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In cicatrices Domini Jesu.
Mighty love's Artillery.
This was the conquering dart; & loe
There shines his quiver, there his bow.
These the passive weapons are,
That made great Love, a man of warre.
The quiver, that he bore, did bide
Soe neare, it prov'd his very side.
In it there sate but one sole dart;
A peircing one. his peirced heart.
His weapons were nor steele, nor brasse:
The weapon, that he wore, he was.
For bow his unbent hand did serve,
Well strung with many a broken nerve.
Strange the quiver, bow, & dart !
A bloody side, & hand, & heart!
But now the feild is wonne : & they
(The dust of Warre cleane wip'd away)
The weapons now of triumph be,
That were before of Victorie.
In amorem divinum (Hermannus Hugo).
Eternall love! what 'tis to love thee well,
None, but himselfe, who feeles it, none can tell.
But oh, what to be lov'd of thee as well,
None, not himselfe, who feeles it, none can tell.
Upon a Gnatt burnt in a candle.
Perish there, & thanke thy selfe.
Thou deserv'st thy life to loose,
For distracting such a Muse.
Was it thy ambitious aime
By thy death to purchase fame?
Didst thou hope he would in pitty
Have bestow'd a funerall ditty
On thy ghoast? & thou in that
To have outlived Virgills gnatt?
No. the treason, thou hast wrought,
Might forbid the[e] such a thought.
If that night's worke doe miscarry,
Or a syllable but vary,
A greater foe thou shalt me find,
The destruction of thy kind.
Phoebus, to revenge thy fault,
In a fiery trapp thee caught;
That thy winged mates might know it,
And not dare disturbe a Poet.
Deare, & wretched was thy sport,
Since thyselfe was crushed for't.
Scarcely had that life a breath,
Yet it found a double death;
Playing in the golden flames,
Thou fell'st into an inky Thames;
Scorch'd, & drown'd. That petty sunne
A pretty Icarus hath undone.
Ales Phasiacis petita Colchis &c.
'He bird, that's fetch't from Phasis floud, Or choicest hennes of Africk-brood; These please our palates. & why these? 'Cause they can but seldome please. Whil'st the goose soe goodly white, And the drake yeeld noe delight, Though his wings conceited hewe Paint each feather, as if new. These for vulgar stomacks be, And rellish not of rarity. But the dainty Scarus, sought In farthest clime; what e're is bought With shipwracks toile, oh, that is sweet, 'Cause the quicksands hanselld it. The pretious Barbill, now groune rife, Is cloying meat. How stale is Wife? Deare wife hath ne're a handsome letter, Sweet mistris sounds a great deale better. Rose quakes at name of Cinnamon. Unlesse't be rare, what's thought upon?
Jancon ales to
Ille & ne fasto te posuit die &c.
Hame of thy mother soyle! ill-nurtur'd tree!
Sett to the mischeife, of posteritie !
That hand, (what e're it wer) that was thy nurse,
Was sacrilegious, (sure) or somewhat worse.
Black, as the day was dismall, in whose sight
Thy rising topp first staind the bashfull light.
That man (I thinke) wrested the feeble life
From his old father. that mans barbarous knife
Conspird with darknes 'gainst the strangers throate;
(Whereof the blushing walles tooke bloody note)
Huge high-floune poysons, ev'n of Colchos breed,
And whatsoe're wild sinnes black thoughts doe feed,
His hands have padled in; his hands, that found
Thy traiterous root a dwelling in my ground.
Perfidious totterer! longing for the staines
Of thy kind Master's well-deserving braines.
Mans daintiest care, & caution cannot spy
The subtile point of his coy destiny,
Wch way it threats. with feare the merchant's mind
Is plough'd as deepe, as is the sea with wind,
(Rowz'd in an angry tempest), Oh the sea!
Oh! that's his feare; there flotes his destiny:
While from another (unseene) corner blowes
The storme of fate, to wch his life he owes.
By Parthians bow the soldier lookes to die,
(Whose hands are fighting, while their feet doe flie.)
The Parthian starts at Rome's imperiall name,
Fledg'd with her eagles wing; the very chaine
Of his captivity rings in his eares.
Thus, ô thus fondly doe wee pitch our feares
Farre distant from our fates. our fates, that mocke
Our giddy feares with an unlook't for shocke.
A little more, & I had surely seene
Thy greisly Majesty, Hell's blackest Queene;
And Eacus on his Tribunall too,
Sifting the soules of guilt; & you, (oh you!)
You ever-blushing meads, where doe the Blest
Farre from darke horrors home appeale to rest.
There amorous Sappho plaines upon her Lute
Her loves crosse fortune, that the sad dispute
Runnes murmuring on the strings. Alcæus there
In high-built numbers wakes his golden lyre,
To tell the world, how hard the matter went,
How hard by sea, by warre, by banishment.
There these brave soules deale to each wondring eare,
Such words, soe precious, as they may not weare
Without religious silence; above all
Warres ratling tumults, or some tyrants fall.
The thronging clotted multitude doth feast.
What wonder? when the hundred-headed beast
Hangs his black lugges, stroakt with those heavenly
The Furies curl'd snakes meet in gentle twines,
And stretch their cold limbes in a pleasing fire.
Prometheus selfe, & Pelops sterved sire
Are cheated of their paines; Orion thinkes
Of Lions now noe more, or spotted Linx.