Yet by confeffion will I come
Into the conqueft. Though I can do nought
Against thee,in thee I will overcome

The man, who once against thee fought.

T The Agonie.

PHilofophers have meafur'd mountains, Fathom'd the depths of feas,of ftates, and kings, Walk'd with a ftaff to heav'n, and traced fountains: But there are two vaft, fpacious things, The which to measure it doth more behove: Yet few there are that found them; Sinne and Love!

Who would know Sinne, let him repair
Unto mount Olivet; there fhall he fee
A man fo wrung with pains, that all his hair,
His skinne, his garments bloudy be.
Sinne is that Preffe and Vice,which forceth pain
To hunt his cruel food through ev'ry vein.

Who knows not Love,let him affay

And taste that juice, which on the croffe a pike
Did fet again abroach; then let him fay
If ever he did tafte the like.

Love is that liquour sweet and most divine,
Whish my God feels as bloud; but I, aswine.

The finner.

Ord, how I am all ague, when I feek
What I have treafur'd in my memorie!
Since, if my foul make even with the week,
Each feventh note by right is due to thee.

I find there quarries of pil'd vanities,

But fhreds of holineffe, that dare not venture To fhew their face, fince croffe to thy decrees :There the circumference earth is, heav'n the centre.

Info much dregs the quinteffence is small:

The fpirit and good extract of my heart Comes to about the many hundredth part. Yet Lord reftore thine image, heare my call: (grone, And though my hard heart fcarce to thee can Remember that thou once didft write in ftone.

Good-Friday.

O My chief good,

How fhall I measure out thy bloud?
How shall I count what thee befell,
And each grief tell?

Shall I thy woes

Number according to thy foes?

Or, fince one ftarre fhew'd thy firft breath,
Shall all thy death ?-

Or fhall each leaf,

Which falls in Autumn, fcore a grief?
Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be figne
Of the true vine ?

Then

Then let each houre

Of my whole life one grief devoure 3
That thy diftreffe through all may runne,'
And be my funne.

Or rather let

My fev'rall finnes their forrows get;
That, as each beaft his cure doth know,
Each finne may fo.

Ince bloud is fitteft, Lord, to write

STby forroves in, and bloudy fight;

My heart hath ftore; write there, where in
One box doth lie both ink and finne :

That, when Sinne fpies fo many foes,
Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes,
All come to lodge there, Sinne may fay,
No room for me, and flic away.

Sinne being gone, oh fill the place,
And keep poffeffion with thy grace;
Left finne take courage and return,
And all the writings blot or burn.

HA

Aving been tenant long to a rich Lord,
Not thriving, I refolved to be bold,
And make a fuit unto him, to afford

A new small-rented leafe, and cancell th’old.

In heaven at his manour I him fought:

They told me there that he was lately gone
About fome land which he had dearly bought

Long fince on earth, to take poffeffion.

B4

Iftraight return'd, and knowing his great biralf,
Sought him accordingly in great reforts;
cities,theatres,gardens,parks,and courts:
At length I heard a ragged noife and mirth

In

Of theeves and murderers: there I him espied,
Who ftraight,Your fuit is granted,faid, and died.

Sepulchre.

Bleffed body! Whither art thou thrown?

So many hearts on earth,and yet not one
Receive thee?

one?

Sure there is room within our hearts good fore;
For they can lodge tranfgreffions by the score:
Thousands of toyes dwell there, yet out of doore
They leave thee.

But that which fhews them large, fhews them unfe,
What ever finne did this pure rock commit,
Which holds thee now? Who hath indited it

Of murder?

(thee,

Where our hard hearts have took up ftones to brain
And miffing this,most falfly did arraigne thee;
Onely these Rones in quiet entertain thee,
And order.

And as of old the Law by heav'nly are.
Was writ in flone; so thou, which also art
The letter of the word, find'ft no fit heart
To hold thee.

Yet do we ftill perfift as we began,

And fo fhould perish, but that nothing can,
Though it be cold,hard, foul, from loving man
Withhold thee.

R

T Eafter.

Ife heart; thy Lord is rifen. Sing his praife
Without delayes,

Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise

With him mayftrife: That,as his death calcined thee to duft,

His life may make thee gold,and much more Juft

Awake, my lure, and ftruggle for thy part
With all thy art.

The croffe taught all wood to refound his name,
Who bore the faner

His ftretched finews taught all ftrings, what key
Is best to celebrate this moft high day.

Confort both heart and lute, and twist a song
Pleafant and long:-
Or, fince all mufick is but three parts vied
And multiplied;
Olet thy bleffed Spirit bear a part,

And make up our defects with his sweet art,

Got me flowers to ftravy thy way;

I I got me boughs off many a tree:

But thou waft up by break of day,

And brought'ft thy fweets along with thee.

The Sunne arifing in the Eaft,
Though he give light,and th' Eaft perfume;
If they fhould offer to conteft
With thy arifing,they prefume,

Can there be any day but this,

Though many funnes to fhine endeavour ?
We count three hundred,but we miffe:

There is but one, and that one ever.

Eafter