ΑΝ

EPIGRAMME

Upon the pictures in the following Poemes which the Authour first made with his owne hand, admirably well, as may be seene in his Manuscript dedicated to the right Honorable Lady the L. Denbigh.

wixt pen and pensill rose a holy strife

Tw

Which might draw vertue better to the life.
Best witts gave votes to that: but painters swore
They never saw peeces so sweete before

As thes: fruites of pure nature; where no art
Did lead the untaught pensill, nor had part

In th'-worke.

The hand growne bold, with witt will needes contest.
Doth it prevayle? ah wo: say each is best.
This to the eare speakes wonders; that will trye
To speake the same, yet lowder, to the eye.
Both their aymes are holy, both conspire
To wound, to burne the hart with heavenly fire.
This then's the Doome, to doe both parties right:
This, to the eare speakes best; that, to the sight.

THOMAS CAR.

NON VI.

'Tis not the work of force but skill
To find the way into man's will.
'Tis love alone can hearts unlock.

Who knowes the WORD, he needs not knock.

TO THE

Noblest & best of Ladyes,

Countesse of Denbigh.

the

Perswading her to Resolution in Religion,

& to render her selfe without further delay into the Communion of

W

the Catholick Church.

Hat heav'n-intreated HEART is This? Stands trembling at the gate of blisse; Holds fast the door, yet dares not venture Fairly to open it, and enter.

Whose DEFINITION is à doubt

Twixt life & death, twixt in & out.
Say, lingring fair! why comes the birth
Of your brave soul so slowly forth?
Plead your pretences (o you strong
In weaknes!) why you choose so long
In labor of your selfe to ly,
Nor daring quite to live nor dy?
Ah linger not, lov'd soul! à slow
And late consent was a long_no,
Who grants at last, long time tryd
And did his best to have deny'd,
What magick bolts, what mystick Barres
Maintain the will in these strange warres!

What fatall, yet fantastick, bands

Keep The free Heart from it's own hands!
mic So when the year takes cold, we see
Poor waters their owne prisoners be.
Fetter'd, & lockt up fast they ly

In a sad selfe-captivity.

The' astonisht nymphs their flood's strange fate deplore,
To see themselves their own severer shore.

Thou that alone canst thaw this cold,
And fetch the heart from it's strong Hold;
Allmighty LOVE! end this long warr,
And of a meteor make a starr.

O fix this fair INDEFINITE.

And 'mongst thy shafts of soveraign light
Choose out that sure decisive dart.
Which has the Key of this close heart,
Knowes all the corners oft, & can controul
The self-shutt cabinet of an unsearcht soul.
O let it be at last, love's houre.

Raise this tall Trophee of thy Powre;

Come once the conquering way; not to confute
But kill this rebell-wo[r]d, IRRESOLUTE

That so, in spite of all this peevish strength

Of weaknes, she may write RESOLV'D AT LENGTH,
Unfold at length, unfold fair flowre

And use the season of love's showre,

Meet his well-meaning Wounds, wise heart!

And hast to drink the wholsome dart.

That healing shaft, which heavn till now
Hath in love's quiver hid for you.
O Dart of love! arrow of light!
O happy you, if it hitt right,
It must not fall in vain, it must
Not mark the dry regardles dust.
Fair one, it is your fate; and brings
Æternall worlds upon it's wings.
Meet it with wide-spread armes; & see
It's seat your soul's just center be.
Disband dull feares; give faith the day.
To save your life, kill your delay

а

Wilf

It is love's seege; and sure to be
Your triumph, though his victory.
'Tis cowardise that keeps this feild
And want of courage not to yeild.
Yeild then, ô yeild. that love may win
The Fort at last, and let life in.

Yeild quickly. Lest perhaps you prove
Death's prey, before the prize of love.
This Fort of your fair selfe, if't be not won,
He is repulst indeed; But you'are vndone.

ΤΟ

THE NAME

in 48

ABOVE EVERY NAME,

I

THE

NAME OF

JESUS

A HYMN.

Sing the NAME which None can say
But touch't with An interiour RAY:

The Name of our New PEACE; our Good:
Our Blisse: & Supernaturall Blood:
The Name of All our Lives & Loves.
Hearken, And Help, ye holy Doves!
The high-born Brood of Day; you bright
Candidates of blissefull Light,

The HEIRS Elect of Love; whose Names belong
Unto The everlasting life of Song;

All ye wise SOULES, who in the wealthy Brest
Of This unbounded NAME build your warm Nest.
Awake, My glory. SOUL, (if such thou be,
And That fair WORD at all referr to Thee)
Awake & sing

And be All Wing;

Bring hither thy whole SELF; & let me see
What of thy Parent HEAVN yet speakes in thee.
O thou art Poore

Of noble PowRES, I see,

And full of nothing else but empty ME,
Narrow, & low, & infinitely lesse

Then this GREAT mornings mighty Busynes.
One little WORLD or two

(Alas) will never doe.