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Acts. 21.

I am readie not onely to be bound, but to die.

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Ome death, come bands, nor do you shrink, my ears,
At those hard words man's cowardise calls feares :
Save those of feare no other bands feare I;
No other feare than this, the feare to dye.

On St. Peter casting away his Nets at our Saviours call.

TH

Hou hast the art on't Peter, and canst tell
To cast thy Nets on all occasions well:
When Christ calls, and thy Nets would have thee stay,
To cast them well's to cast them quite away.

Our B. Lord in his Circumcision to his Father.

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thee these first fruits of my growing death
(For what else is my life?) lo I bequeath:
Tast this, and as thou lik'st this lesser flood
Expect a Sea, my heart shall make it good.
Thy wrath that wades here now, e're long shall swim,
The floodgate shall be set wide ope for him.
Then let him drinke, and drinke, and doe his worst
To drowne the wantonnesse of his wild thirst.
Now's but the Nonage of my paines, my feares
Are yet both in their hopes, not come to yeares.
The day of my darke woe is yet but morne,
My teares but tender, and my death new borne.
Yet may these unfle[d]g'd griefes give fate some guesse,
These Cradle-torments have their towardnesse.

These purple buds of blooming death may bee,
Erst the full stature of a fatall tree.

in 46

And till my riper woes to age are come,
This Knife may be the speares Præludium.

On the wounds of our crucified Lord.
These wakefull wounds of thine!
Are they Mouthes? or are they eyes?
Be they mouthes, or be they eyne,
Each bleeding part some one supplies.

Lo, a mouth! whose full bloom'd lips
At too deare a rate are roses :
Lo, a blood-shot eye! that weeps,
And many a cruell teare discloses.

O thou that on this foot hast laid

Many a kisse, and many a teare,
Now thou shalt have all repaid,

What soe're thy charges were.

This foot hath got a mouth and lips

To pay the sweet summe of thy kisses,
To pay thy teares, an eye that weeps,

Instead of teares, such gems as this is.

The difference onely this appeares,

(Nor can the change offend)
The debt is paid in Ruby-teares
Which thou in Pearles did'st lend.

in 46

On our crucified Lord, naked and bloody.

T

Hey have left thee naked Lord. O that they had;
This Garment too, I would they had deny'd.
Thee with thy selfe they have too richly clad,
Opening the purple wardrobe of thy side:

O never could there be garment [too] good
For thee to weare, but this of thine owne blood.

Sampson to his Dalilah.

C

Ould not once blinding mee, cruell suffice?
When first I look't on thee I lost mine eyes.

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in '46

Psalme 23.

Appy me! O happy sheepe!
Whom my God vouchsafes to keepe;
Even my God, even he it is

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That points me to these wayes of blisse;
On whose pastures cheerefull spring,
All the yeare doth sit and sing,
And rejoycing smiles to see
Their green backs weare his liverie:
Pleasure sings my soule to rest,
Plentie weares me at her brest,
Whose sweet temper teaches me
Nor wanton, nor in want to be.
At my feet the blubb'ring Mountaine
Weeping melts into a Fountaine,
Whose soft silver-sweating streames
Make high noone forget his beames:
When my way-ward breath is flying,
He calls home my soule from dying,
Strokes, and tames my rabid griefe,
And does wooe me into life:
When my simple weakenes strayes,
(Tangled in forbidden wayes)
He (my shepheard) is my guide,
Hee's before me, on my side,
And behind me, he beguiles
Craft in all her knottie wiles :
He expounds the giddy wonder
Of my weary steps, and under
Spreads a Path as cleare as Day,
Where no churlish rub says nay
To my joy conducted feet,
Whil'st they gladly goe to meet
Grace and Peace, to meet new laies
Tun'd to my great S[h]epheards praise.
Come now all ye terrors, sally,
Muster forth into the valley,
Where triumphant darknesse hovers

With a sable wing that covers
Brooding horror. Come thou Death
Let the damps of thy dull Breath
Over shadow even the shade,
And make darkenes selfe afraid;
There my feet, even there, shall find
Way for a resolved mind.
Still my Shepheard, still my God
Thou art with me, still thy Rod,
And thy staffe, whose influence
Gives direction, gives defence.
At the whisper of thy word
Crown'd abundance spreads my boord:
While I feast, my foes doe feed
Their ranck malice not their need,
So that with the self same bread
They are starv'd and I am fed.
How my head in ointment swims!
How my cup orelook's her brims!
So, even so still may I move
By the Line of thy deare love;
Still may thy sweet mercy spread
A shady arme above my head,
About my Paths, so shall I find
The faire center of my mind

Thy Temple, and those lovely walls
Bright ever with a beame that falls

Fresh from the pure glance of thine eye,
Lighting to eternity.

There I'le dwell, for ever there

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Will I find a purer aire

To feed my life with, there I'le sup
Balme, and Nectar in my cup,
And thence my ripe soule will I breath
Warme into the Armes of Death.

in 246

Psalme. 137.

N the proud bankes of great Euphrates flood,
There we sate, and there we wept:
Our Harpes that now no musick understood,
Nodding on the willowes slept,

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While unhappy captiv'd wee
Lovely Sion thought on thee.

They, they that snatcht us from our countries breast
Would have a song carv'd to their eares

In Hebrew numbers, then (ô cruell jest!)

When Harpes and Hearts were drown'd in teares:
Come, they cry'd, come sing and play
One of Sions Songs to day.

Sing? play? to whom (ah) shall we sing or play
If not Jerusalem to thee?

Ah thee Jerusalem! ah sooner may
This hand forget the masterie

Of Musicks dainty touch, then I
The Musick of thy memory,
Which when I lose, ô may at once my tongue
Lose this same busie speaking art,
Unpearch't, her vocall Arteries unstrung,
No more acquainted with my heart,
On my dry pallats roof to rest
A wither'd leaf, an idle guest.

No, no, thy good Sion alone must crowne
The head of all my hope-nurst joyes.

But Edom cruell thou! thou cryd'st downe, downe
Sinke Sion, downe and never rise,

Her falling thou did'st urge, and thrust,
And haste to dash her into dust,

Dost laugh? proud Babels daughter! do, laugh on,
Till thy ruine teach thee teares,
Even such as these; laugh, till a venging throng
Of woes, too late doe rouze thy feares.

Laugh till thy childrens bleeding bones
Weepe pretious teares upon the stones.

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