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Ise heire of fresh eternity
From thy virgin Tombe,
Rise mighty man of wonders, and thy world with thee,
Thy Tombe the universall East
Natures new wombe,
Thy tombe faire immortalities perfumed Nest.
Life, by this light's Nativity
All creatures have,
Of all the glories make Noone gay,
This is the Morne,
This Rock bud's forth the fountaine of the streames of Day, In joyes white annalls lives this howre
When life was borne,
No cloud scoule on his radiant lids, no tempest lower.
Death onely by this Dayes just doome is forc't to Dye
Nor is Death forc't; for may he ly
Thron'd in thy Grave
Death will on this condition be content to dye.
Sospetto d' Herode.
Casting the times with their strong signes,
Death's Master his owne death divines.
Strugling for helpe, his best hope is
Herod's suspition may heale his.
Therefore he sends a fiend to wake,
The sleeping Tyrant's fond mistake;
Who feares (in vaine) that he whose Birth
Meanes Heav'n, should meddle with his Earth.
Use, now the servant of soft Loves no more,
Hate is thy Theame, and Herod, whose unblest
Hand (ô what dares not jealous Greatnesse?) tore
A thousand sweet Babes from their Mothers Brest:
The Bloomes of Martyrdome. O be a Dore
Of language to my infant Lips, yee best
Of Confessours: whose Throates answering his swords,
Gave forth your Blood for breath, spoke soules for words.
Great Anthony! Spains well-beseeming pride,
Thou mighty branch of Emperours and Kings;
The Beauties of whose dawne what eye may bide?
Which With the Sun himselfe weigh's equall wings;
Mappe of Heroick worth! whom farre and wide
To the beleeving world Fame boldly sings:
Deigne thou to weare this humble Wreath, that bowes
To be the sacred Honour of thy Browes.
Nor needs my Muse a blush, or these bright Flowers
Other than what their owne blest beauties bring.
They were the smiling sons of those sweet Bowers,
That drinke the deaw of Life, whose deathlesse spring,
Nor Sirian flame, nor Borean frost deflowers:
From whence Heav'n-labouring Bees with busie wing,
Suck hidden sweets, which well digested proves
Immortall Hony for the Hive of Loves.
Thou, whose strong hand with so transcendent worth,
Holds high the reine of faire Parthenope,
That neither Rome, nor Athens can bring forth
A Name in noble deeds Rivall to thee!
Thy Fames full noise, makes proud the patient Earth, Farre more than matter for my Muse and mee.
The Tyrrhene Seas, and shores sound all the same, And in their murmurs keepe thy mighty Name.
Below the Botome of the great Abysse,
There where one Center reconciles all things;
The worlds profound Heart pants; There placed is
Mischiefes old Master, close about him clings
A curl'd knot of embracing Snakes, that kisse
His correspondent cheekes: these loathsome strings
Hold the perverse Prince in eternall Ties
Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.
The judge of Torments, and the King of Teares,
He fills a burnisht Throne of quenchlesse fire:
And for his old faire Roabes of Light, he weares
A gloomy Mantle of darke flames, the Tire
That crownes his hated head on high appeares ;
Where seav'n tall Hornes (his Empires pride) aspire.
And to make up Hells Majesty, each Horne
Seav'n crested Hydra's horribly adorne.
His Eyes, the sullen dens of Death and Night,
Startle the dull Ayre with a dismall red :
Such his fell glances as the fatall Light
Of staring Comets, that looke Kingdomes dead.
From his black nostrills, and blew lips, in spight
Of Hells owne stinke, a worser stench is spread.
His breath Hells lightning is: and each deepe groane
Disdaines to thinke that Heav'n Thunders alone.
His flaming Eyes dire exhalation,
Unto a dreadfull pile gives fiery Breath;
Whose unconsum'd consumption preys upon
That never-dying Life of a long Death.
In this sad House of slow Destruction,
(His shop of flames) hee fryes himself, beneath
A masse of woes, his Teeth for Torment gnash,
While his steele sides sound with his Tayles strong lash.
Three Rigourous Virgins waiting still behind,
Assist the Throne of th' Iron-sceptred King.
With whips of Thornes and knotty vipers twin'd
They rouse him, when his ranke thoughts need a sting.
Their lockes are beds of uncomb'd snakes that wind
About their shady browes in wanton Rings.
Thus reignes the wrathfull King, and while he reignes
His Scepter and himselfe both he disdaines.
Disdainefull wretch! how hath one bold sinne cost
Thee all the Beauties of thy once bright Eyes?
How hath one black Eclipse cancell'd, and crost
The glories that did gild thee in thy Rise?
Proud Morning of a perverse Day! how lost
Art thou unto thy selfe, thou too selfe-wise
Narcissus foolish Phaeton? who for all
Thy high-aym'd hopes, gaind'st but a flaming fall.
From Death's sad shades, to the Life-breathing Ayre,
This mortall Enemy to mankinds good,
Lifts his Malignant Eyes, wasted with care,
To become beautifull in humane blood.
Where Jordan melts his Chrystall, to make faire
The fields of Palestine, with so pure a flood,
There does he fixe his Eyes: and there detect
New matter, to make good his great suspect.
He calls to mind th' old quarrell, and what sparke
Set the contending Sons of Heav'n on fire:
Oft in his deepe thought he revolves the darke
Sibills divining leaves: he does enquire
Into th' old Prophesies, trembling to marke
How many present prodigies conspire,
To crowne their past predictions, both he layes
Together, in his pondrous mind both weighs.
Heavens Golden-winged Herald, late he saw
To a poore Galilean virgin sent:
How low the Bright Youth bow'd, and with what awe
Immortall flowers to her faire hand present.
He saw th' old Hebrewes wombe, neglect the Law
Of Age and Barennesse, and her Babe prevent
His Birth, by his Devotion, who began
Betimes to be a Saint, before a Man.
He saw rich Nectar thawes release the rigour
Of th' Icy North, from frost-bount Atlas hands
His Adamantine fetters fall: green_vigour
Gladding the Scythian Rocks, and Libian sands.
He saw a vernall smile, sweetly disfigure
Winters sad face, and through the flowry lands
Of faire Engaddi hony-sweating Fountaines
With Manna, Milk, and Balm, new broach the Mountaines.