a2r

Salve Deus
Rex Judæorum.

Containing,
1
The Passion of Christ.
2
Eves Apologie in defence of Women.
3
The Teares of the Daughters of Jerusalem.
4
The Salutation and Sorrow of the Virgine
Marie.

With divers other things not unfit to be read.

Written by Mistris Æmilia Lanyer, Wife to Captaine
Alfonso Lanyer
Servant to the
Kings Majestie.

At London
Printed by Valentine Simmes for Richard Bonian, and are
to be sold at his Shop in Paules Churchyard, at the
Signe of the Floure de Luce and
Crowne. 16111611.

a2v
a3r

To the Queenes most
Excellent Majestie.

Renowned Empresse, and great Britaines Queene,

Most gratious Mother of succeeding Kings;

Vouchsafe to view that which is seldome seene,

A Womans writing of divinest things:

Reade it faire Queene, though it defective be,

Your Excellence can grace both It and Mee.

For youu have rifled Nature of her store,

And all the Goddesses have dispossest

Of those rich gifts which they enjoy’d before,

But now great Queene, in you they all doe rest.

If now they strived for the golden Ball,

Paris would giuuve it you before them all.

From Juno you have State and Dignities,

From warlike Pallas, Wisdome, Fortitude;

And from faire Venus all her Excellencies,

With their best parts your Highnesse is indu’d:

How much are we to honor those that springs

From such rare beauty, in the blood of Kings?

The Muses doe attend upon your Throne,

With all the Artists at your becke and call;

The Sylvane Gods, and Satyres every one,

Before your faire triumphant Chariot fall:

And shining Cynthia with her nymphs attend

To honour you, whose Honour hath no end.

a3 From a3v

From your bright spheare of greatnes where you sit,

Reflecting light to all those glorious stars

That wait upon your Throane; To virtue yet

Vouchsafe that splendor which my meannesse bars:

Be like faire Phœbe, who doth love to grace

The darkest night with her most beauteous face.

Apollo’s beames doe comfort every creature,

And shines upon the meanest things that be;

Since in Estate and Virtue none is greater,

I humbly wish that yours may light on me:

That so these rude unpollisht lines of mine,

Graced by you, may seeme the more divine.

Looke in this Mirrour of a worthy Mind,

Where some of your faire Virtues will appeare;

Though all it is impossible to find,

Unlesse my Glasse were chrystall, or more cleare:

Which is dym steele, yet full of spotlesse truth,

And for one looke from your faire eyes it su’th.

Here may your sacred Majestie behold

That mightie Monarch both of heav’n and earth,

He that all Nations of the world controld,

Yet tooke our flesh in base and meanest berth:

Whose daies were spent in poverty and sorrow,

And yet all Kings their wealth of him do borrow.

For he is Crowne and Crowner of all Kings,

The hopefull haven of the meaner sort,

Its he that all our joyfull tidings brings

Of happie raigne within his royall Court:

Its he that in extremity can give

Comfort to them that have no time to live.

And a4r

And since my wealth within his Region stands,

And that his Crosse my chiefest comfort is,

Yea in his kingdome onely rests my lands,

Of honour there I hope I shall not misse:

Though I on earth doe live unfortunate,

Yet there I may attaine a better state.

In the meane time, accept most gratious Queene

This holy worke, Virtuue presents to you,

In poore apparell, shaming to be seene,

Or once t’appeare in your judiciall view:

But that faire Virtue, though in meane attire,

All Princes of the world doe most desire.

And sith all royall virtues are in youu,

The Naturall, the Morall, and Divine,

I hope how plaine soever, beeing true,

You will accept even of the meanest line

Faire Virtue yeelds; by whose rare gifts you are

So highly grac’d, t’exceed the fairest faire.

Behold, great Queene, faire Eves Apologie,

Which I have writ in honour of your sexe,

And doe referre unto your Majestie,

To judge if it agree not with the Text:

And if it doe, why are poore Women blam’d,

Or by more faultie Men so much defam’d?

And this great Lady I have here attired,

In all her richest ornaments of Honour,

That you faire Queene, of all the world admired,

May take the more delight to looke upon her:

For she must entertaine you to this Feast,

To which your Highnesse is the welcom’st guest.

For a4v

For here I have prepar’d my Paschal Lambe,

The figure of that living Sacrifice;

Who dying, all th’Infernall powres orecame,

That we with him t’Eternitie might rise:

This pretious Passeover feed upon, O Queene,

Let your faire Virtues in my Glasse be seene.

The Lady
Elizabeths
Grace
And she that is the patterne of all Beautie,

The very modell of your Majestie,

Whose rarest parts enforceth Love and Duty,

The perfect patterne of all Pietie:

O let my Booke by her faire eies be blest,

In whose pure thoughts all Innocency rests.

Then shall I thinke my Glasse a glorious Skie,

When two such glittring Suns at once appeare;

The one repleat with Sov’raigne Majestie,

Both shining brighter than the clearest cleare:

And both reflecting comfort to my spirits,

To find their grace so much above my merits.

Whose untun’d voyce the dolefull notes doth sing

Of sad Affliction in an humble straine;

Much like unto a Bird that wants a wing,

And cannot flie, but warbles forth her paine:

Or he that barred from the Suns bright light,

Wanting daies comfort, doth comend the night.

So I that live clos’d up in Sorrowes Cell,

Since great Elizaes favour blest my youth;

And in the confines of all cares doe dwell,

Whose grieved eyes no pleasure ever view’th:

But in Christs suffrings, such sweet taste they have,

As makes me praise pale Sorrow and the Grave.

And b1r

And this great Ladie whom I love and honour,

And from my very tender yeeres have knowne,

This holy habite still to take upon her,

Still to remaine the same, and still her owne:

And what our fortunes doe enforce us to,

She of Devotion and meere Zeale doth do.

Which makes me thinke our heavy burden light,

When such a one as she will help to beare it:

Treading the paths that make our way go right,

What garment is so faire but she may weare it;

Especially for her that entertaines

A Glorious Queene, in whome all woorth remains.

Whose powre may raise my sad dejected Muse,

From this lowe Mansion of a troubled mind;

Whose princely favour may such grace infuse,

That I may spread Her Virtues in like kind:

But in this triall of my slender skill,

I wanted knowledge to performe my will.

For even as they that doe behold the Starres,

Not with the eie of Learning, but of Sight,

To find their motions, want of knowledge barres

Although they see them in their brightest light:

So, though I see the glory of her State,

Its she that must instruct and elevate.

My weake distempred braine and feeble spirits,

Which all unlearned have adventur’d, this

To write of Christ, and of his sacred merits,

Desiring that this Booke Her hands may kisse:

And though I be unworthy of that grace,

Yet let her blessed thoghts this book imbrace.

b And b1v

And pardon me (faire Queene) though I presume,

To doe that which so many better can;

Not that I Learning to my selfe assume,

Or that I would compare with any man:

But as they are Scholers, and by Art do write,

So Nature yeelds my Soule a sad delight.

And since all Arts at first from Nature came,

That goodly Creature, Mother of Perfection,

Whom Joves almighty hand at first did frame,

Taking both her and hers in his protection:

Why should not She now grace my barren Muse,

And in a Woman all defects excuse.

So peerelesse Princesse humbly I desire,

That your great wisedome would vouchsafe t’omit

All faults; and pardon if my spirits retire,

Leaving to ayme at what they cannot hit:

To write your worth, which no pen can expresse,

Were but t’ecclipse your Fame, and make it lesse.

To
b2r

To the Lady Elizabeths
Grace.

Most gratious Ladie, faire Elizabeth,

Whose Name and Virtues puts us still in mind,

Of her, of whom we are depriv’d by death;

The Phœnix of her age, whose worth did bind

All worthy minds so long as they have breath,

In linkes of Admiration, love and zeale,

To that deare Mother of our Common-weale.

Even you faire Princesse next our famous Queene,

I doe invite unto this wholesome feast,

Whose goodly wisedome, though your yeares be greene,

By such good workes may daily be increast,

Though your faire eyes farre better Bookes have seene;

Yet being the first fruits of a womans wit,

Vouchsafe you favour in accepting it.

b2 b2v b3r

To all vertuous Ladies in
generall.

Each blessed Lady that in Virtue spends

Your pretious time to beautifie your soules;

Come wait on hir whom winged Fame attends

And in hir hand the Booke where she inroules

Those high deserts that Majestie commends:

Let this faire Queene not unattended bee,

When in my Glasse she daines her selfe to see.

Put on your wedding garments every one,

The Bridegroome stayes to entertaine you all;

Let Virtue be your guide, for she alone

Can leade you right that you can never fall;

And make no stay for feare he should be gone:

But fill your Lamps with oyle of burning zeale,

That to your Faith he may his Truth reveale.

The roabes
that Christ
wore before
his death.
Let all your roabes be purple scarlet white,

Those perfit colours purest Virtue wore,

Come deckt with Lillies that did so delight

To be preferr’d in Beauty, farre before

Wise Salomon in all his glory dight:

Whose royall roabes did no such pleasure yield,

As did the beauteous Lilly of the field.

b3 Adorne b3v

In token of
Constancie.
Adorne your temples with faire Daphnes crowne,

The never changing Laurel, alwaies gereene;

Let constant hope all worldly pleasures drowne,

In wise Minervaes paths be alwaies seene;

Or with bright Cynthia, thogh faire Venus frown:

With Esop crosse the posts of every doore,

Where Sinne would riot, making Virtue poore.

And let the Muses your companions be,

Those sacred sisters that on Pallas wait;

Whose Virtues with the purest minds agree,

Whose godly labours doe avoyd the baite

Of worldly pleasures, living alwaies free

From sword, from violence, and from ill report,

To these nine Worthies all faire mindes resort.

Annoynt your haire with Aarons pretious oyle,

And bring your palmes of vict’ry in your hands,

To overcome all thoughts that would defile

The earthly circuit of your soules faire lands;

Let no dimme shadowes your cleare eyes beguile:

Sweet odours, mirrhe, gum, aloes, frankincense,

Present that King who di’d for your offence.

Behold, bright Titans shining chariot staies,

All deckt with flowers of the freshest hew,

Attended on by Age, Houres, Nights, and Daies,

Which alters not your beauty, but gives you

Much more, and crownes you with eternall praise:

This golden chariot wherein you must ride,

Let simple Doves, and subtill serpents guide.

Come b4r

Come swifter than the motion of the Sunne,

To be transfigur’d with our loving Lord,

Lest Glory end what Grace in you begun,

Of heav’nly riches make your greatest hoord,

In Christ all honour, wealth, and beautie’s wonne:

By whose perfections you appeare more faire

Than Phœbus, if he seav’n times brighter were.

Gods holy Angels will direct your Doves,

And bring your Serpents to the fields of rest,

Where he doth stay that purchast all your loves

In bloody torments, when he di’d opprest,

There shall you find him in those pleasant groves

Of sweet Elizium, by the Well of Life,

Whose cristal springs do purge from worldly strife

Thus may you flie from dull and sensuall earth,

Whereof at first your bodies formed were,

That new regen’rate in a second berth,

Your blessed soules may live without all feare,

Beeing immortall, subject to no death:

But in the eie of heaven so highly placed,

That others by your virtues may be graced.

Where worthy Ladies I will leave you all,

Desiring you to grace this little Booke;

Yet some of you me thinkes I heare to call

Me by my name, and bid me better looke,

Lest unawares I in an error fall:

In generall tearmes, to place you with the rest,

Whom Fame commends to be the very best.

Tis b4v

Tis true, I must confesse (O noble Fame)

There are a number honoured by thee,

Of which, some few thou didst recite by name,

And willd my Muse they should remembred bee;

Wishing some would their glorious Trophies frame:

Which if I should presume to undertake,

My tired Hand for very feare would quake.

Onely by name I will bid some of those,

That in true Honors seate have long bin placed,

Yea even such as thou hast chiefly chose,

By whom my Muse may be the better graced;

Therefore, unwilling longer time to lose,

I will invite some Ladies that I know,

But chiefly those as thou hast graced so.

To c1r

To the Ladie Arabella.

Great learned Ladie, whom I long have knowne,

And yet not knowne so much as I desired:

Rare Phœnix, whose faire feathers are your owne,

With which you flie, and are so much admired:

True honour whom true Fame hath so attired,

In glittering raiment shining much more bright,

Than silver Starres in the most frostie night.

Come like the morning Sunne new out of bed,

And cast your eyes upon this little Booke,

Although you be so well accompan’ed

With Pallas, and the Muses, spare one looke

Upon this humbled King, who all forsooke,

That in his dying armes he might imbrace

Your beauteous Soule, and fill it with his grace.

c c1v c2r

To the Ladie Susan, Countesse
Dowager of
Kent
, and daughter
to the Duchesse of
Suffolke
.

Come you that were the Mistris of my youth,

The noble guide of my ungovern’d dayes;

Come you that have delighted in Gods truth,

Help now your handmaid to sound foorth his praise:

You that are pleas’d in his pure excellencie,

Vouchsafe to grace this holy feast, and me.

And as your rare Perfections shew’d the Glasse

Wherein I saw each wrinckle of a fault;

You the Sunnes virtue, I that faire greene grasse,

That flourisht fresh by your cleere virtues taught:

For you possest those gifts that grace the mind,

Restraining youth whom Errour oft doth blind.

In you these noble Virtues did I note,

First, love and feare of God, of Prince, of Lawes,

Rare Patience with a mind so farre remote

From worldly pleasures, free from giving cause

Of least suspect to the most envious eie,

That in faire Virtues Storehouse sought to prie.

Whose Faith did undertake in Infancie,

All dang’rous travells by devouring Seas

To flie to Christ from vaine Idolatry,

Not seeking there this worthlesse world to please,

By your most famous Mother so directed,

That noble Dutchesse, who liv’d unsubjected.

c2 From c2v

From Romes ridiculous prier and tyranny,

That mighty Monarchs kept in awfull feare;

Leaving here her lands, her state, dignitie;

Nay more, vouchsaft disguised weedes to weare:

When with Christ Jesus she did meane to goe,

From sweet delights to taste part of his woe.

Come you that ever since hath followed her,

In these sweet paths of faire Hummilitie;

Contemning Pride pure Virtue to preferre,

Not yeelding to base Imbecillitie,

Nor to those weake inticements of the world,

That have so many thousand Soules insnarld.

Recceive your Love whom you have sought so farre,

Which heere presents himselfe within your view;

Behold this bright and all directing Starre,

Light of your Soule that doth all grace renew:

And in his humble paths since you do tread,

Take this faire Bridegroome in your soules pure
bed.

And since no former gaine hath made me write,

Nor my desertlesse service could have wonne,

Onely your noble Virtues do incite

My Pen, they are the ground I write upon;

Nor any future profit is expected,

Then how can these poore lines goe unrespected?

¶The c3r

The Authors Dreame
to the Ladie Marie, the Countesse
Dowager of Pembrooke.

Me thought I pass’d through th’Edalyan Groves,

And askt the Graces, if they could direct

Me to a Lady whom Minerva chose,

To live with her in height of all respect.

Yet looking backe into my thoughts againe,

The eie of Reason did behold her there

Fast ti’d unto them in a golden Chaine,

They stood, but she was set in Honors chaire.

And nine faire Virgins sate upon the ground,

With Harps and Vialls in their lilly hands;

Whose harmony had all my sences drown’d,

But that before mine eyes an object stands,

Whose Beauty shin’d like Titons cleerest raies,

She blew a brasen Trumpet, which did sound

Throgh al the world that worthy Ladies praise,

And by Eternall Fame I saw her crown’d.

The God of
Dreames.
Yet studying, if I were awake, or no,

God Morphy came and tooke me by the hand,

And wil’d me not from Slumbers bowre to go,

Till I the summe of all did understand.

c3 When c3v

When presently the Welkin that before

Look’d bright and cleere, me thought, was overcast,

And duskie clouds, with boyst’rous winds great store,

Foretold of violent stormes which could not last.

And gazing up into the troubled skie,

Me thought a Chariot did from thence descend,

Where one did sit repleat with Majestie,

Drawne by foure fierie Dragons, which did bend

Their course where this most noble Lady sate,

Whom all these virgins with due reverence

Did entertaine, according to that state

Which did belong unto her Excellence.

Goddesse of
Warre and
Wisdome.
When bright Bellona, so they did her call,

Whom these faire Nymphs so humbly did receive,

A manly mayd which was both faire and tall,

Her borrowed Charret by a spring did leave.

With speare, and shield, and currat on her breast,

And on her head a helmet wondrous bright,

With myrtle, bayes, and olive branches drest,

Wherein me thought I tooke no small delight.

To see how all the Graces sought grace here,

And in what meeke, yet princely sort shee came;

How this most noble Lady did imbrace her,

And all humors unto hers did frame.

Now c4r

The Moone. Now faire Dictina by the breake of Day,

With all her Damsels round about her came,

Ranging the woods to hunt, yet made a stay,

When harkning to the pleasing sound of Fame;

Her Ivory bowe and silver shaftes shee gave

Unto the fairest nymphe of all her traine;

And wondring who it was that in so grave,

Yet gallant fashion did her beauty staine:

Shee deckt her selfe with all the borrowed light

That Phœbus would afford from his faire face,

And made her Virgins to appeare so bright,

That all the hils and vales received grace.

Then pressing where this beauteous troupe did stand,

They all received her most willingly,

And unto her the Lady gave her hand,

That shee should keepe with them continually.

The Morning.
Aurora rising from her rosie bedde,

First blusht, then wept, to see faire Phœbe grac’d,

And unto Lady Maie these wordes shee sed,

Come, let us goe, we will not be out-fac’d.

I will unto Apolloes Waggoner,

A bidde him bring his Master presently,

That his bright beames may all her Beauty marre,

Gracing us with the luster of his eie.

Come, c4v

Come, come, sweet Maie, and fill their laps with floures,

And I will give a greater light than she:

So all these Ladied favours shall be ours,

None shall be more esteem’d than we shall be.

Thus did Aurora dimme faire Phœbus light,

And was receiv’d in bright Cynthiaes place,

While Flora all with fragrant floures dight,

Pressed to shew the beauty of her face.

Though these, me thought, were verie pleasing sights,

Yet now these Worthies did agree to go,

Unto a place full of all rare delights,

A place that yet Minerva did not know.

That sacred Spring where Art and Nature striv’d

Which should remaine as Sov’raigne of the place;

Whose antient quarrell being new reviv’d,

Added fresh Beauty, gave farre greater Grace.

To which as umpiers now these Ladies go,

Judging with pleasure their delightfull case;

Whose ravisht sences made them quickely know,

T’would be offensive either to displace.

And therefore will’d they should for ever dwell,

In perfit unity by this matchlesse Spring:

Since ’twas impossible either should excell,

Or her faire fellow in subjection bring.

But d1r

But here in equall sov’raigntie to live,

Equall in state, equall in dignitie,

That unto others they might comfort give,

Rejoycing all with their sweet unitie.

And now me thought I long to heare her name,

Whom wise Minerva honoured so much,

Shee whom I saw was crownd by noble Fame,

Whom Envy sought to sting, yet could not tuch.

Me thought the meager elfe did seeke bie waies

To come unto her, but it would not be;

Her venime purifi’d by virtues raies,

Shee pin’d and starv’d like an Anotomie:

While beauteous Pallas with this Lady faire,

Attended by these Nymphs of noble fame,

Beheld those woods, those groves, those bowers rare,

By which Pergusa, for so hight the name

Of that faire spring, his dwelling place & ground;

And throgh those fields with sundry flowers clad,

Of sev’rall colours, to adorne the ground,

And please the sences ev’n of the most sad:

He trayld along the woods in wanton wise,

With sweet delight to entertaine them all;

Inviting them to sit and to devise

On holy hymnes; at last to mind they call

d Those d1v

The Psalms
written newly
by the
Countesse
Dowager of

Penbrooke
.
Those rare sweet songs which Israels King did frame

Unto the Father of Eternitie;

Before his holy wisedom tooke the name

Of great Messias, Lord of unitie.

Those holy Sonnets they did all agree,

With this most lovely Lady here to sing;

That by her noble breasts sweet harmony,

Their musicke might in eares of Angels ring.

While saints like Swans about this silver brook

Should Hallalu-iah sing continually,

Writing her praises in th’eternall booke

Of endlesse honour, true fames memorie.

Thus I in sleep the heavenli’st musicke hard,

That ever earthly eares did entertaine;

And durst not wake, for feare to be debard

Of what my sences sought still to retaine.

Yet sleeping, praid dull Slumber to unfold

Her noble name, who was of all admired;

When presently in drowsie tearmes he told

Not onely that, but more than I desired.

“This nymph”, quoth he, “great Penbrooke hight by name,

Sister to valiant Sidney, whose cleere light

Gives light to all that tread true paths of Fame,

Who in the globe of heav’n doth shine so bright;

That d2r That beeing dead, his fame doth him survive, Still living in the hearts of worthy men; Pale Death is dead, but he remaines alive, Whose dying wounds restor’d him life agen. And this faire earthly goddesse which you see, Bellona and her virgins doe attend; In virtuous studies of Divinitie, Her pretious time continually doth spend. So that a Sister well shee may be deemd, To him that liv’d and di’d so nobly; And farre before him is to be esteemd For virtue, wisedome, learning, dignity. Whose beauteous soule hath gain’d a double life, Both here on earth, and in the heav’ns above, Till dissolution end all worldly strife: Her blessed spirit remaines, of holy love, Directing all by her immortall light, In this huge sea of sorrowes, griefes, and feares; With contemplation of Gods powrefull might, Shee fils the eies, the hearts, the tongues, the eares Of after-comming ages, which shall reade Her love, her zeale, her faith, and pietie; The faire impression of whose worthy deed, Seales her pure soule unto the Deitie. d2 That d2v

That both in Heanuv’n and Earth it may remaine,

Crownd with her Makers glory and his love;”

And this did Father Slumber tell with paine,

Whose dulnesse scarce could suffer him to move.

When I awaking left him and his bowre,

Much grieved that I could no longer stay;

Sencelesse was sleepe, not to admit me powre,

As I had spent the night to spend the day:

Then had God Morphie shew’d the end of all,

And what my heart desir’d, mine eies had seene;

For as I wak’d me thought I heard one call

For that bright Charet lent by Joves faire Queene.

To Sleepe. But thou, base cunning thiefe, that robs our sprits

Of halfe that span of life which yeares doth give;

And yet no praise unto thy selfe it merits,

To make a seeming death in those that live.

Yea wickedly thou doest consent to death,

Within thy restfull bed to rob our soules;

In Slumbers bowre thou steal’st away our breath,

Yet none there is that thy base stealths controules.

If poore and sickly creatures would imbrace thee,

Or they to whom thou givst a taste of pleasure,

Thou fli’st as if Acteons hounds did chase thee,

Or that to stay with them thou hadst no leasure.

But d3r

But though thou hast depriv’d me of delight,

By stealing from me ere I was aware;

I know I shall enjoy the selfe same sight,

Thou hast no powre my waking sprites to barre.

For to this Lady now I will repaire,

Presenting her the fruits of idle houres;

Thogh many Books she writes that are more rare,

Yet there is hony in the meanest flowres:

Which is both wholesome, and delights the taste:

Though sugar be more finer, higher priz’d,

Yet is the painefull Bee no whit disgrac’d,

Nor her faire wax, or hony more despiz’d.

And though that learned damsell and the rest,

Have in a higher style her Trophie fram’d;

Yet these unlearned lines beeing my best,

Of her great wisedom can no whit be blam’d.

And therefore, first I here present my Dreame,

And next, invite her Honour to my feast;

For my cleare reason sees her by that streame,

Where her rare virtues daily are increast.

So craving pardon for this bold attempt,

I here present my mirrour to her view,

Whose noble virtues cannot be exempt,

My Glasse beeing steele, declares them to be true.

d3 And d3v

And Madame, if you will vouchsafe that grace,

To grace those flowres that springs from virtues ground;

Though your faire mind on worthier workes is plac’d,

On workes that are more deepe, and more profound;

Yet is it no disparagement to you,

To see your Saviour in a Shepheards weed,

Unworthily presented in your viewe,

Whose worthinesse will grace each line you reade.

Receive him here by my unworthy hand,

And reade his paths of faire humility;

Who though our sinnes in number passe the sand,

They all are purg’d by his Divinity.

To d4r

To the Ladie Lucie, Countesse
of Bedford
.

Me thinkes I see faire Virtue readie stand,

T’unlocke the closet of your lovely breast,

Holding the key of Knowledge in her hand,

Key of that Cabbine where your selfe doth rest,

To let him in, by whom her youth was blest

The true-love of your soule, your hearts delight,

Fairer than all the world in your cleare sight.

He that descended from celestiall glory,

To taste of our infirmities and sorrowes,

Whose heavenly wisdom read the earthly storie

Of fraile Humanity, which his godhead borrows;;

Loe here he coms all stucke with pale deaths arrows:

In whose most pretious wounds your soule may reade

Salvation, while he (dying Lord) doth bleed.

You whose cleare Judgement farre exceeds my skil,

Vouuchsafe to entertaine this dying lover,

The Ocean of true grace, whose streames doe fill

All those with Joy, that can his love recover;

About this blessed Arke bright Angels hover:

Where your faire soule may sure and safely rest,

When he is sweetly seated in your brest.

There d4v

There may your thoughts as servants to your heart,

Give true attendance on this lovely guest,

While he doth to that blessed bowre impart

Flowres of fresh comforts, decke that bed of rest,

With such rich beauties as may make it blest:

And you in whom all raritie is found,

May be with his eternall glory crownd.

To e1r

To the Ladie Margaret Countesse
Dowager of Cumberland
.

Right Honourable and Excellent Lady, I may
say with Saint Peter, “Silver nor gold have
I none, but such as I have, that give I you:”
for
having neither rich pearles of India, nor fine
gold of Arabia, nor diamonds of inestimable
value; neither those rich treasures, Arramaticall Gums, incense,
and sweet odours, which were presented by those
Kingly Philosophers to the babe Jesus, I present unto you
even our Lord Jesus himselfe, whose infinit value is not to
be comprehended within the weake imagination or wit of
man: and as Saint Peter gave health to the body, so I deliver
you the health of the soule; which is this most pretious
pearle of all perfection, this rich diamond of devotion, this
perfect gold growing in the veines of that excellent earth
of the most blessed Paradice, wherein our second Adam had
his restlesse habitation. The sweet incense, balsums, odours,
and gummes that flowes from that beautifull tree of Life,
sprung from the roote of Jessie, which is so super-excellent,
that it giveth grace to the meanest & most unworthy hand
that will undertake to write thereof; neither can it receive
any blemish thereby: for as a right diamond can loose no
whit of his beautie by the blacke soyle underneath it, neither
by beeing placed in the darke, but retaines his naturall
beauty and brightnesse shining in greater perfection than
before; so this most pretious diamond, for beauty and riches
exceeding all the most pretious diamonds and rich jewels
of the world can receive no blemish, nor impeachment, by e my e1v
my unworthy hand writing; but wil with the Sunne retaine
his owne brightnesse and most glorious lustre, though never
so many blind eyes looke upon him. Therefore good
Madame, to the most perfect eyes of your understanding, I
deliver the inestinmable treasure of all elected soules, to bee
perused at convenient times; as also, the mirrour of your
most worthy minde, which may remaine in the world many
yeares longer than your Honour, or my selfe can live, to
be a light unto those that come after, desiring to tread in the
narrow path of virtue, that leads the way to heaven. In
which way, I pray God send your Honour long to continue,
that your light may so shine before men, that they may
glorifie your father which is in Heaven: and that I and many
others may follow you in the same tracke. So wishing
you in this world all increase of health and honour, and in
the world to come life everlasting, I rest.

e2r

To the Ladie Katherine Countesse
of Suffolke
.

Although great Lady, it may seeme right strange,

That I a stranger should presume thus farre,

To write to you; yet as the times doe change,

So are we subject to that fatall starre,

Under the which we were produc’d to breath,

That starre that guides us even untill our death.

And guided me to frame this worke of grace,

Not of it selfe, but by celestiall powres,

To which, both that and wee must needs give place,

Since what we have, we cannot count it ours:

For health, wealth, honour, sickenesse, death & all,

Is in Gods powre, which makes us rise and fall.

And since his powre hath given me powre to write,

A subject fit for you to looke upon,

Wherein your soule may take no small delight,

When her bright eyes beholds that holy one:

By whose great wisedome, love, and speciall grace,

Shee was created to behold his face.

Vouchsafe sweet Lady, to accept these lines,

Writ by a hand that doth desire to doe

All services to you whose worth combines

The worthi’st minds to love and honour you:

Whose beautie, wisedome, children, high estate,

Doe all concurre to make you fortunate.

e2 But e2v

But chiefly your most honorable Lord,

Whose noble virtues Fame can ne’r forget:

His hand being alwayes ready to afford

Help to the weake, to the unfortunate:

All which begets more honour and respect,

Than Crœssus wealth, or sars sterne aspect.

And rightly sheweth that hee is descended

Of honourable Howards antient house,

Whose noble deedes by former times commended,

Do now remaine in your most loyall Spouse,

On whom God powres all blessings from above,

Wealth, honour, children and a worthy Love;

Which is more deare to him than all the rest,

You being the loving Hinde and pleasant Roe,

Wife of his youth, in whom his soule is blest,

Fountaine from whence his chiefe delights do flow.

Faire tree from which the fruit of Honor springs,

Heere I present to you the King of kings:

Desiring you to take a perfit view,

Of those great torments Patience did indure;

And reape those Comforts that belongs to you,

Which his most painfull death did then assure:

Writing the Covenant with his pretious blood,

That your faire soule might bathe her in that flood.

And let your noble daughters likewise reade

This little Booke that I present to you;

On heavenly food let them vouchsafe to feede;

Heere they may see a Lover much more true

Than ever was since first the world began,

This poore rich King that di’d both God and man.

Yea, e3r

Yea, let those Ladies which do represent

All beauty, wisedome, zeale, and love,

Receive this jewell from Jehova sent,

This spotlesse Lambe, this perfit patient Dove:

Of whom faire Gabriel, Gods bright Mercury,

Brought downe a message from the Deitie.

Here may they see him in a flood of teares,

Crowned with thornes, and bathing in his blood;

Here may they see his feares exceed all feares,

When Heaven in Justice flat against him stood:

And loathsome death with grim and gastly look,

Presented him that blacke infernall booke,

Wherein the sinnes of all the world were writ,

In deepe Characters of due punishment;

And naught but dying breath could cancel it:

Shame, death, and hell must make the attonement:

Shewing their evidence, seizing wrongful Right,

Placing heav’ns Beauty in deaths darkest night.

Yet through the sable Clowdes of Shame & Death,

His beauty shewes more clearer than before;

Death lost his strength when he did loose his breath:

As fire supprest doth shine and flame the more,

So in Deaths ashie pale discoloured face,

Fresh beauty shin’d, yeelding farre greater grace.

No Dove, no Swan, nor Iv’rie could compare

With this faire corps, when ’twas by death imbrac’d;

No rose, nor no vermillion halfe so faire

As was that pretious blood that innterlac’d

His body, which bright Angels did attend,

Waiting on him that must to Heaven ascend.

e3 In e3v

In whom is all that Ladies can desire;

If Beauty, who hath bin more faire than he?

If Wisedome, doth not all the world admire

The depth of his, that cannot searched be?

If wealth, if honour, fame, or Kingdoms store,

Who ever liv’d that was possest of more?

If zeale, if grace, if love, if picetie,

If constancie, if faith, if faire obedience,

If valour, patience, or sobrietie;

If chast behaviour, meekenesse, continence,

If justice, mercie, bountie, charitie,

Who can compare with his Divinitie?

Whose vertues more than thoughts can apprehend,

I leave to their more cleere imagination,

That will vouchsafe their borrowed time to spend

In meditating, and in contemplation

Of his rare parts, true honours faire prospect,

The perfect line that goodnesse doth direct.

And unto you I wish those sweet desires,

That from your perfect thoughts doe daily spring,

Increasing still pure, bright, and holy fires,

Which sparkes of pretious grace, by faith doe spring:

Mounting your soule unto eternall rest,

There to live happily among the best.

To e4r

To the Ladie Anne, Countesse
of Dorcet
.

To you I dedicate this worke of Grace,

This frame of Glory which I have erected,

For your faire mind I hold the fittest place,

Where virtue should be setled & protected;

If highest thoughts true honor do imbrace,

And holy Wisdom is of them respected:

Then in this Mirrour let your faire eyes looke,

To view your virtues in this blessed Booke.

Blest by our Saviours merits, not my skil,

Which I acknowledge to be very small;

Yet if the least part of his blessed Will

I have perform’d, I count I have done all:

One sparke of grace sufficient is to fill

Our Lampes with oyle, ready when he doth call

To enter with the Bridegroome to the feast,

Where he that is the greatest may be least.

Greatnesse is no sure frame to build upon,

No wordly treasure can assure that place;

God makes both even, the Cottage with the Throne,

All worldly honours there are counted base;

Those he holds deare, and reckneth as his owne,

Whose virtuous deeds by his especially grace

Have gain’d his love, his kingdome, and his crowne,

Whom in the booke of Life he hath set downe.

Titles e4v

Titles of honour which the world bestowes,

To none but to the virtuous doth belong;

As beauteous bowres where true worth should repose,

And where his dwellings should be built most strong:

But when they are bestow’d upon her foes,

Poore virtues friends indure the greatest wrong:

For they must suffer all indignity,

Untill in heav’n they better graced be.

What difference was there when the world began,

Was it not Virtue that distinguisht all?

All sprang but from one woman and one man,

Then how doth Gentry come to rise and fall?

Or who is he that very rightly can

Distinguish of his birth, or tell at all,

In what meane state his Ancestors have bin,

Before some one of worth did honour win?

Whose successors, although they beare his name,

Possessing not the riches of his minde,

How doe we know they spring out of the same

True stocke of honour, beeing not of that kind?

It is faire virtue gets immortall fame,

Tis that doth all love and duty bind:

If he that much enjoyes, doth little good,

We may suppose he comes not of that blood.

Nor is he fit for honour, or command,

If base affections over-rules his mind;

Or that selfe-will doth carry such a hand,

As worldly pleasures have the powre to blind

So as he cannot see, nor understand

How to discharge that place to him assign’d:

Gods Stewards must for all the poore provide,

If in Gods house they purpose to abide.

To f1r

To you, as to Gods Steward I doe write,

In whom the seeds of virtue have bin sowne,

By your most worthy mother, in whose right,

All her faire parts you challenge as your owne;

If you, sweet Lady, will appeare as bright

As ever creature did that time hath knowne,

Then weare this Diadem I present to thee,

Which I have fram’d for her Eternitie.

You are the Heire apparant of this Crowne

Of goodnesse, bountie, grace, love, pietie,

By birth its yours, then keepe it as your owne,

Defend it from all base indignitie;

The right your Mother hath to it, is knowne

Best unto you, who reapt such fruit thereby:

This Monument of her faire worth retaine

In your pure mind, and keepe it from al staine.

And as your Ancestors at first possest

Their honours, for their honourable deeds,

Let their faire virtues never be transgrest,

Bind up the broken, stop the wounds that bleeds,

Succour the poore, comfort the comfortlesse,

Cherish faire plants, suppresse unwholsom weeds;

Althogh base pelfe do chance to come in place,

Yet let true worth receive your greatest grace.

So shal you shew from whence you are descended,

And leave to all posterities your fame,

So will your virtues alwaies be commended,

And every one will reverence your name;

So this poore worke of mine shalbe defended

From any scandall that the world can frame:

And you a glorious Actor will appeare

Lovely to all, but unto God most deare.

f I know f1v

I know right well these are but needlesse lines,

To you, that are so perfect in your part,

Whose birth and education both combines;

Nay more than both, a pure and godly heart,

So well instructed to such faire designes,

By your deere Mother, that there needs no art:

Your ripe discretion in your tender yeares,

By all your actions to the world appeares.

I doe but set a candle in the sunne,

And adde one drop of water to the sea,

Virtue and Beautie both together run,

When you were borne, within your breast to stay;

Their quarrell ceast, which long before begun,

They live in peace, and all doe them obey:

In you faire Madame, are they richly plac’d,

Where all their worth by Eternity is grac’d.

You goddesse-like unto the world appeare,

Inricht with more than fortune can bestowe,

Goodnesse and Grace, which you doe hold more deere

Than worldly wealth, which melts away like snowe;

Your pleasure is the word of God to heare,

That his most holy precepts you may know:

Your greatest honour, faire and virtuous deeds,

Which from the love and feare of God proceeds.

Therefore to you (good Madame) I present

His lovely love, more worth than purest gold,

Who for your sake his pretious blood hath spent,

His death and passion here you may behold,

And view this Lambe, that to the world was sent,

Whom your faire soule may in her armes infold:

Loving his love, that did endure such paine,

That you in heaven a worthy place might gaine.

For f2r

For well you knowe, this world is but a Stage

Where all doe play their parts, and must be gone;

Here’s no respect of persons, youth, nor age,

Death seizeth all, he never spareth one,

None can prevent or stay that tyrants rage,

But Jesus Christ the Just: By him alone

He was orecome, He open set the dore

To Eternall life, ne’re seene, nor knowne before.

He is the stone the builders did refuse,

Which you, sweet Lady, are to build upon;

He is the rocke that holy Church did chuse,

Among which number, you must needs be one;

Faire Shepheardesse, tis you that he will use

To feed his flocke, that trust in him alone:

All wordly blessings he vouchsafes to you,

That to the poore you may returne his due.

And if deserts a Ladies love may gaine,

Then tell me, who hath more deserv’d than he?

Therefore in recompence of all his paine,

Bestowe your paines to reade, and pardon me,

If out of wants, or weakenesse of my braine,

I have not done this worke sufficiently;

Yet lodge him in the closet of your heart,

Whose worth is more than can be shew’d by Art.

f2 To f2v f3r

To the Vertuous
Reader.

Often have I heard, that it is the property of some women,
not only to emulate the virtues and perfections
of the rest, but also by all their powers of ill speaking,
to ecclipse the brightnes of their deserved fame: now
contrary to this custome, which men I hope unjustly lay to
their charge, I have written this small volume, or little booke,
for the generall use of all virtuous Ladies and Gentlewomen
of this kingdome; and in commendation of some particular
persons of our owne sexe, such as for the most part, are so well
knowne to my selfe, and others, that I dare undertake Fame
dares not to call any better. And this have I done, to make
knowne to the world, that all women deserve not to be blamed
though some forgetting they are women themselves, and in
danger to be condemned by the words of their owne mouthes,
fall into so great an errour, as to speake unadvisedly against
the rest of their sexe; which if it be true, I am perswaded they
can shew their owne imperfection in nothing more: and therefore
could wish (for their owne ease, modesties, and credit) they
would referre such points of folly, to be practised by evill disposed
men, who forgetting they were borne of women, nourished
of women, and that if it were not by the means of women, they
would be quite extinguished out of the world, and a finall ende
of them all, doe like Vipers deface the wombes wherein they
were bred, onely to give way and utterance to their want of
discretion and goodnesse. Such as these, were they that dishonoured
Christ his Apostles and Prophets, putting them to
shamefull deaths. Therefore we are not to regard any imputations,
that they undeservedly lay upon us, no otherwise than
to make use of them to our owne benefits, as spurres to vertue,
making us flie all occasions that may colour their unjust f3 speeches f3v
speeches to passe currant. Especially considering that they have
tempted even the patience of God himselfe, who gave power to
wise and virtuous women, to bring downe their pride and arrogancie.
As was cruell Cesarus by the discreet counsell of noble
Deborah, Judge and Prophetesse of Israel: and resolution
of Jael wife of Heber the Kenite: wicked Haman, by the divine
prayers and prudent proceedings of beautifull Hester:
blasphemous Holofernes, by the invincible courage, rare wisdome,
and confident carriage of Judeth: & the unjust Juudges,
by the innocency of chast Susanna: with infinite others, which
for brevitie sake I will omit. As also in respect it pleased our
Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, without the assistance of man,
beeing free from originall and all other sinnes, from the time
of his conception, till the houre of his death, to be begotten of a
woman, borne of a woman, nourished of a woman, obedient to a
woman; and that he healed woman, pardoned women, comforted
women: yea, even when he was in his greatest agonie and
bloodie sweat, going to be crucified, and also in the last houre
of his death, tooke care to dispose of a woman: after his resurrection,
appeared first to a woman, sent a woman to declare his
most glorious resurrection to the rest of his Disciples. Many
other examples I could alleadge of divers faithfull and virtuous
women, who have in all ages, not onely beene Confessors,
but also indured most cruel martyrdome for their faith in Jesus
Christ
. All which is sufficient to inforce all good Christians
and honourable minded men to speake reverently of our
sexe, and especially of all virtuous and good women. To the
modest sensures of both which, I refer these my imperfect indeavours,
knowing that according to their owne excellent dispositions,
they will rather, cherish, nourish, and increase the
least sparke of virtue where they find it, by their favourable
and best interpretations, than quench it by wrong constructions.
To whom I wish all increase of virtue, and desire their
best opinions.

f4r f4v A1r

Salve Deus Rex
Judæorum.

Sith Cynthia is ascended to that rest

Of endlesse joy and true Eternitie,

That glorious place that cannot be exprest

By any wight clad in mortalitie,

In her almightie love so highly blest,

And crown’d with everlasting Sov’raigntie;

Where Saints and Angells do attend her Throne,

And she gives glorie unto God alone.

The Ladie
Margaret
Countesse
Dowager of
Cumberland
To thee great Countesse now I will applie

My Pen, to write thy never dying fame;

That when to Heav’n thy blessed Soule shall flie,

These lines on earth record thy reverend name:

And to this taske I meane my Muse to tie,

Though wanting skill I shall but purchase blame:

Pardon (deere Ladie) want of womans wit

To pen thy praise, when few can equall it.

And pardon (Madame) though I do not write

Those praisefull lines of that delightfull place,

As you commaunded me in that faire night,

When shining Phœbe gave so great a grace,

Presenting Paradice to your sweet sight,

Unfolding all the beauty of her face

With pleasant groves, hills, walks and stately trees,

Which pleasures with retired minds agrees.

A Whose A1v

Whose Eagles eyes behold the glorious Sunne

Of th’all-creating Providence, reflecting

His blessed beames on all by him, begunne;

Increasing, strengthning, guiding and directing

All wordly creatures their due course to runne,

Unto His powrefull pleasure all subjecting:

And thou (deere Ladie) by his speciall grace,

In these his creatures dost behold his face.

Whose all-reviving beautie, yeelds such joyes

To thy sad Soule, plunged in waves of woe,

That worldly pleasures seemes to thee as toyes,

Onely thou seek’st Eternitie to know,

Respecting not the infinite annoyes

That Satan to thy well-staid mind can show;

Ne can he quench in thee, the Spirit of Grace,

Nor draw thee from beholding Heavens bright face.

Thy Mind so perfect by thy Maker fram’d,

No vaine delights can harbour in thy heart,

With his sweet love, thou art so much inflam’d,

As of the world thou seem’st to have no part;

So, love him still, thou need’st not be asham’d,

Tis He that made thee, what thou wert, and art:

Tis He that dries all teares from Orphans eies,

And heares from heav’n the wofull widdows cries.

Tis He that doth behold thy inward cares,

And will regard the sorrowes of thy Soule;

Tis He that guides thy feet from Sathans snares,

And in his Wisedome, doth thy waies controule:

He through afflictions, still thy Minde prepares,

And all thy glorious Trialls will enroule:

That when darke daies of terror shall appeare,

Thou as the Sunne shalt shine; or much more cleare.

The A2r

The Heav’ns shall perish as a garment olde,

Or as a vesture by the maker chang’d,

And shall depart, as when a skrowle is rolde;

Yet thou from him shalt never be estrang’d,

When He shall come in glory, that was solde

For all our sinnes; we happily are chang’d,

Who for our faults put on his righteousnesse,

Although full oft his Lawes we doe transgresse.

Long mai’st thou joy in this almightie love,

Long may thy Soule be pleasing in his sight,

Long mai’st thou have true comforts from above,

Long mai’st thou set on him thy whole delight,

And patiently endure when he doth prove,

Knowing that He will surely do thee right:

Thy patience, faith, long suffring, and thy love,

He will reward with comforts from above.

With Majestie and Honour is He clad,

And deck’d with light, as with a garment faire;

He joyes the Meeke, and makes the Mightie sad,

Pulls downe the Prowd, and doth the Humble reare:

Who sees this Bridegroome, never can be sad;

None lives that can his wondrous workes declare:

Yea, looke how farre the Est is from the West,

So farre he sets our sinnes that have transgrest.

He rides upon the wings of all the windes,

And spreads the heav’ns with his all powrefull hand;

Oh! who can loose when the Almightie bindes?

Or in his angry presence dares to stand?

He searcheth out the secrets of all mindes;

All those that feare him, shall possesse the Land:

He is exceeding glorious to behold,

Antient of Times; so faire, and yet so old.

A2 He A2v

He of the watry Cloudes his Chariot frames,

And makes his blessed Angels powrefull Spirits,

His Ministers are fearefull fiery flames,

Rewarding all according to their merits;

The Righteous for an heritage he claimes,

And registers the wrongs of humble spirits:

Hills melt like wax, in presence of the Lord,

So do all sinners, in his sight abhorr’d.

He in the waters laies his chamber beames,

And cloudes of darkenesse compasse him about,

Consuming fire shall goe before in streames,

And burne up all his en’mies round about:

Yet on these Judgementsw worldlings never dreames,

Nor of these daungers never stand in doubt:

While he shall rest within his holy Hill,

That lives and dies according to his Will.

But woe to them that double-hearted bee,

Who with their tongues the righteous Soules doe slay;

Bending their bowes to shoot at all they see,

With upright hearts their Maker to obay;

And secretly doe let their arrowes flee,

To wound true hearted people any way:

The Lord wil roote them out that speake prowd things,

Deceitfull tongues are but false Slanders wings.

Froward are the ungodly from their berth,

No sooner borne, but they doe goe astray;

The Lord will roote them out from off the earth,

And give them to their en’mies for a pray,

As venemous as Serpents is their breath,

With poysned lies to hurt in what they may

The Innocent: who as a Dove shall flie

Unto the Lord, that he his cause may trie.

The A3r

The righteous Lord doth righteousnesse allow,

His countenance will behold the thing that’s just;

Unto the Meane he makes the Mightie bow,

And raiseth up the Poore out of the dust:

Yet makes no count to us, nor when, nor how,

But powres his grace on all, that puts their trust

In him: that never will their hopes betray,

Nor lets them perish that for mercie pray.

He shall within his Tabernacle dwell,

Whose life is uncorrupt before the Lord,

Who no untrueths of Innocents doth tell,

Nor wrongs his neighbour, nor in deed, nor word,

Nor in his pride with malice seems to swell,

Nor whets his tongue more sharper than a sword,

To wound the reputation of the IJustust;

Nor seekes to lay their glorie in the Dust.

That great Jehova King of heav’n and earth,

Will raine downe fire and brimstone from above,

Upon the wicked monsters in their berth

That storme and rage at those whom he doth love:

Snares, stormes, and tempests he will raine, and dearth,

Because he will himselfe almightie prove:

And this shall be their portion they shall drinke,

That thinkes the Lord is blind when he doth winke.

To the Countesse
of Cumberland.
Pardon (good Madame) though I have digrest

From what I doe intend to write of thee,

To set his glorie forth whom thou lov’st best,

Whose wondrous works no mortall eie can see;

His speciall care on those whom he hath blest

From wicked worldlings, how he sets them free:

And how such people he doth overthrow

In all their waies, that they his powre may know.

A3 The A3v

The meditation of this Monarchs love,

Drawes thee from caring what this world can yield;

Of joyes and griefes both equall thou dost prove,

They have no force, to force thee from the field:

Thy constant faith like to the Turtle Dove

Continues combat, and will never yield

To base affliction; or prowd pomps desire,

That sets the weakest mindes so much on fire.

Thou from the Court to the Countrie art retir’d,

Leaving the world, before the world leaves thee:

That great Enchantresse of weake mindes admir’d,

Whose all-bewitching charmes so pleasing be

To worldly wantons; and too much desir’d

Of those that care not for Eternitie:

But yeeld themselves as preys to Lust and Sinne,

Loosing their hopes of Heav’n Hell paines to winne.

But thou, the wonder of our wanton age

Leav’st all delights to serve a heav’nly King:

Who is more wise? or who can be more sage,

Than she that doth Affection subject bring;

Not forcing for the world, or Satans rage,

But shrowding under the Almighties wing;

Spending her yeares, moneths, daies, minutes, howres,

In doing service to the heav’nly powres.

Thou faire example, live without compare,

With Honours triumphs seated in thy breast;

Pale Envy never can thy name empaire,

When in thy heart thou harbour’st such a guest:

Malice must live for ever in dispaire;

There’s no revenge where Virtue still doth rest:

All hearts must needs do homage unto thee,

In whom all eies such rare perfection see.

That A4r

An Invective
against
outward beauty
unaccompanied
with
virtue.
That outward Beautie which the world commends,

Is not the subject I will write upon,

Whose date expir’d, that tyrant Time soone ends,

Those gawdie colours soone are spent and gone:

But those faire Virtues which on thee attends

Are alwaies fresh, they never are but one:

They make thy Beautie fairer to behold,

Than was that Queenes for whom prowd Troy was sold.

As for those matchlesse colours Red and White,

Or perfit features in a fading face,

Or due proportion pleasing to the sight;

All these doe draw but dangers and disgrace:

A mind enrich’d with Virtue, shines more bright,

Addes everlasting Beauty, gives true grace,

Frames an immortall Goddesse on the earth,

Who though she dies, yet Fame gives her new berth.

That pride of Nature which adornes the faire,

Like blasing Comets to allure all eies,

Is but the thred, that weaves their web of Care,

Who glories most, where most their danger lies;

For greatest perills do attend the faire,

When men do seeke, attempt, plot and devise,

How they may overthrow the chastest Dame,

Whose Beautie is the White whereat they aime.

Twas Beautie bred in Troy the ten yeares strife,

And carried Hellen from her lawfull Lord;

Twas Beautie made chaste Lucrece loose her life,

For which prowd Tarquins fact was so abhorr’d:

Beautie the cause Antonius wrong’d his wife,

Which could not be decided but by sword:

Great Cleopatraes Beautie and defects

Did worke Octaviaes wrongs, and his neglects.

What A4v

What fruit did yeeld that faire forbidden tree,

But blood, dishonour, infamie, and shame?

Poore blinded Queene, could’st thou no better see,

But entertaine disgrace, in stead of fame?

Doe these designes with Majestie agree?

To staine thy blood, and blot thy royall name.

That heart that gave consent unto this ill,

Did give consent that thou thy selfe should’st kill.

Of Rosamund.
Faire Rosamund, the wonder of her time,

Had bin much fairer, had shee not bin faire;

Beautie betraid her thoughts, aloft to clime,

To build strong castles in uncertaine aire,

Where th’infection of a wanton crime

Did worke her fall; first poyson, then despaire,

With double death did kill her perjur’d soule,

When heavenly Justice did her sinne controule.

Of Matilda. Holy Matilda in a haplesse houre

Was borne to sorow and to discontent,

Beauty the cause that turn’d her Sweet to Sowre,

While Chastity sought Folly to prevent.

Lustfull King John refus’d, did use his powre,

By Fire and Sword, to compasse his content:

But Friends disgrace, nor Fathers banishment,

Nor Death it selfe, could purchase her consent.

Here Beauty in the height of all perfection,

Crown’d this faire Creatures everlasting fame,

Whose noble minde did scorne the base subjection

Of Feares, or Favours, to impaire her Name:

By heavenly grace, she had such true direction,

To die with Honour, not to live in Shame;

And drinke that poyson with a cheerefull heart,

That could all Heavenly grace to her impart.

This B1r

To the Ladie
of Cumberland
the Introduction
to
the passion of
Christ.
This Grace great Lady, doth possesse thy Soule,

And makes thee pleasing in thy Makers sight;

This Grace doth all imperfect Thoughts controule,

Directing thee to serve thy God aright;

Still reckoning him, the Husband of thy Soule,

Which is most pretious in his glorious sight:

Because the Worlds delights shee doth denie

For him, who for her sake vouchsaf’d to die.

And dying made her Dowager of all;

Nay more, Co-heire of that eternall blisse

That Angels lost, and We by Adams fall;

Meere Cast-awaies, rais’d by a Judas kisse,

Christs bloody sweat, the Vineger, and Gall,

The Speare, Sponge, Nailes, his buffeting with Fists,

His bitter Passion, Agony, and Death,

Did gaine us Heaven when He did loose his breath.

A preamble
of the Author
before
the Passion.
These high deserts invites my lowely Muse

To write of Him, and pardon crave of thee,

For Time so spent, I need make no excuse,

Knowing it doth with thy faire Minde agree

So well, as thou no Labour wilt refuse,

That to thy holy Love may pleasing be:

His Death and Passion I desire to write,

And thee to reade, the blessed Soules delight.

But my deare Muse, now whither wouldst thou flie,

Above the pitch of thy appointed straine?

With Icarus thou seekest now to trie,

Not waxen wings, but thy poore barren Braine,

Which farre too weake, these siely lines descrie;

Yet cannot this thy forward Mind restraine,

But thy poore Infant Verse must soare aloft,

Not fearing threat’ning dangers, happening oft.

B Thinke B1v

Thinke when the eye of Wisdom shall discover

Thy weakling Muse to flie, that scarce could creepe,

And in the Ayre above the Clowdes to hover,

When better ’twere mued up, and fast asleepe;

They’l thinke with Phaeton, thou canst neare recover,

But helplesse with that poore yong Lad to weepe:

The little World of thy weake Wit on fire,

Where thou wilt perish in thine owne desire.

But yet the Weaker thou doest seeme to be

In Sexe, or Sence, the more his Glory shines,

That doth infuze such powerfull Grace in thee,

To shew thy Love in these few humble Lines;

The Widowes Myte, with this may well agree,

Her little All more worth than golden mynes,

Beeing more deerer to our loving Lord,

Than all the wealth that Kingdoms could affoard.

Therefore I humbly for his Grace will pray,

That he will give me Power and Strength to Write,

That what I have begun, so end I may,

As his great Glory may appeare more bright;

Yea in these Lines I may no further stray,

Than his most holy Spirit shall give me Light:

That blindest Weakenesse be not over-bold,

The manner of his Passion to unfold.

In other Phrases than may well agree

With his pure Doctrine, and most holy Writ,

That Heavens cleare eye, and all the World may see,

I seeke his Glory, rather than to get

The Vulgars breath, the seed of Vanitie,

Nor Fames lowd Trumpet care I to admit;

But rather strive in plainest Words to showe,

The Matter which I seeke to undergoe.

A Mat- B2r

A Matter farre beyond my barren skill,

To shew with any Life this map of Death,

This Storie; that whole Worlds with Bookes would fill,

In these few Lines, will put me out of breath,

To run so swiftly up this mightie Hill,

I may behold it with the eye of Faith;

But to present this pure unspotted Lambe,

I must confesse, I farre unworthy am.

Yet if he please t’illuminate my Spirit,

And give me Wisdom from his holy Hill,

That I may Write part of his glorious Merit,

If he vouchsafe to guide my Hand and Quill,

To shew his Death, by which we doe inherit

Those endlesse Joyes that all our hearts doe fill;

Then will I tell of that sad blacke fac’d Night,

Whose mourning Mantle covered Heavenly Light.

Here begins
the Passion of
Christ.
That very Night our Saviour was betrayed,

Oh night! exceeding all the nights of sorow,

When our most blessed Lord, although dismayed,

Yet would not he one Minutes respite borrow,

But to Mount Olives went, though sore afraid,

To welcome Night, and entertaine the Morrow;

And as he oft unto that place did goe,

So did he now, to meete his long nurst woe.

He told his deere Disciples that they all

Should be offended by him, that selfe night,

His Griefe was great, and theirs could not be small,

To part from him who was their sole Delight;

Saint Peter thought his Faith could never fall,

No mote could happen in so cleare a sight:

Which made him say, though all men were offended,

Yet would he never, though his life were ended.

B2 But B2v

But his deare Lord made answere, That before

The Cocke did crowe, he should deny him thrice;

This could not choose but grieve him very sore,

That his hot Love should proove more cold than Ice,

Denying him he did so much adore;

No imperfection in himselfe he spies,

But faith againe, with him hee’l surely die,

Rather than his deare Master once denie.

And all the rest (did likewise say the same)

Of his Disciples, at that instant time;

But yet poore Peter, he was most too blame,

That thought above them all, by Faith to clime;

His forward speech inflicted sinne and shame,

When Wisdoms eyes did looke and checke his crime:

Who did foresee, and told it him before,

Yet would he needs averre it more and more.

Now went our Lord unto that holy place,

Sweet Gethsemaine hallowed by his presence,

That blessed Garden, which did now embrace

His holy corps, yet could make no defence

Against those Vipers, objects of disgrace,

Which sought that pure eternall Love to quench:

Here his Disciples willed he to stay,

Whilst he went further, where he meant to pray.

None were admitted with their Lord to goe,

But Peter, and the sonnes of Zebed’us,

To them good Jesus opened all his woe,

He gave them leave his sorows to discusse,

His deepest griefes, he did not scorne to showe

These three deere friends, so much he did intrust:

Beeing sorowfull, and overcharg’d with griefe,

He told it them, yet look’d for no reliefe.

Sweet B3r

Sweet Lord, how couldst thou thus to flesh and blood

Communicate thy griefe? tell of thy woes?

Thou knew’st they had no powre to doe thee good,

But were the cause thou must endure these blowes,

Beeing the Scorpions bred in Adams mud,

Whose poys’ned sinnes did worke among thy foes,

To re-ore-charge thy over-burd’ned soule,

Although the sorowes now they doe condole.

Yet didst thou tell them of thy troubled state,

Of thy Soules heavinesse unto the death,

So full of Love, so free wert thou from hate,

To bid them stay, whose sinnes did stop thy breath,

When thou wert entring at so straite a gate,

Yea entring even into the doore of Death,

Thou bidst them tarry there, and watch with thee,

Who from thy pretious blood-shed were not free.

Bidding them tarry, thou didst further goe,

To meet affliction in such gracefull sort,

As might moove pitie both in friend and foe,

Thy sorowes such, as none could them comport,

Such great Indurements who did ever know,

When to th’ Almighty thou didst make resort?

And falling on thy face didst humbly pray,

If ’twere his Will that Cup might passe away.

Saying, Not my will, but thy will Lord be done.

When as thou prayedst an Angel did appeare

From Heaven, to comfort thee Gods onely Sonne,

That thou thy Suffrings might’st the better beare,

Beeing in an agony, thy glasse neere run,

Thou prayedst more earnestly, in so great feare,

That pretious sweat came trickling to the ground,

Like drops of blood thy sences to confound.

B3 Loe B3v

Loe here his Will, not thy Will, Lord was done,

And thou content to undergoe all paines,

Sweet Lambe of God, his deare beloved Sonne,

By this great purchase, what to thee remaines?

Of Heaven and Earth thou hast a Kingdom wonne,

Thy Glory beeing equall with thy Gaines,

In ratifying Gods promise on the Earth,

Made many hundred yeares before thy birth.

But now returning to thy sleeping Friends,

That could not watch one houre for love of thee,

Even those three Friends, which on thy Grace depends,

Yet shut those Eies that should their Maker see;

What colour, what excuse, or what amends,

From thy Displeasure now can set them free?

Yet thy pure Pietie bids them Watch and Pray,

Lest in Temptation they be led away.

Although the Spirit was willing to obay,

Yet what great weakenesse in the Flesh was found!

They slept in Ease, whilst thou in Paine didst pray;

Loe, they in Sleepe, and thou in Sorow drown’d:

Yet Gods right Hand was unto thee a stay,

When horror, griefe, and sorow did abound:

His Angel did appeare from Heaven to thee,

To yeeld thee comfort in Extremitie.

But what could comfort then thy troubled Minde,

When Heaven and Earth were both against thee bent?

And thou no hope, no ease, no rest could’st finde,

But must restore that Life, which was but lent;

Was ever Creature in the World so kinde,

But he that from Eternitie was sent?

To satisfie for many Worlds of Sinne,

Whose matchlesse Torments did but then begin.

If B4r

If one Mans sinne doth challendge Death and Hell,

With all the Torments that belong thereto:

If for one sinne such Plagues on David fell,

As grieved him, and did his Seed undoe:

If Salomon, for that he did not well,

Falling from Grace, did loose his Kingdome too:

Ten Tribes beeing taken from his wilfull Sonne

And Sinne the Cause that they were all undone.

What could thy Innocency now expect,

When all the Sinnes that ever were committed,

Were laid to thee, whom no man could detect?

Yet farre thou wert of Man from beeing pittied,

The Judge so just could yeeld thee no respect,

Nor would one jot of penance be remitted;

But greater horror to thy Soule must rise,

Than Heart can thinke, or any Wit devise.

Now drawes the houre of thy affliction neere,

And ugly Death presents himselfe before thee;

Thou now must leave those Friends thou held’st so deere,

Yea those Disciples, who did most adore thee;

Yet in thy countenance doth no Wrath appeare,

Although betrayd to those that did abhorre thee:

Thou did’st vouchsafe to visit them againe,

Who had no apprehension of thy paine.

Their eyes were heavie, and their hearts asleepe,

Nor knew they well what answere then to make thee;

Yet thou as Watchman, had’st a care to keepe

Those few from sinne, that shortly would forsake thee;

But now thou bidst them henceforth Rest and Sleepe,

Thy houre is come, and they at hand to take thee:

The Sonne of God to Sinners made a pray,

Oh hatefull houre! oh blest! oh cursed day!

Loe B4v

Loe here thy great Humility was found,

Beeing King of Heaven, and Monarch of the Earth,

Yet well content to have thy Glory drownd,

By beeing counted of so meane a berth;

Grace, Love, and Mercy did so much abound,

Thou entertaindst the Crosse, even to the death:

And nam’dst thy selfe, the sonne of Man to be,

To purge our pride by thy Humilitie.

But now thy friends whom thou didst call to goe,

Heavy Spectators of thy haplesse case,

See thy Betrayer, whom too well they knowe,

One of the twelve, now object of disgrace,

A trothlesse traytor, and a mortall foe,

With fained kindnesse seekes thee to imbrace;

And gives a kisse, whereby he may deceive thee,

That in the hands of Sinners he might leave thee.

Now muster forth with Swords, with Staves, with Bils,

High Priests and Scribes, and Elders of the Land,

Seeking by force to have their wicked Wils,

Which thou didst never purpose to withstand;

Now thou mak’st haste unto the worst of Ils,

And who they seeke, thou gently doest demand;

This didst thou Lord, t’amaze these Fooles the more,

T’inquire of that, thou knew’st so well before.

When loe these Monsters did not shame to tell,

His name they sought, and found, yet could not know

Jesus of Nazareth, at whose feet they fell,

When Heavenly Wisdome did descend so lowe

To speake to them: they knew they did not well,

Their great amazement made them backeward goe:

Nay, though he said unto them, I am he,

They could not know him, whom their eyes did see.

How C1r

How blinde were they could not discerne the Light!

How dull! if not to understand the truth,

How weake! if meekenesse overcame their might;

How stony hearted, if not mov’d to ruth:

How void of Pitie, and how full of Spight,

Gainst him that was the Lord of Light and Truth:

Here insolent Boldnesse checkt by Love and Grace,

Retires, and falls before our Makers face.

For when he spake to this accursed crew,

And mildely made them know that it was he:

Presents himselfe, that they might take a view;

And what they doubted they might cleerely see;

Nay more, to re-assure that it was true,

He said: I say unto you, I am hee.

If him they sought, he’s willing to obay,

Onely desires the rest might goe their way.

Thus with a heart prepared to endure

The greatest wrongs Impietie could devise,

He was content to stoope unto their Lure,

Although his Greatnesse might doe otherwise:

Here Grace was seised on with hands impure,

And Virtue now must be supprest by Vice,

Pure Innocencie made a prey to Sinne,

Thus did his Torments and our Joyes beginne.

Here faire Obedience shined in his breast,

And did suppresse all feare of future paine;

Love was his Leader unto this unrest,

Whil’st Righteousnesse doth carry up his Traine;

Mercy made way to make us highly blest,

When Patience beat downe Sorrow, Feare and Paine:

Justice sate looking with an angry brow,

On blessed misery appeering now.

C More C1v

More glorious than all the Conquerors

Than ever liv’d within this Earthly round,

More powrefull than all Kings, or Governours

That ever yet within this World were found;

More valiant than the greatest Souldiers

That ever fought, to have their glory crown’d:

For which of them, that ever yet tooke breath,

Sought t’indure the doome of Heaven and Earth?

But our sweet Saviour whom these Jewes did name;

Yet could their learned Ignorance apprehend

No light of grace, to free themselves from blame:

Zeale, Lawes, Religion, now they doe pretend

Against the truth, untruths they seeke to frame:

Now al their powres, their wits, their strengths, they bend

Against one siely, weake, unarmed man,

Who no resistance makes, though much he can,

To free himselfe from these unlearned men,

Who call’d him Saviour in his blessed name;

Yet farre from knowing him their Saviour then,

That came to save both them and theirs from blame;

Though they retire and fall, they come agen

To make a surer purchase of their shame:

With lights and torches now they find the way,

To take the Shepheard whilst the sheep doe stray.

Why should unlawfull actions use the Light?

Inniquitie in Darkenesse seekes to dwell;

Sinne rides his circuit in the dead of Night,

Teaching all soules the ready waies to hell;

Sathan coms arm’d with all the powres of Spight,

Heartens his Champions, makes them rude and fell;

Like rav’ning wolves, to shed his guiltlesse blood,

Who thought no harme, but di’d to doe them good.

Here C2r

Here Falshood beares the shew of formall Right,

Base Treacherie hath gote a guard of men;

Tyranny attends, with all his strength and might,

To leade this siely Lamb to Lyons denne;

Yet he unmoov’d in this most wretched plight,

Goes on to meete them, knowes the houre, and when:

The powre of darkenesse must expresse Gods ire,

Therefore to save these few was his desire.

These few that wait on Poverty and Shame,

And offer to be sharers in his Ils;

These few that will be spreaders of his Fame,

He will not leave to Tyrants wicked wils;

But stlill desires to free them from all blame,

Yet Feare goes forward, Anger Patience kils:

A Saint is mooved to revenge a wrong,

And Mildnesse doth what doth to Wrath belong.

For Peter griev’d at what might then befall,

Yet knew not what to doe, nor what to thinke,

Thought something must be done; now, if at all,

To free his Master, that he might not drinke

This poys’ned draught, farre bitterer than gall,

For now he sees him at the very brinke

Of griesly Death, who gins to shew his face,

Clad in all colours of a deepe disgrace.

And now those hands, that never us’d to fight,

Or drawe a weapon in his owne defence,

Too forward is, to doe his Master right,

Since of his wrongs, hee feeles so true a sence:

But ah poore Peter! now thou wantest might,

And hee’s resolv’d, with them he will goe hence:

To draw thy sword in such a helpelesse cause,

Offends thy Lord, and is against the Lawes.

C2 So C2v

So much he hates Revenge, so farre from Hate,

That he vouchsafes to heale, whom thou dost wound;

His paths are Peace, with none he holdes Debate,

His Patience stands upon so sure a ground,

To counsell thee, although it comes too late:

Nay, to his foes, his mercies so abound,

That he in pitty doth thy will restraine,

And heales the hurt, and takes away the paine.

For willingly he will endure this wrong,

Although his pray’rs might have obtain’d such grace,

As to dissolve their plots though ne’r so strong,

And bring these wicked Actors in worse case

Than Ægypts King on whom Gods plagues did throng,

But that foregoing Scriptures must take place:

If God by prayers had an army sent

Of powrefull Angels, who could them prevent?

Yet mightie Jesus meekely ask’d, Why they

With Swords and Staves doe come as to a Thiefe?

Hee teaching in the Temple day by day

None did offend, or give him cause of griefe.

Now all are forward, glad is he that may

Give most offence, and yeeld him least reliefe:

His hatefull foes are ready now to take him,

And all his deere Disciples do forsake him.

Those deare Disciples that he most did love,

And were attendant at his becke and call,

When triall of affliction came to prove,

They first left him, who now must leave them all:

For they were earth, and he came from above,

Which made them apt to flie, and fit to fall:

Though they protest they never will forsake him,

They do like men, when dangers overtake them.

And C3r

And he alone is bound to loose us all,

Whom with unhallowed hands they led along,

To wicked Caiphas in the Judgement Hall,

Who studies onely how to doe him wrong;

High Priests and Elders, People great and small,

With all reprochfull words about him throng:

False Witnesses are now call’d in apace,

Whose trothlesse tongues must make pale death imbrace

The beauty of the World, Heavens chiefest Glory;

The mirrour of Martyrs, Crowne of holy Saints;

Love of th’Almighty, blessed Angels story;

Water of Life, which none that drinks it, faints;

Guide of the Just, where all our Light we borrow;

Mercy of Mercies; Hearer of Complaints;

Triumpher over Death; Ransomer of Sinne;

Falsly accused: now his paines begin.

Their tongues doe serve him as a Passing bell,

For what they say is certainly beleeved;

So sound a tale unto the Judge they tell,

That he of Life must shortly be bereaved;

Their share of Heaven, they doe not care to sell,

So his afflicted Heart be throughly grieved:

They tell his Words, though farre from his intent,

And what his Speeches were, not what he meant.

That he Gods holy Temple could destroy,

And in three daies could build it up againe;

This seem’d to them a vaine and idle toy,

It would not sinke into their sinful braine:

Christs blessed body, al true Christians joy,

Should die, and in three dayes revive againe:

This did the Lord of Heaven and earth endure,

Unjustly to be charg’d by tongues impure.

C3 And C3v

And now they all doe give attentive eare,

To heare the answere, which he will not make;

The people wonder how he can forbeare,

And these great wrongs so patiently can take;

But yet he answers not, nor doth he care,

Much more he will endure for our sake:

Nor can their wisdoms any way discover,

Who he should be that proov’d so true a Lover.

To entertaine the sharpest pangs of death,

And fight a combate in the depth of hell,

For wretched Worldlings made of dust and earth,

Whose hard’ned hearts, with pride and mallice swell;

In midst of bloody sweat, and dying breath,

He had compassion on these tyrants fell:

And purchast them a place in Heav’n for ever,

When they his Soule and Body sought to sever.

Sinnes ugly mists, so blinded had their eyes,

That at Noone dayes they could discerne no Light;

These were those fooles, that thought themselves so wise,

The Jewish wolves, that did our Saviour bite;

For now they use all meanes they can devise,

To beate downe truth, and goe against all right:

Yea now they take Gods holy name in vaine,

To know the truth, which truth they doe prophane.

The chiefest Hel-hounds of this hatefull crew,

Rose up to aske what answere he could make,

Against those false accusers in his view;

That by his speech, they might advantage take:

He held his peace, yet knew they said not true,

No answere would his holy wisdome make,

Till he was charged in his glorious name,

Whose pleasure ’twas he should endure this shame.

Then C4r

Then with so mild a Majestie he spake,

As they might easly know from whence he came,

His harmelesse tongue doth no exceptions take,

Nor Priests, nor People, meanes he now to blame;

But answers Folly, for true Wisdomes sake,

Beeing charged deeply by his powrefull name,

To tell if Christ the Sonne of God he be,

Who for our sinnes must die, to set us free.

To thee O Caiphas doth he answere give,

That thou hast said, what thou desir’st to know,

And yet thy malice will not let him live,

So much thou art unto thy selfe a foe;

He speaketh truth, but thou wilt not beleeve,

Nor canst thou apprehend it to be so:

Though he expresse his Glory unto thee,

Thy Owly eies are blind, and cannot see.

Thou rend’st thy cloathes, in stead of thy false heart,

And on the guiltlesse lai’st thy guilty crime;

For thou blasphem’st, and he must feele the smart:

To sentence death, thou think’st it now high time;

No witnesse now thou need’st, for this fowle part,

Thou to the height of wickednesse canst clime:

And give occasion to the ruder sort,

To make afflictions, sorrows, follies sport.

Now when the dawne of day gins to appeare,

And all your wicked counsels have an end,

To end his Life, that holds you all so deere,

For to that purpose did your studies bend;

Proud Pontius Pilate must the matter heare,

To your untroths his eares he now must lend:

Sweet Jesus bound, to him you led away,

Of his most pretious blood to make youtr pray.

Which, C4v

Which, when that wicked Caytife did perceive,

By whose lewd meanes he came to this distresse;

He brought the price of blood he did receive,

Thinking thereby to make his fault seeme lesse,

And with these Priests and Elders did it leave,

Confest his fault, wherein he did transgresse:

But when he saw Repentance unrespected,

He hang’d himselfe; of God and Man rejected.

By this Example, what can be expected

From wicked Man, which on the Earth doth live?

But faithlesse dealing, feare of God neglected;

Who for their private gaine cares not to sell

The Innocent Blood of Gods most deere elected,

As did that caytife wretch, now damn’d in Hell:

If in Christs Schoole, he tooke so great a fall,

What will they doe, that come not there at all.

Now Pontius Pilate is to judge the Cause

Of faultlesse Jesus, who before him stands;

Who neither hath offended Prince, nor Lawes,

Although he now be brought in woefull bands:

O noble Governour, make thou yet a pause,

Doe not in innocent blood imbrue thy hands;

But heare the words of thy most worthy wife,

Who sends to thee, to beg her Saviours life.

Let barb’rous crueltie farre depart from thee,

And in true Justice take afflictions part;

Open thine eies, that thou the truth mai’st see,

Doe not the thing that goes against thy heart,

Condemne not him that must thy Saviour be;

But view his holy Life, his good desert.

Let not us Women glory in Mens fall,

Who had power given to over-rule us all.

Till D1r

Eves Apologie.
Till now your indiscretion sets us free,

And makes our former fault much lesse appeare;

Our Mother Eve, who tasted of the Tree,

Giving to Adam what shee held most deare,

Was simply good, and had no powre to see,

The after-comming harme did not appeare:

The subtile Serpent that our Sex betraide,

Before our fall so sure a plot had laide.

That undiscerning Ignorance perceav’d

No guile, or craft that was by him intended;

For had she knowne, of what we were bereav’d,

To his request she had not condiscended.

But she (poore soule) by cunning was deceav’d,

No hurt therein her harmelesse Heart intended:

For she alleadg’d Gods word, which he denies,

That they should die, but even as Gods, be wise.

But surely Adam can not be excusde,

Her fault though great, yet hee was most too blame;

What Weaknesse offerd, Strength might have refusde,

Being Lord of all, the greater was his shame:

Although the Serpents craft had her abusde,

Gods holy word oughrt all his actions frame,

For he was Lord and King of all the earth,

Before poore Eve had either life or breath.

Who being fram’d by Gods eternall hand,

The perfect’st man that ever breath’d on earth;

And from Gods mouth receiv’d that strait command,

The breach whereof he knew was present death:

Yea having powre to rule both Sea and Land,

Yet with one Apple wonne to loose that breath

Which God had breathed in his beauteous face,

Bringing us all in danger and disgrace.

D And D1v

And then to lay the fault on Patience backe,

That we (poore women) must endure it all;

We know right well he did discretion lacke,

Beeing not perswaded thereunto at all;

If Eve did erre, it was for knowledge sake,

The fruit beeing faire perswaded him to fall:

No subtill Serpents falshood did betray him,

If he would eate it, who had powre to stay him?

Not Eve, whose fault was onely too much love,

Which made her give this present to her Deare,

That what shee tasted, he likewise might prove,

Whereby his knowledge might become more cleare;

He never sought her weakenesse to reprove,

With those sharpe words, which he of God did heare:

Yet Men will boast of Knowledge, which he tooke

From Eves faire hand, as from a learned Booke.

If any Evill did in her remaine,

Beeing made of him, he was the ground of all;

If one of many Worlds could lay a staine

Upon our Sexe, and worke so great a fall

To wretched Man, by Satans subtill traine;

What will so fowle a fault amongst you all?

Her weakenesse did the Serpents words obay;

But you in malice Gods deare Sonne betray.

Whom, if unjustly you condemne to die,

Her sinne was small, to what you doe commit;

All mortall sinnes that doe for vengeance crie,

Are not to be compared unto it:

If many worlds would altogether trie,

By all their sinnes the wrath of God to get;

This sinne of yours, surmounts them all as farre

As doth the Sunne, another little starre.

Then D2r

Then let us have our Libertie againe,

And challendge to your selves no Sov’raigntie;

You came not in the world without our paine,

Make that a barre against your crueltie;

Your fault beeing greater, why should you disdaine

Our beeing your equals, free from tyranny?

If one weake woman simply did offend,

This sinne of yours, hath no excuse, nor end.

To which (poore soules) we never gave consent,

Witnesse thy wife (O Pilate) speakes for all;

Who did but dreame, and yet a message sent,

That thou should’st have nothing to doe at all

With that just man; which, if thy heart relent,

Why wilt thou be a reprobate with Saul?

To seeke the death of him that is so good,

For thy soules health to shed his dearest blood.

Yea, so thou mai’st these sinful people please,

Thou art content against all truth and right,

To seale this act, that may procure thine ease

With blood, and wrong, with tyrannie, and might;

The multitude thou seekest to appease,

By base dejection of this heavenly Light:

Demanding which of these that thou should’st loose,

Whether the Thiefe, or Christ King of the Jewes.

Base Barrabas the Thiefe, they all desire,

And thou more base than he, perform’st their will;

Yet when thy thoughts backe to themselves retire,

Thou art unwilling to commit this ill:

Oh that thou couldst unto such grace aspire,

That thy polluted lips might never kill

That Honour, which right Judgement ever graceth,

To purchase shame, which all true worth defaceth.

D2 Art D2v

Art thou a Judge, and asketh what to do

With one, in whom no fault there can be found?

The death of Christ wilt thou consent unto,

Finding no cause, no reason, nor no ground?

Shall he be scourg’d, and crucified too?

And must his miseries by thy meanes abound?

Yet not asham’d to aske what he hath done,

When thine owne conscience seeks this sinne to shunne.

Three times thou ask’st, What evill hath he done?

And saist, thou find’st in him no cause of death,

Yet wilt thou chasten Gods beloved Sonne,

Although to thee no word of ill he saith:

For Wrath must end, what Malice hath begunne,

And thou must yield to stop his guiltlesse breath.

This rude tumultuous rowt doth presse so sore,

That thou condemnest him thou shouldst adore.

Yet Pilate, this can yeeld thee no content,

To exercise thine owne authoritie,

But unto Herod he must needes be sent,

To reconcile thy selfe by tyrannie:

Was this the greatest good in Justice meant,

When thou perceivst no fault in him to be?

If thou must make thy peace by Virtues fall,

Much better ’twere not to be friends at all.

Yet neither thy sterne browe, nor his great place,

Can draw an answer from the Holy One:

His false accusers, nor his great disgrace,

Nor Herods scoffes; to him they are all one:

He neither cares, nor feares his owne ill case,

Though being despis’d and mockt of every one:

King Herods gladnesse gives him little ease,

Neither his anger seekes he to appease.

Yet D3r

Yet this is strange, that base Impietie

Should yeeld those robes of honour, which were due;

Pure white, to shew his great Integritie,

His innocency, that all the world might view;

Perfections height in lowest penury,

Such glorious poverty as they never knew:

Purple and Scarlet well might him beseeme,

Whose pretious blood must all the world redeeme.

And that Imperiall Crowne of Thornes he wore,

Was much more pretious than the Diadem

Of any King that ever liv’d before,

Or since his time, their honour’s but a dreame

To his eternall glory, beeing so poore,

To make a purchasse of that heavenly Realme;

Where God with all his Angels lives in peace,

No griefes, nor sorrowes, but all joyes increase.

Those royall robes, which they in scorne did give,

To make him odious to the common sort,

Yeeld light of Grace to those whose soules shall live

Within the harbour of this heavenly port;

Much doe they joy, and much more doe they grieve,

His death, their life, should make his foes such sport:

With sharpest thornes to pricke his blessed face,

Our joyfull sorrow, and his greater grace.

Three feares at once possessed Pilates heart;

The first, Christs innocencie, which so plaine appeares;

The next, That he which now must feele this smart,

Is Gods deare Sonne, for any thing he heares:

But that which proov’d the deepest wounding dart,

Is Peoples threat’nings, which he so much feares,

That he to sar could not be a friend,

Unlesse he sent sweet Jesus to his end.

D3 Now D3v

Now Pilate thou art proov’d a painted wall,

A golden Sepulcher with rotten bones;

From right to wrong, from equitie to fall:

If none upbraid thee, yet the very stones

Will rise against thee, and in question call

His blood, his teares, his sighes, his bitter groanes:

All these will witnesse at the latter day,

When water cannot wash thy sinne away.

Canst thou be innocent, that gainst all right,

Wilt yeeld to what thy conscience doth withstand?

Beeing a man of knowledge, powre, and might,

To let the wicked carrie such a hand,

Before thy face to blindfold Heav’ns bright light,

And thou to yeeld to what they did demand?

Washing thy hands, thy conscience cannot cleare,

But to all worlds this staine must needs appeare.

For loe, the Guiltie doth accuse the Just,

And faultie Judge condemnes the Innocent;

And wilfull Jewes to exercise their lust,

With whips and taunts against their Lord are bent;

He basely us’d, blasphemed, scorn’d, and curst,

Our heavenly King to death for us they sent:

Reproches, slanders, spittings in his face,

Spight doing all her worst in his disgrace.

Christ going
to death.
And now this long expected houre drawes neere,

When blessed Saints with Angels doe condole;

His holy march, soft pace, and heavy cheere,

In humble sort to yeeld his glorious soule,

By his deserts the fowlest sinnes to cleare;

And in th’eternall booke of heaven to enroule

A satisfaction till the generall doome,

Of all sinnes past, and all that are to come.

They D4r

They that had seene this pitifull Procession,

From Pilates Palace to Mount Calvarie,

Might thinke he answer’d for some great transgression,

Beeing in such odious sort condemn’d to die;

He plainely shewed that his own profession

Was virtue, patience, grace, love, piety;

And how by suffering he could conquer more

Than all the Kings that ever liv’d before.

First went the Crier with open mouth proclayming

The heavy sentence of Iniquitie,

The Hangman next, by his base office clayming

His right in Hell, where sinners never die,

Carrying the nayles, the people still blaspheming

Their maker, using all impiety;

The Thieves attending him on either side,

The teares of
the daughters
of Jerusalem.
The Serjeants watching, while the women cri’d.

Thrice happy women that obtaind such grace

From him whose worth the world could not containe;

Immediately to turne about his face,

As not remembring his great griefe and paine,

To comfort you, whose teares powr’d forth apace

On Flora’s bankes, like shewers of Aprils raine:

Your cries inforced mercie, grace, and love

From him, whom greatest Princes could not moove:

To speake on word, nor once to lift his eyes

Unto proud Pilate, no nor Herod, king;

By all the Questions that they could devise,

Could make him answere to no manner of thing;

Yet these poore women, by their pitious cries

Did moove their Lord, their Lover, and their King,

To take compassion, turne about, and speake

To them whose hearts were ready now to breake.

Most D4v

Most blessed daughters of Jerusalem,

Who found such favour in your Saviors sight,

To turne his face when you did pitie him;

Your tearefull eyes, beheld his eies more bright;

Your Faith and Love unto such grace did clime,

To have reflection from this Heav’nly Light:

Your Eagles eyes did gaze against this Sunne,

Your hearts did thinke, he dead, the world were done.

When spightfull men with torments did oppresse

Th’afflicted body of this innocent Dove,

Poore women seeing how much they did transgresse,

By teares, by sighes, by cries intreat, nay prove,

What may be done among the thickest presse,

They labour still these tyrants hearts to move;

In pitie and compassion to forbeare

Their whipping, spurning, tearing of his haire.

But all in vaine, their malice hath no end,

Their hearts more hard than flint, or marble stone;

Now to his griefe, his greatnesse they attend,

When he (God knowes) had rather be alone;

They are his guard, yet seeke all meanes to offend:

Well may he grieve, well may he sigh and groane,

Under the burthen of a heavy crosse,

He faintly goes to make their gaine his losse.

The sorrow
of the virgin
Marie.
His woefull Mother wayting on her Sonne,

All comfortlesse in depth of sorow drowned;

Her griefes extreame, although but new begun,

To see his bleeding body oft shee swouned;

How could shee choose but thinke her selfe undone,

He dying, with whose glory shee was crowned?

None ever lost so great a losse as shee,

Beeing Sonne, and Father of Eternitie.

Her E1r

Her teares did wash away his pretious blood,

That sinners might not tread it under feet

To worship him, and that it did her good

Upon her knees, although in open street,

Knowing he was the Jessie floure and bud,

That must be gath’red when it smell’d most sweet:

Her Sonne, her Husband, Father, Saviour, King,

Whose death killd Death, and tooke away his sting.

Most blessed Virgin, in whose faultlesse fruit,

All Nations of the earth must needes rejoyce,

No Creature having sence though ne’r so brute,

But joyes and trembles when they heare his voyce;

His wisedome strikes the wisest persons mute,

Faire chosen vessell, happy in his choyce:

Deere Mother of our Lord, whose reverend name,

All people Blessed call, and spread thy fame.

For the Almightie magnified thee,

And looked downe upon thy meane estate;

Thy lowly mind, and unstain’d Chastitie,

Did pleade for Love at great Jehovaes gate,

Who sending swift-wing’d Gabriel unto thee,

His holy will and pleasure to relate;

To thee most beauteous Queene of Woman-kind,

The Angell did unfold his Makers mind.

The salutation
of the
virgin Marie.
He thus beganne, Haile Mary full of grace,

Thou freely art beloved of the Lord,

He is with thee, behold thy happy case;

What endlesse comfort did these words afford

To thee that saw’st an Angell in the place

Proclaime thy Virtues worth, and to record

Thee blessed among women: that thy praise

Should last so many worlds beyond thy daies.

E Loe E1v

Loe, this high message to thy troubled spirit,

He doth deliver in the plainest sence;

Sayes, Thou shouldst beare a Sonne that shal inherit

His Father Davids throne, free from offence,

Call’s him that Holy thing, by whose pure merit

We must be sav’d, tels what he is, of whence;

His worth, his greatnesse, what his name must be,

Who should be call’d the Sonne of the most High.

He cheeres thy troubled soule, bids thee not feare;

When thy pure thoughts could hardly apprehend

This salutation, when he did appeare;

Nor couldst thou judge, whereto those words did tend;

His pure aspect did moove thy modest cheere

To muse, yet joy that God vouchsaf’d to send

His glorious Angel; who did thee assure

To beare a child, although a Virgin pure.

Nay more, thy Sonne should Rule and Raigne for ever;

Yea, of his Kingdom there should be no end;

Over the house of J acob, Heavens great Giver

Would give him powre, and to that end did send

His faithfull servant Gabriel to deliver

To thy chast eares no word that might offend:

But that this blessed Infant borne of thee,

Thy Sonne, The onely Sonne of God should be.

When on the knees of thy submissive heart

Thou humbly didst demand, How that should be?

Thy virgin thoughts did thinke, none could impart

This great good hap, and blessing unto thee;

Farre from desire of any man thou art,

Knowing not one, thou art from all men free:

When he, to answere this thy chaste desire,

Gives thee more cause to wonder and admire.

That E2r

That thou a blessed Virgin shoulst remaine,

Yea that the holy Ghost should come on thee

A maiden Mother, subject to no paine,

For highest powre should overshadow thee:

Could thy faire eyes from teares of joy refraine,

When God look’d downe upon thy poore degree?

Making thee Servant, Mother, Wife, and Nurse

To Heavens bright King, that freed us from the curse.

Thus beeing crown’d with glory from above,

Grace and Perfection resting in thy breast,

Thy humble answer doth approove thy Love,

And all these sayings in thy heart doe rest:

Thy Child a Lambe, and thou a Turtle dove,

Above all other women highly blest;

To find such favour in his glorious sight,

In whom thy heart and soule doe most delight.

What wonder in the world more strange could seeme,

Than that a Virgin could conceive and beare

Within her wombe a Sonne, That should redeeme

All Nations on the earth, and should repaire

Our old decaies: who in such high esteeme,

Should prize all mortals, living in his feare;

As not to shun Death, Povertie, and Shame,

To save their soules, and spread his glorious Name.

And partly to fulfil his Fathers pleasure,

Whose powrefull hand allowes it not for strange,

If he vouchsafe the riches of his treasure,

Pure Righteousnesse to take such il exchange;

On all Iniquitie to make a seisure,

Giving his snow-white Weed for ours in change;

Our mortall garment in a skarlet Die,

Too base a roabe for Immortalitie.

E2 Most E2v

Most happy news, that ever yet was brought,

When Poverty and Riches met together,

The wealth of Heaven, in our fraile clothing wrought

Salvation by his happy comming hither:

Mighty Messias, who so deerely bought

Us Slaves to sinne, farre lighter than a feather:

Toss’d to and fro with every wicked wind,

The world, the flesh, or Devill gives to blind.

Who on his shoulders our blacke sinnes doth beare

To that most blessed, yet accursed Crosse;

Where fastning them, he rids us of our feare,

Yea for our gaine he is content with losse,

Our ragged clothing scornes he not to weare,

Though foule, rent, torne, disgracefull, rough and grosse,

Spunne by that monster Sinne, and weav’d by Shame,

Which grace it selfe, disgrac’d with impure blame.

How canst thou choose (faire Virgin) then but mourne,

When this sweet of-spring of thy body dies,

When thy faire eies beholds his bodie torne,

The peoples fury, heares the womens cries;

His holy name prophan’d, He made a scorne,

Abusde with all their hatefull slaunderous lies:

Bleeding and fainting in such wondrous sort,

As scarce his feeble limbes can him support.

Now Simon of Cyrene passeth them by,

Whom they compell sweet Jesus Crosse to beare

To Golgatha, there doe they meane to trie

All cruell meanes to worke in him dispaire:

That odious place, where dead mens skulls did lie,

There must our Lord for present death prepare:

His sacred blood must grace that loathsome field,

To purge more filth, than that foule place could yield.

For E3r

Christs
death.
For now arriv’d unto this hatefull place,

In which his Crosse erected needes must bee,

False hearts, and willing hands come on apace,

All prest to ill, and all desire to see:

Gracelesse themselves, still seeking to disgrace;

Bidding him, If the Sonne of God he bee,

To save himselfe, if he could others save,

With all th’opprobrious words that might deprave.

His harmelesse hands unto the Crosse they nailde,

And feet that never trode in sinners trace,

Betweene two theeves, unpitied, unbewailde,

Save of some few possessors of his grace,

With sharpest pangs and terrors thus appailde,

Sterne Death makes way, that Life might give him place:

His eyes with teares, his body full of wounds,

Death last of paines his sorrows all confounds.

His joynts dis-joynted, and his legges hang downe,

His alablaster breast, his bloody side,

His members torne, and on his head a Crowne

Of sharpest Thorns, to satisfie for pride:

Anguish and Paine doe all his Sences drowne,

While they his holy garments do divide:

His bowells drie, his heart full fraught with griefe,

Crying to him that yeelds him no reliefe.

To my Ladie
of Cumberland.
This with the eie of Faith thou maist behold,

Deere Spouse of Christ, and more than I can write;

And here both Griefe and Joy thou maist unfold,

To view thy Love in this most heavy plight,

Bowing his head, his bloodlesse body cold;

Those eies waxe dimme that gave us all our light,

His count’nance pale, yet still continues sweet,

His blessed blood watring his pierced feet.

E3 O E3v

O glorious miracle without compare!

Last, but not least which was by him effected;

Uniting death, life, misery, joy and care,

By his sharpe passion in his deere elected:

Who doth the Badges of like Liveries weare,

Shall find how deere they are of him respected.

No joy, griefe, paine, life, death, was like to his,

Whose infinitie dolours wrought eternall blisse.

The terror of
all creatures
at that instant
when
Christ died.
What creature on the earth did then remaine,

On whom the horror of this shamefull deed

Did not inflict some violent touch, or straine,

To see the Lord of all the world to bleed?

His dying breath did rend huge rockes in twaine,

The heavens betooke them to their mourning weed:

The Sunne grew darke, and scorn’d to give them light,

Who durst ecclipse a glory farre more bright.

The Moone and Starres did hide themselves for shame,

The earth did rtremble in her loyall feare,

The Temple vaile did rent to spread his fame,

The Monuments did open every where;

Dead Saints did rise forth of their graves, and came

To divers people that remained there

Within that holy City; whose offence,

Did put their Maker to this large expence.

Things reasonable, and reasonlesse possest

The terrible impression of this fact;

For his oppression made them all opprest,

When with his blood he seal’d so faire an act,

In restlesse miserie to procure our rest;

His glorious deedes that dreadfull prison sackt:

When Death, Hell, Divells, using all their powre,

Were overcome in that most blessed houre.

Being E4r

Being dead, he killed Death, and did survive

That prowd insulting Tyrant: in whose place

He sends bright Immortalitie to revive

Those whom his yron armes did long embrace;

Who from their loathsome graves brings them alive

In glory to behold their Saviours face:

Who tooke the keys of all Deaths powre away,

Opening to those that would his name obay.

O wonder, more than man can comprehend,

Our Joy and Griefe both at one instant fram’d,

Compounded: Contrarieties contend

Each to exceed, yet neither to be blam’d.

Our Griefe to see our Saviours wretched end,

Our Joy to know both Death and Hell he tam’d:

That we may say, O Death, where is thy sting?

Hell, yeeld thy victory to thy conq’ring King.

Can stony hearts refraine from shedding teares,

To view the life and death of this sweet Saint?

His austere course in yong and tender yeares,

When great indurements could not make him faint:

His wants, his paines, his torments, and his feares,

All which he undertooke without constraint,

To shew that infinite Goodnesse must restore,

What infinite Justice looked for, and more.

Yet, had he beene but of a meane degree,

His suffrings had beene small to what they were;

Meane minds will shew of what meane mouldes they bee;

Small griefes seeme great, yet Use doth make them beare:

Buut ah! tis hard to stirre a sturdy tree;

Great dangers hardly puts great minds in feare:

They will conceale their griefes which mightie grow

In their stout hearts untill they overflow.

If E4v

If then an earthly Prince may ill endure

The least of those afflictions which he bare,

How could this all-commaunding King procure

Such grievous torments with his mind to square,

Legions of Angells being at his Lure?

He might have liv’d in pleasure without care:

None can conceive the bitter paines he felt,

When God and man must suffer without guilt.

Take all the Suffrings Thoughts can thinke upon,

In ev’ry man that this huge world hath bred;

Let all those Paines and Suffrings meet in one,

Yet are they not a Mite to that he did

Endure for us: Oh let us thinke thereon,

That God should have his pretious blood so shed:

His Greatnesse clothed in our fraile attire,

And pay so deare a ransome for the hire.

Loe, here was glorie, miserie, life and death,

An union of contraries did accord;

Gladnesse and sadnesse here had one berth,

This wonder wrought the Passion of our Lord,

He suffring for all the sinnes of all th’earth,

No satisfaction could the world afford:

But this rich Jewell, which from God was sent,

To call all those that would in time repent.

Which I present (deare Lady) to your view,

Upon the Crosse depriv’d of life or breath,

To judge if ever Lover were so true,

To yeeld himselfe unto such shamefull death:

Now blessed Joseph doth both beg and sue,

To have his body who possest his faith,

And thinkes, if he this small request obtaines,

He wins more wealth than in the world remaines.

This F1r

Thus honourable Joseph is possest,

Of what his heart and soule so much desired,

And now he goes to give that body rest,

That all his life, with griefes and paines was tired;

He finds a Tombe, a Tombe most rarely blest,

In which was never creature yet interred;

There this most pretious body he incloses,

Imbalmd and deckt with Lillies and with Roses.

Loe here the Beautie of Heav’n and Earth is laid,

The purest coulers underneath the Sunne,

But in this place he cannot long be staid,

Glory must end what horror hath begun;

For he the furie of the Heavens obay’d,

And now he must possesse what he hath wonne:

The Maries doe with pretious balmes attend,

But beeing come, they find it to no end.

Christs resurrection.
For he is rize from Death t’Eternall Life,

And now those pretious oyntments he desires

Are brought unto him, by his faithfull Wife

The holy Church; who in those rich attires,

Of Patience, Love, Long suffring, Voide of strife,

Humbly presents those oyntments he requires:

The oyles of Mercie, Charitie, and Faith,

Shee onely gives that which no other hath.

A briefe description
of
his beautie
upon the
Canticles.
These pretious balmes doe heale his grievous wounds,

And water of Compunction washeth cleane

The soares of sinnes, which in our Soules abounds;

So faire it heales, no skarre is ever seene;

Yet all the glory unto Christ redounds,

His pretious blood is that which must redeeme;

Those well may make us lovely in his sight,

But cannot save without his powrefull might.

F This F1v

This is that Bridegroome that appeares so faire,

So sweet, so lovely in his Spouses sight,

That unto Snowe we may his face compare,

His cheekes like skarlet, and his eyes so bright

As purest Doves that in the rivers are,

Washed with milke, to give the more delight;

His head is likened to the finest gold,

His curled lockes so beauteous to behold;

Blacke as a Raven in her blackest hew;

His lips like skarlet threeds, yet much more sweet

Than is the sweetest hony dropping dew,

Or hony combes, where all the Bees doe meet;

Yea, he is constant, and his words are true,

His cheekes are beds of spices, flowers sweet;

His lips like Lillies, dropping downe pure mirrhe,

Whose love, before all worlds we doe preferre.

To my Lady
of Cumberland.
Ah! give me leave (good Lady) now to leave

This taske of Beauty which I tooke in hand,

I cannot wade so deepe, I may deceave

My selfe, before I can attaine the land;

Therefore (good Madame) in your heart I leave

His perfect picture, where it still shall stand,

Deepely engraved in that holy shrine,

Environed with Love and Thoughts divine.

There may you see him as a God in glory,

And as a man in miserable case;

There may you reade his true and perfect storie,

His bleeding body there you may embrace,

And kisse his dying cheekes with teares of sorrow,

With joyfull griefe, you may intreat for grace;

And all your prayers, and your almes-deeds

May bring to stop his cruell wounds that bleeds.

Oft F2r

Oft times hath he made triall of your love,

And in your Faith hath tooke no small delight,

By Crosses and Afflictions he doth prove,

Yet still your heart remaineth firme and right;

Your love so strong, as nothing can remove,

Your thoughts beeing placed on him both day and night,

Your constant soule doth lodge betweene her brests,

This Sweet of sweets, in which all glory rests.

Sometime h’appeares to thee in Shepheards weed,

And so presents himselfe before thine eyes,

A good old man; that goes his flocke to feed;

Thy colour changes, and thy heart doth rise;

Thou call’st, he comes, thou find’st tis he indeed,

Thy Soule conceaves that he is truely wise:

Nay more, desires that he may be the Booke,

Whereon thine eyes continually may looke.

Sometime imprison’d, naked, poore, and bare,

Full of diseases, impotent, and lame,

Blind, deafe, and dumbe, he comes unto his faire,

To see if yet shee will remaine the same;

Nay sicke and wounded, now thou do’st prepare

To cherish him in thy dear Lovers name:

Yea thou bestow’st all paines, all cost, all care,

That may relieve him, and his health repaire.

These workes of mercy are so sweete, so deare

To him that is the Lord of Life and Love,

That all thy prayers he vouchsafes to heare,

And sends his holy Spirit from above;

Thy eyes are op’ned, and thou seest so cleare,

No worldly thing can thy faire mind remove;

Thy faith, thy prayers, and his speciall grace

Doth open Heav’n, where thou behold’st his face.

F2 These F2v

These are those Keyes Saint Peter did possesse,

Which with a Spirituall powre are giv’n to thee,

To heale the soules of those that doe transgresse,

By thy faire virtues; which, if once they see,

Unto the like they doe their minds addresse,

Such as thou art, such they desire to be:

If they be blind, thou givst to them their sight;

If deafe or lame, they heare, and goe upright.

Yea, if possest with any evill spirits,

Such powre thy faire examples have obtain’d

To cast them out, applying Christs pure merits,

By which they are bound, and of all hurt restrain’d:

If strangely taken, wanting sence or wits,

Thy faith appli’d unto their soules so pain’d,

Healeth all griefes, and makes them grow so strong,

As no defects can hang upon them long.

Thou beeing thus rich, no riches do’st respect,

Nor do’st thou care for any outward showe;

The proud that doe faire Virtues rules neglect,

Desiring place, thou sittest them belowe:

All wealth and honour thou do’st quite reject,

If thou perceivst that once it prooves a foe

To virtue, learning, and the powres divine,

Thou mai’st convert, but never wilt incline

To fowle disorder, or licentiousnesse

But in thy modest vaile do’st sweetly cover

The staines of other sinnes, to make themselves,

That by this meanes thou mai’st in time recover

Those weake lost sheepe that did so long transgresse,

Presenting them unto thy deerest Lover;

That when he brings them backe unto his fold,

In their conversion then he may behold

Thy F3r

Thy beauty shining brighter than the Sunne,

Thine honour more than ever Monarke gaind,

Thy wealth exceeding his that Kingdomes wonne,

Thy Love unto his Spouse, thy Faith unfaind,

Thy Constancy in what thou hast begun,

Till thou his heavenly Kingdom have obtaind;

Respecting worldly wealth to be but drosse,

Which, if abuz’d, doth proove the owners losse.

Great Cleopatra’s love to Anthony,

Can no way be compared unto thine;

Shee left her Love in his extremitie,

When greatest need should cause her to combine

Her force with his, to get the Victory:

Her Love was earthly, and thy Love Divine;

Her Love was onely to support her pride,

Humilitie thy Love and Thee doth guide.

That glorious part of Death, which last shee plai’d,

T’appease the ghost of her deceased Love,

Had never needed, if shee could have stai’d

When his extreames made triall, and did prove

Her leaden love unconstant, and afraid:

Their wicked warres the wrath of God might move

To take revenge for chast Octavia’s wrongs,

Because shee enjoyes what unto her belongs.

No Cleopatra, though thou wert as faire

As any Creature in Antonius eyes;

Yea though thou wert as rich, as wise, as rare,

As any Pen could write, or Wit devise;

Yet with this Lady canst thou not compare,

Whose inward virtues all thy worth denies:

Yet thou a blacke Egyptian do’st appeare;

Thou false, shee true; and to her Love more deere.

F3 Shee F3v

Shee sacrificeth to her deerest Love,

With flowres of Faith, and garlands of Good deeds;

Shee flies not from him when afflictions prove,

Shee beares his crosse, and stops his wounds that bleeds;

Shee loves and lives chaste as the Turtle dove,

Shee attends upon him, and his flocke shee feeds;

Yea for one touch of death which thou did’st trie,

A thousand deaths shee every day doth die.

Her virtuouus life exceeds thy worthy death,

Yea, she hath richer ornaments of state,

Shining more glorious than in dying breath

Thou didst; when either pride, or cruell fate,

Did worke thee to prevent a double death;

To stay the malice, scorne, and cruell hate

Of Rome; that joy’d to see thy pride pull’d downe,

Whose Beauty wrought the hazard of her Crowne.

Good Madame, though your modestie be such,

Not to acknowledge what we know and find;

And that you thinke these prayses overmuch,

Which doe expresse the beautie of your mind;

Yet pardon me although I give a touch

Unto their eyes, that else would be so blind,

As not to see thy store, and their owne wants,

From whose faire seeds of Virtue spring these plants.

And knowe, when first into this world I came,

This charge was giv’n me by th’Eternall powres,

Th’everlasting Trophie of thy fame,

To build and decke it with the sweetest flowres

That virtue yeelds; Then Madame, doe not blame

Me, when I shew the World but what is yours,

And decke you with that crowne which is your due,

That of Heav’ns beauty Earth may take a view.

Though F4r

Though famous women elder times have knowne,

Whose glorious actions did appeare so bright,

That powrefull men by them were overthrowne,

And all their armies overcome in fight;

The Scythian women by their powre alone,

Put king Darius unto shamefull flight:

All Asia yeelded to their conq’ring hand,

Great Alexander could not their powre withstand.

Whose worth, though writ in lines of blood and fire,

Is not to be compared unto thine;

Their powre was small to overcome Desire,

Or to direct their wayes by Virtues line:

Were they alive, they would thy Life admire,

And unto thee their honours would resigne:

For thou a greater conquest do’st obtaine,

Than they who have so many thousands slaine.

Wise Deborah that judged Israel,

Nor valiant Judeth cannot equall thee,

Unto the first, God did his will reveale,

And gave her powre to set his people free;

Yea Judeth had the powre likewise to queale

Proud Holifernes, that the just might see

What small defence vaine pride, and greatnesse hath

Against the weapons of Gods word and faith.

But thou farre greater warre do’st still maintaine,

Against that many headed monster Sinne,

Whose mortall sting hath many thousand slaine,

And every day fresh combates doe begin;

Yet cannot all his venome lay one staine

Upon thy Soule, thou do’st the conquest winne,

Though all the world he daily doth devoure,

Yet over thee he never could get powre.

For F4v

For that one worthy deed by Deb’rah done,

Thou hast performed many in thy time;

For that one Conquest that faire Judeth wonne,

By which shee did the steps of honour clime;

Thou hast the Conquest of all Conquests wonne,

When to thy Conscience Hell can lay no crime:

For that one head that Judeth bare away,

Thou tak’st from Sinne a hundred heads a day.

Though virtuous Hester fasted three dayes space,

And spent her time in prayers all that while,

That by Gods powre shee might obtaine such grace,

That shee and hers might not become a spoyle

To wicked Hamon, in whose crabbed face

Was seene the map of malice, envie, guile;

Her glorious garments though shee put apart,

So to present a pure and single heart

To God, in sack-cloth, ashes, and with teares;

Yet must faire Hester needs give place to thee,

Who hath continu’d dayes, weekes, months, and yeares,

In Gods true service, yet thy heart beeing ftree

From doubt of death, or any other feares:

Fasting from sinne, thou pray’st thine eyes may see

Him that hath full possession of thine heart,

From whose sweet love thy Soule can never part.

His Love, not Feare, makes thee to fast and pray,

No kinsmans counsell needs thee to advise;

The sack-cloth thou do’st weare both night and day,

Is worldly troubles, which thy rest denies;

The ashes are the Vanities that play

Over thy head, and steale before thine eyes;

Which thou shak’st off when mourning time is past,

That royall roabes thou may’st put on at last.

Joachims G1r

Joachims wife; that faire and constant Dame,

Who rather chose a cruel death to die,

Than yeeld to those two Elders voide of shame,

When both at once her chastitie did trie,

Whose Innocencie bare away the blame,

Untill th’Almighty Lord had heard her crie;

And rais’d the spirit of a Child to speake,

Making the powrefull judged of the weake.

Although her virtue doe deserve to be

Writ by that hand that never purchas’d blame;

In holy Writ, where all the world may see

Her perfit life, and ever honoured name:

Yet was she not to be compar’d to thee,

Whose many virtues doe increase thy fame:

For shee oppos’d against old doting Lust,

Who with lifes danger she did feare to trust.

But your chaste breast, guarded with strength of mind,

Hates the imbracements of unchaste desires;

You loving God, live in your selfe confind

From unpure Love, your purest thoughts retires,

Your perfit sight could never be so blind,

To entertaine the old or yong desires

Of idle Lovers; which the world presents,

Whose base abuses worthy minds prevents.

Even as the constant Lawrell, alwayes greene,

No parching heate of Summer can deface,

Nor pinching Winter ever yet was seene,

Whose nipping frosts could wither, or disgrace:

So you (deere Ladie) still remaine as Queene,

Subduing all affections that are base,

Unalterable by the change of times,

Not following, but lamenting others crimes.

G No G1v

No feare of Death, or dread of open shame,

Hinders your perfect heart to give consent;

Nor loathsome age, whom Time could never tame

From ill designes, whereto their youth was bent;

But love of God, care to preserve your fame,

And spend that pretious time that God hath sent,

In all good exercises of the minde,

Whereto your noble nature is inclin’d.

That Ethyopian Queene did gaine great fame,

Who from the Southerne world, did come to see

Great Salomon; the glory of whose name

Had spread it selfe ore all the earth, to be

So great, that all the Princes thither came,

To be spectators of his royaltie:

And this faire Queene of Sheba came from farre,

To reverence this new appearing starre.

From th’utmost part of all the Earth shee came,

To heare the Wisdom of this worthy King;

To trie if Wonder did agree with Fame,

And many faire rich presents did she bring:

Yea many strange hard questions did shee frame,

All which were answer’d by this famous King:

Nothing was hid that in her heart did rest,

And all to proove this King so highly blest.

Here Majestie with Majestie did meete,

Wisdome to Wisdome yeelded true content,

One Beauty did another Beauty greet,

Bounty to Bountie never could repent;

Here all distaste is troden under feet,

No losse of time, where time was so well spent

In virtuous exercises of the minde,

In which this Queene did much contentment finde.

Spirits G2r

Spirits affect where they doe sympathize,

Wisdom desires Wisdome to embrace,

Virtue covets her like, and doth devize

How she her friends may entertaine with grace;

Beauty sometime is pleas’d to feed her eyes,

With viewing Beautie in anothers face:

Both good and bad in this point doe agree,

That each desireth with his like to be.

And this Desire did worke a strange effect,

To drawe a Queene forth of her native Land,

Not yeelding to the nicenesse and respect

Of woman-kind; shee past both sea and land,

All feare of dangers shee did quite neglect,

Onely to see, to heare, and understand

That beauty, wisedome, majestie, and glorie,

That in her heart imprest his perfect storie.

Yet this faire map of majestie and might,

Was but a figure of thy deerest Love,

Borne t’expresse that true and heavenly light,

That doth all other joyes imperfect prove;

If this faire Earthly starre did shine so bright,

What doth that glorious Sonne that is above?

Who weares th’imperiall crowne of heaven and earth,

And made all Christians blessed in his berth.

If that small sparke could yeeld so great a fire,

As to inflame the hearts of many Kings

To come to see, to heare, and to admire

His wisdome, tending but to worldly things;

Then much more reason have we to desire

That heav’nly wisedome, which salvation brings;

The Sonne of righteousnesse, that gives true joyes,

When all they fought for, were but Earthly toyes.

G2 No G2v

No travels ought th’affected soule to shunne,

That this faire heavenly Light desires to see:

This King of kings to whom we all should runne,

To view his Glory and his Majestie;

He without whom we all had beene undone,

He that from Sinne and Death hath set us free,

And overcome Satan, the world, and sinne,

That by his merits we those joyes might winne.

Prepar’d by him, whose everlasting throne

Is plac’d in heaven, above the starrie skies,

Where he that sate, was like the Jasper stone,

Who rightly knowes him shall be truely wise,

A Rainebow round about his glorious throne;

Nay more, those winged beasts so full of eies,

That never cease to glorifie his Name,

Who was, and will be, and is now the same.

This is that great almightie Lord that made

Both heaven and earth, and lives for evermore;

By him the worlds foundation first was laid:

He fram’d the things that never were before:

The Sea within his bounds by him is staid,

He judgeth all alike, both rich and poore:

All might, all majestie, all love, all lawe

Remaines in him that keepes all worlds in awe.

From his eternall throne the lightning came,

Thundrings and Voyces did from thence proceede;

And all the creatures glorifi’d his name,

In heaven, in earth, and seas, they all agreed,

When loe that spotlesse Lambe so voyd of blame,

That for us di’d, whose sinnes did make him bleed:

That true Physition that so many heales,

Opened the Booke, and did undoe the Seales.

He G3r

He onely worthy to undoe the Booke

Of our charg’d soules, full of iniquitie,

Where with the eyes of mercy he doth looke

Upon our weakenesse and infirmitie;

This is that corner stone that was forsooke,

Who leaves it, trusts but to uncertaintie:

This is Gods Sonne, in whom he is well pleased,

His deere beloved, that his wrath appeased.

He that had powre to open all the Seales,

And summon up our sinnes of blood and wrong,

He unto whom the righteous soules appeales,

That have bin martyrd, and doe thinke it long,

To whom in mercie he his will reveales,

That they should rest a little in their wrong,

Untill their fellow servants should be killed,

Even as they were, and that they were fulfilled.

To the Lady
dowager of
Cumberland.
Pure thoughted Lady, blessed be thy choyce

Of this Almightie, everlasting King;

In thee his Saints and Angels doe rejoyce,

And to their Heav’nly Lord doe daily sing

Thy perfect praises in their lowdest voyce;

And all their harpes and golden vials bring

Full of sweet odours, even thy holy prayers

Unto that spotlesse Lambe, that all repaires.

Of whom that Heathen Queene ohbtain’d such grace,

By honouring but the shadow of his Love,

That great Judiciall day to have a place,

Condemning those that doe unfaithfull prove;

Among the haplesse, happie is her case,

That her deere Saviour spake for her behove;

And that her memorable Act should be

Writ by the hand of true Eternitie.

G3 Yet G3v

Yet this rare Phœnix of that worne-out age,

This great majesticke Queene comes short of thee

Who to an earthly Prince did then ingage

Her hearts desires, her love, her libertie,

Acting her glorious part upon a Stage

Of weaknesse, frailtie, and infirmity:

Giving all honour to a Creature, due

To her Creator, whom shee never knew.

But loe, a greater thou hast sought and found

Than Salomon in all his royaltie;

And unto him thy faith most firmely bound

To serve and honour him continually;

That glorious God, whose terror doth confound

All sinfull workers of iniquitie:

Him hast thou truely served all thy life,

And for his love, liv’d with the world at strife.

To this great Lord, thou onely art affected,

Yet came he not in pompe or royaltie,

But in an humble habit, base, dejected;

A King, a God, clad in mortalitie,

He hath thy love, thou art by him directed,

His perfect path was faire humilitie:

Who being Monarke of heav’n, earth, and seas,

Indur’d all wrongs, yet no man did displease.

Then how much more art thou to be commended,

That seek’st thy love in lowly shepheards weed?

A seeming Trades-mans sonne, of none attended,

Save of a few in povertie and need;

Poore Fishermen that on his love attended,

His love that makes so many thousands bleed:

Thus did he come, to trie our faiths the more,

Possessing worlds, yet seeming extreame poore.

The G4r

The Pilgrimes travels, and the Shepheards cares,

He tooke upon him to enlarge our soules,

What pride hath lost, humilitie repaires,

For by his glorious death he us inroules

In deepe Characters, writ with blood and teares,

Upon those blessed Everlasting scroules;

His hands, his feete, his body, and his face,

Whence freely flow’d the rivers of his grace.

Sweet holy rivers, pure celestiall springs,

Proceeding from the fountaine of our life;

Swift sugred currents that salvation brings,

Cleare christall streames, purging all sinne and strife,

Faire floods, where souls do bathe their snow-white wings,

Before they flie to true etern all life:

Sweet Nectar and Ambrosia, food of Saints,

Which, whoso tasteth, never after faints.

This hony dropping dew of holy love,

Sweet milke, wherewith we weaklings are restored,

Who drinkes thereof, a world can never move,

All earthly pleasures are of them abhorred;

This love made Martyrs many deaths to prove,

To taste his sweetnesse, whom they so adored:

Sweetnesse that makes our flesh a burthen to us,

Knowing it serves but onely to undoe us.

His sweetnesse sweet’ned all the sowre of death,

To faithfull Stephen his appointed Saint;

Who by the river stones did loose his breath,

When paines nor terrors could not make him faint:

So was this blessed Martyr turn’d to earth,

To glorifie his soule by deaths attaint:

This holy Saint was humbled and cast downe,

To winne in heaven an everlasting crowne.

Whose G4v

Whose face repleat with Majestie and Sweetnesse,

Did as an Angel unto them appeare,

That sate in Counsell hearing his discreetnesse,

Seeing no change, or any signe of a feare;

But with a constant browe did there confesse

Christs high deserts, which were to him so deare:

Yea when these Tyrants stormes did most oppresse,

Christ did appeare to make his griefe the lesse.

For beeing filled with the holy Ghost,

Up unto Heav’n he look’d with stedfast eies,

Where God appeared with his heavenly hoste

In glory to this Saint before he dies;

Although he could no Earthly pleasures boast,

At Gods right hand sweet Jesus he espies;

Bids them behold Heavens open, he doth see

The Sonne of Man at Gods right hand to be.

Whose sweetnesse sweet’ned that short sowre of Life,

Making all bitternesse delight his taste,

Yeelding sweet quietnesse in bitter strife,

And most contentment when he di’d disgrac’d;

Heaping up joyes where sorrows were most rife;

Such sweetnesse could not choose but be imbrac’d:

The food of Soules, the Spirits onely treasure,

The Paradise of our celestiall pleasure.

This Lambe of God, who di’d, and was alive,

Presenting us the bread of life Eternall,

His bruised body powrefull to revive

Our sinking soules, out of the pit infernall;

For by this blessed food he did contrive

A worke of grace, by this his gift externall,

With heav’nly Manna, food of his elected,

To feed their soules, of whom he is respected.

This H1r

This wheate of Heaven the blessed Angells bread,

Wherewith he feedes his deere adopted Heires;

Sweet foode of life that doth revive the dead,

And from the living takes away all cares;

To taste this sweet Saint Laurence did not dread,

The broyling gridyorne cool’d with holy teares:

Yeelding his naked body to the fire,

To taste this sweetnesse, such was his desire.

Nay, what great sweetnesse did th’Apostles taste,

Condemn’d by Counsell, when they did returne;

Rejoycing that for him they di’d disgrac’d,

Whose sweetnes made their hearts and soules so burne

With holy zeale and love most pure and chaste;

For him they sought from whome they might not turne:

Whose love made Andrew goe most joyfully,

Unto the Crosse, on which he meant to die.

The Princes of th’Apostles were so filled

With the delicious sweetnes of his grace,

That willingly they yeelded to be killed,

Receiving deaths that were most vile and base,

For his name sake, that all might be fulfilled.

They with great joy all torments did imbrace:

The ugli’st face that Death could ever yeeld,

Could never feare these Champions from the field.

They still continued in their glorious fight,

Against the enemies of flesh and blood;

And in Gods law did set their whole delight,

Suppressing evill, and erecting good:

Not sparing Kings in what they did not right;

Their noble Actes they seal’d with deerest blood:

One chose the Gallowes, that unseemely death,

The other by the Sword did loose his breath.

H His H1v

His Head did pay the dearest rate of sin,

Yeelding it joyfully unto the Sword,

To be cut off as he had never bin,

For speaking truth according to Gods word,

Telling king Herod of incestuous sin,

That hatefull crime of God and man abhorr’d:

His brothers wife, that prowd licentious Dame,

Cut off his Head to take away his shame.

Colours of
Confessors
& Martirs.
Loe Madame, heere you take a view of those,

Whose worthy steps you doe desire to tread,

Deckt in those colours which our Saviour chose;

The purest colours both of White and Red,

Their freshest beauties would I faine disclose,

By which our Saviour most was honoured:

But my weake Muse desireth now to rest,

Folding up all their Beauties in your breast.

Whose excellence hath rais’d my sprites to write,

Of what my thoughts could hardly apprehend;

Your rarest Virtues did my soule delight,

Great Ladie of my heart: I must commend

You that appeare so faire in all mens sight:

On your Deserts my Muses doe attend:

You are the Articke Starre that guides my hand,

All what I am, I rest at your command.

Finis.

H2r

The Description of Cooke-ham.

Farewell (sweet Cooke-ham) where I first obtain’d

Grace from that Grace where perfit Grace remain’d:

And where the Muses gave their full consent,

I should have powre the virtuous to content:

Where princely Palace will’d me to indite,

The sacred Storie of the Soules delight.

Farewell (sweet Place) where Virtue then did rest,

And all delights did harbour in her breast:

Never shall my sad eies againe behold

Those pleasures which my thoughts did then unfold:

Yet you (great Lady) Mistris of that Place,

From whose desires did spring this worke of Grace;

Vouchsafe to thinke upon those pleasures past,

As fleeting worldly Joyes that could not last:

Or, as dimme shadowes of celestiall pleasures,

Which are desir’d above all earthly treasures.

Oh how (me thought) against you thither came,

Each part did seeme some new delight to frame!

The House receiv’d all ornaments to grace it,

And would indure no foulenesse to deface it.

The Walkes put on their summer Liveries,

And all things else did hold like similies:

The Trees with leaves, with fruits, with flowers clad,

Embrac’d each other, seeming to be glad,

Turning themselves to beauteous Canopies,

To shade the bright Sunne from your brighter eies:

The cristall Streames with silver spangles graced,

H2 While H2v

While by the glorious Sunne they were embraced:

The little Birds in chirping notes did sing,

To entertaine both You and that sweet Spring.

And Philomela with her sundry leyes,

Both You and that delightfull Place did praise.

Oh how me thought each plant, each floure, each tree

Set forth their beauties then to welcome thee:

The very Hills right humbly did descend,

When you to tread upon them did intend.

And as you set your feete, they still did rise,

Glad that they could receive so rich a prise.

The gentle Windes did take delight to bee

Among those woods that were so grac’d by thee.

And in sad murmure utterd pleasing sound,

That Pleasure in that place might more abound:

The swelling Bankes deliver’d all their pride,

When such a Phœnix once they had espide.

Each Arbor, Banke, each Seate, each stately Tree,

Thought themselves honor’d in supporting thee.

The pretty Birds would oft come to attend thee,

Yet flie away for feare they should offend thee:

The little creatures in the Burrough by

Would come abroad to sport them in your eye;

Yet fearefull of the Bowe in your faire Hand,

Would runne away when you did make a stand.

Now let me come unto that stately Tree,

Wherein such goodly Prospects you did see;

That Oake that did in height his fellowes passe,

As much as lofty trees, low growing grasse:

Much like a comely Cedar streight and tall,

Whose beauteous stature farre exceeded all:

How often did you visite this faire tree,

Which seeming joyfull in receiving thee,

Would like a Palme tree spread his armes abroad,

Desirous H3r

Desirous that you there should make abode:

Whose faire greene leaves much like a comely vaile,

Defended Phebus when he would assaile:

Whose pleasing boughes did yeeld a coole fresh ayre,

Joying his happinesse when you were there.

Where beeing seated, you might plainely see,

Hills, vales, and woods, as if on bended knee

They had appeard, your honour to salute,

Or to preferre some strange unlook’d for sute:

All interlac’d with brookes and christall springs,

A Prospect fit to please the eyes of Kings:

And thirteene shires appear’d all in your sight,

Europe could not affoard much more delight.

What was there then but gave you all content,

While you the time in meditation spent,

Of their Creators powre, which there you saw,

In all his Creatures held a perfit Law;

And in their beauties did you plaine descrie,

His beauty, wisdome, grace, love, majestie.

In these sweet woods how often did you walke,

With Christ and his Apostles there to talke;

Placing his holy Writ in some faire tree,

To meditate what you therein did see:

With Moyses you did mount his holy Hill,

To know his pleasure, and performe his Will.

With lovely David you did often sing,

His holy Hymnes to Heavens Eternall King.

And in sweet musicke did your soule delight,

To sound his prayses, morning, noone, and night.

With blessed Joseph you did often feed

Your pined brethren, when they stood in need.

And that sweet Lady sprung from Cliffords race,

Of noble Bedfords blood, faire steame of Grace;

To honourable Dorset now espows’d,

H3 In H3v

In whose faire breast true virtue then was hous’d:

Oh what delight did my weake spirits find

In those pure parts of her well framed mind:

And yet it grieves me that I cannot be

Neere unto her, whose virtues did agree

With those faire ornaments of outward beauty,

Which did enforce from all both love and dutie.

Unconstant Fortune, thou art most too blame,

Who casts us downe into so lowe a frame:

Where our great friends we cannot dayly see,

So great a diffrence is there in degree.

Many are placed in those Orbes of state,

Parters in honour, so ordain’d by Fate;

Neerer in show, yet farther off in love,

In which, the lowest alwayes are above.

But whither am I carried in conceit?

My Wit too weake to conster of the great.

Why not? although we are but borne of earth,

We may behold the Heavens, despising death;

And loving heaven that is so farre above,

May in the end vouchsafe us entire love.

Therefore sweet Memorie doe thou retaine

Those pleasures past, which will not turne againe:

Remember beauteous Dorsets former sports,

So farre from beeing toucht by ill reports;

Wherein my selfe did alwaies beare a part,

While reverend Love presented my true heart:

Those recreations let me beare in mind,

Which her sweet youth and noble thoughts did finde:

Whereof depriv’d, I evermore must grieve,

Hating blind Fortune, carelesse to relieve.

And you sweet Cooke-ham, whom these Ladies leave,

I now must tell the griefe you did conceave

At their departure; when they went away,

How H4r

How every thing retaind a sad dismay:

Nay long before, when once an inkeling came,

Me thought each thing did unto sorrow frame:

The trees that were so glorious in our view,

Forsooke both flowres and fruit, when once they knew

Of your depart, their very leaves did wither,

Changing their colours as they grewe together.

But when they saw this had no powre to stay you,

They often wept, though speechlesse, could not pray you;

Letting their teares in your faire bosoms fall,

As if they said, Why will ye leave us all?

This being vaine, they cast their leaves away,

Hoping that pitie would have made you stay:

Their frozen tops, like Ages hoarie haires,

Showes their disasters, languishing in feares:

A swarthy riveld ryne all over spread,

Their dying bodies halfe alive, halfe dead.

But your occasions call’d you so away,

That nothing there had power to make you stay:

Yet did I see a noble gratefull minde,

Requiting each according to their kind,

Forgetting not to turne and take your leave

Of these sad creatures, powrelesse to receive

Your favour when with griefe you did depart,

Placing their former pleasures in your heart;

Giving great charge to noble Memory,

There to preserve their love continually:

But specially the love of that faire tree,

That first and last you did vouchsafe to see:

In which it pleas’d you oft to take the ayre,

With noble Dorset, then a virgin faire:

Where many a learned Booke was read and skand

To this faire tree, taking me by the hand,

You did repeat the pleasures which had past,

Seeming H4v

Seeming to grieve they could no longer last.

And with a chaste, yet loving kisse tooke leave,

Of which sweet kisse I did it soone bereave:

Scorning a sencelesse creature should possesse

So rare a favour, so great happinesse.

No other kisse it could receive from me,

For feare to give backe what it tooke of thee:

So I ingratefull Creature did deceive it,

Of that which you vouchsaft in love to leave it.

And though it oft had giv’n me much content,

Yet this great wrong I never could repent:

But of the happiest made it most forlorne,

To shew that nothing’s free from Fortunes scorne,

While all the rest with this most beauteous tree,

Made their sad consort Sorrowes harmony.

The Floures that on the banks and walkes did grow,

Crept in the ground, the Grasse did weepe for woe.

The Windes and Waters seem’d to chide together,

Because you went away they know not whither:

And those sweet Brookes that ranne so faire and cleare,

With griefe and trouble wrinckled did appeare.

Those pretty Birds that wonted were to sing,

Now neither sing, nor chirp, nor use their wing;

But with their tender feet on some bare spray,

Warble forth sorrow, and their owne dismay.

Faire Philomela leaves her mournefull Ditty,

Drownd in dead sleepe, yet can procure no pittie:

Each arbour, banke, each seate, each stately tree,

Lookes bare and desolate now for want of thee;

Turning greene tresses into frostie gray,

While in cold griefe they wither all away.

The Sunne grew weake, his beames no comfort gave,

While all greene things did make the earth their grave:

Each brier, each bramble, when you went away,

Caught I1r

Caught fast your clothes, thinking to make you stay:

Delightfull Eccho wonted to reply

To our last words, did now for sorrow die:

The house cast off each garment that might grace it,

Putting on Dust and Cobwebs to deface it.

All desolation then there did appeare,

When you were going whom they held so deare.

This last farewell to Cooke-ham here I give,

When I am dead thy name in this may live,

Wherein I have perform’d her noble hest,

Whose virtues lodge in my unworthy breast,

And ever shall, so long as life remaines,

Tying my heart to her by those rich chaines.

Finis.

I1
I1v

To the doubtfull Reader.

Gentle Reader, if thou desire to be resolved, why I
give this Title, Salve Deus Rex Judæorum, know
for certaine; that it was delivered unto me in sleepe
many yeares before I had any intent to write in this
maner, and was quite out of my memory, untill I had written
the Passion of Christ, when immediately it came into my remembrance,
what I had dreamed long before; and thinking
it a significant token, that I was appointed to performe this
Worke, I gave the very same words I received in sleepe as the
fittest Title I could devise for this Booke.