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FROM BRITISH MUSEUM
ADDITIONAL MS. 33,219.

Ivory Tribunall of your hand

AT (thaire ore) These tender leaves de trembling stand.

Knowing 'tis in the doome of your sweet Eye
Whether the Muse they cloth shall live or die.
Live shee, or dye to Fame; each Leafe you meet
Is her Lifes wing, or her death's winding-sheet.

T

Hough now 'tis neither May nor June
And Nightingales are out of tune,
Yet in these leaves (Faire one) there lyes
(Sworne servant to your sweetest Eyes)
A Nightingale, who may shee spread
In your white bosome her chast bed,
Spite of all the Maiden snow
Those pure untroden pathes can show,
You streight shall see her wake and rise
Taking fresh Life from your fayre Eyes.
And with clasp't winges proclayme a Spring
Where Love and shee shall sit and sing:
For lodg'd so ne're your sweetest throte
What Nightingale can loose her noate?
Nor lett her kinred birds complayne
Because shee breakes the yeares old raigne :
For lett them know shee's none of those
Hedge-Quiristers whose Musicke owes
Onely such straynes as serve to keepe
Sad shades and sing dull Night asleepe.
No shee's a Priestesse of that Grove
The holy chappell of chast Love
Your Virgin bosome. Then what e're
Poore Lawes divide the publicke yeare,
Whose revolutions wait upon
The wild turnes of the wanton Sun;
Bee you the Lady of Loves Yeere:
Where your Eyes shine his Suns appeare:
There all the yeare is Loves long Spring.
There all the year Loves Nightingales
shall sitt and sing.

Out of Grotius his Tragedy of Christes sufferinges.
Thou the Span of whose Omnipotence

O

Doth graspe the fate of thinges, and share th' events Of future chance! the world's grand Sire; and mine Before the world. Obedient lo! I joyne

An æquall pace thus farre; thy word my deedes
Have flow'd together. if ought further needes
I shrinke not but thus ready stand to beare
(ffor else why came I?) ev'n what e're I feare.
Yett o what end? where does the period dwell
Of my sad labours? no day yett could tell
My soule shee was secure. Still have I borne
A still increasing burden; worse hath torne
His way through bad, to my successive hurt.
I left my glorious Fathers star-pav'd Court
E're borne was banish't; borne was glad t' embrace
A poore (yea scarce a) roofe. whose narrow place
Was not so much as cleane; a stable kind;
The best my cradle and my birth could find.
Then was I knowne; and knowne unluckily
A weake a wretched child; ev'n then was
For Juryes king an enemy, even worth
His feare; the circle of a yeares round growth
Was not yett full, (a time that to my age
Made litle, not a litle to his rage)

When a wild sword ev'n from their brests, did lop
The Mothers Joyes in an untimely crop.
The search of one child (cruell industry!)
Was losse of multitudes; and missing mee
A bloud drunke errour spilt the costly ayme

Of their mad sin; (how great! and yett how vayne!)
I cal'd a hundred miracles to tell

The world my father, then does envy swell

And breake upon mee: my owne virtues height
Hurtes mee far worse then Herods highest spite;
A riddle! (father) still acknowledg'd thine
Am still refus'd; before the Infant Shrine.
Of my weake feet the Persian Magi lay
And left their Mithra for my star: this they.

But Isaacks issue the peculiar heyres,

Of thy old goodnesse, know thee not for theires,
Basely degenerous. Against mee flocke

The stiffe neck'd Pharisees that use to mocke
Sound goodnesse with her shadow which they weare,
And 'gainst religion her owne colours beare.
The bloud hound brood of Priests against mee draw
Those Lawlesse tyrant masters of the Law.
Profane Sadocus too does fiercely lead

His court-fed impes against this hated head.
What would they more? th' ave seene when at my nod
Great Natures selfe hath shrunke and spoke mee god.
Drinke fayling there where I a guest did shine
The water blush'd, and started into wine.
Full of high sparkeling vigour : taught by mee
A sweet inebriated extasy.

And streight of all this approbation gate
Good wine in all poynts. but the easy rate;
Other mens hunger with strange feasts I quell'd:
Mine owne with stranger fastings, when I held
Twice twenty dayes pure abstinence, To feed
My minds devotion in my bodyes need.
A subtle inundation of quicke food
Sprang in the spending fingers, and o'reflow'd
The peoples hunger, and when all were full
The broken meate was much more then the whole.
The Wind in all his roaring brags stood still
And listned to the whisper of my will;

The wild waves couch'd; the sea forgott to sweat
Under my feet, the waters to bee wett.
In death-full desperate ills where art and all
Was nothing, there my voyce was med'cinall.
Old clouds of thickest blindnesse fled my sight
And to my touch darke Eyes did owe the light.
Hee that ne're heard now speakes, and finds a tongue
To chaunt my prayses in a new-strung song.
Even hee that belches out a foaming flood
Of hot defiance 'gainst what e're is good
Father and Heyre of darkenesse, when I chide
Sinkes into Horrours bosome, glad to hide

Himselfe in his owne hell; and now lets loose
Mans brest (his tenement) and breakes up house.
Yett here's not all nor was't enough for mee
To freind the living world even death did see
Mee ranging in his quarters; and the land
Of deepest silence answered my command.
Heav'n, Earth, and Sea, my triumphs. what remain'd
Now but the Grave? the Grave it selfe I tam'd.

&c:

THE END.

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