in 48 CHARITAS NIMIA. OR THE DEAR BARGAIN. should he coste thee So dear? what had his ruin lost thee? Lord what is man? that thou hast overbought Love is too kind, I see; & can Alas, sweet lord, what wer't to thee In the deep hell. What have his woes to doe with thee? Let him goe weep O're his own wounds; SERAPHIMS will not sleep Nor spheares let fall their faithfull rounds. Still would The youthfull SPIRITS sing; Still would those beauteous ministers of light And bow their flaming heads before thee Both nights & dayes, And teach thy lov'd name to their noble lyre. Le[t] froward Dust then doe it's kind; Why shouldst you bow thy awful Brest to see E're the lesse glorious run? Will he hang down his golden head Growes wanton, & will dy? If I were lost in misery, What was it to thy heavn & thee? With guilt & sin, What did the Lamb, that he should dy? Bargain'd with Death & well-beseeming dust Lamb's bosom write Of my sin's shame ? Why should his unstaind brest make good My blushes with his own heart-blood? O my SAVIOUR, make me see How dearly thou hast payd for me That lost again my LIFE may prove As then in DEATH, So now in love. 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. 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 Who can look on & see, Nor keep such noble sorrowes company? (My Flints) some drops are due To see so many unkind swords contest 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: in 48 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, Of borrowd sins; And swimme In woes that were not made for Him. Of love! Here must she stand Charg'd to look on, & with à stedfast ey Leaving her only so much Breath V. O Mother turtle-dove! That these dry lidds might borrow Of thine (the nob[1]est nest Both of love's fires & flouds) might I recline VI. O teach those wounds to bleed This book of loves, thus writ In lines of death, my life may coppy it 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. |