is cloying meat. How stale is Wife?
Deare wife hath ne're a handsome letter,
Sweet mistris sounds a great deale better.
Rose quakes at name of Cinnamon.
Unlesse't be rare, what's thought upon?