For the Magdalene

THESE eyes, dear Lord, once brandons of desire,
Frail scouts betraying what they had to keep,
Which their own heart, then others set on fire,
Their trait'rous black before thee here out-weep :
These locks, of blushing deeds the fair attire,
Smooth-frizzled waves, sad shelves which shadow

deep,
Soul-stinging serpents in gilt curls which creep,
To touch thy sacred feet do now aspire.
In seas of care behold a sinking bark,
By winds of sharp remorse unto thee driven,
0! let me not expos'd be ruin's mark ;
My faults confest, Lord, say they are forgiven.

Thus sigh'd to Jesus the Bethanian fair,
His tear-wet feet still drying with her hair.

Faith above Reason

SOUL, which to hell wast thrall,
He, he for thine offence
Did suffer death, who could not die at all.
O sovereign excellence,
O life of all that lives,
Eternal bounty which each good thing gives,
How could death mount so high?
No wit this height can reach ;
Faith only doth us teach,
For us he died, at all who could not die.

Man's Knowledge, Ignorance

in the Mysteries of God

BENEATH a sable veil and shadows deep
Of unaccessible and dimming light,
In silence' ebon clouds more black than night,
The world's great King his secrets hid doth keep:
Through those thick mists, when any mortal wight
Aspires, with halting pace and eyes that weep,
To pore, and in his mysteries to creep,
With thunders he and lightnings blasts their sight.
O Sun invisible, that dost abide
Within thy bright abysms, most fair, most dark,
Where with thy proper rays thou dost thee hide!
O ever-shining, never full-seen mark !

To guide me in life's night thy light me show,
The more I search of thee, the less I know.

Contemplation of Invisible

Excellencies Above, by the Visible Below

IF with such passing beauty, choice delights,
The architect of this great round did frame
This palace visible (short lists of fame,
And silly mansion but of dying wights),
How many wonders, what amazing lights
Must that triumphing seat of glory claim,
That doth transcend all this great All's vast heights,
Of whose bright sun ours here is but a beam !
O blest abode ! O happy dwelling-place,
Where visibly th' Invisible doth reign !

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Blest people which do see true beauty's face,
With whose far dawnings scarce he earth doth deign !

All joy is but annoy, all concord strife,
Match'd with your endless bliss and happy life.

The World a Game

THIS world a hunting is,
The prey poor man, the Nimrod fierce is Death ;
His speedy greyhounds are
Lust, sickness, envy, care,
Strife that ne'er falls amiss,
With all those ills which haunt us while we breathe.
Now, if by chance we fly
Of these the eager chase,
Old age with stealing pace
Casts up his nets, and there we panting die.

Against Hypocrisy

As are those apples, pleasant to the eye,
But full of smoke within, which use to grow
Near that strange lake, where God pour'd from the

sky
Huge showers of flames, worse es to overthrow;
Such are their works that with a glaring show
Of humble holiness, in virtue's dye
Would colour mischief, while within they glow
With coals of sin, though none the smoke descry.
Ill is that angel which erst fell from heaven,
But not more ill than he, nor in worse case,
Who hides a traitrous mind with smiling face,
And with a dove's white feathers masks a raven.

Each sin some colour hath it to adorn,
Hypocrisy almighty God doth scorn.

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Change should Breed

Change

NEw doth the sun appear,
The mountains' snows decay,
Crown'd with frail flowers forth comes the baby year.
My soul, time posts away,
And thou yet in that frost
Which flower and fruit hath lost,
As if all here immortal were, dost stay :
For shame! thy powers awake,
Look to that heaven which never night makes black,
And there, at that immortal sun's bright rays,
Deck thee with flowers which fear not rage of days.

THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own ;
Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that Eternal Love.
O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve !
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm’d, which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold !

The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights,
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

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To a Nightingale

SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours,
Of winters past or coming void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers;
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts

on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs,
Attir'd in sweetness, sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth’s turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven!

Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

Content and Resolute

As when it happ'neth that some lovely town
Unto a barbarous besieger falls,
Who there by sword and flame himself instals,
And, cruel, it in tears and blood doth drown;
Her beauty spoiled, her citizens made thralls,
His spite yet so cannot her all throw down,
But that some statue, arch, fane of renown
Yet lurks unmaimed within her weeping walls :
So, after all the spoil, disgrace, and wrack,
That time, the world, and death could bring combined,
Amidst that mass of ruins they did make,
Safe from all scarless yet remains my mind :

From this so high transcending rapture springs,
That I, all else defaced, not envy kings.