Then should the pómander, which was before
A speaking sweet, mend by reflection,

And tell me more;

For pardon of my imperfection

Would warm and work it sweeter then before.

For when My Master,' which alone is sweet,

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And ev'n in my unworthinesse pleasing,

Shall call and meet,

My servant,' as Thee not displeasing,

That call is but the breathing of the sweet.

This breathing would with gains, by sweetning me

As sweet things traffick when they meet

Return to Thee;

And so this new commerce and sweet Should all my life employ and busie me.

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146. THE FOIL.

If we could see below

The sphere of Vertue and each shining grace.
As plainly as that above doth show,
This were the better skie, the brighter place.

God hath made starres the foil

To set-off vertues, griefs to set-off sinning;
Yet in this wretched world we toil,
As if grief were not foul, nor vertue winning.

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147.¶THE FORERUNNERS.

The harbingers are come: see, see their mark;
White is their colour, and behold my head.
But must they have my brain? must they dispark
Those sparkling notions which therein were bred?
Must dulnesse turn me to a clod?

Yet have they left me, 'Thou art still my God.'

Good men ye be to leave me my best room,
Ev'n all my heart, and what is lodgèd there:
I passe not, I, what of the rest become,
So 'Thou art still my God' be out of fear.

He will be pleased with that dittie;
And if I please Him, I write fine and wittie.

Farewell, sweet phrases, lovely metaphors:
But will ye leave me thus? when ye before
Of stews and brothels onely knew the doores,
Then did I wash you with my tears, and more,
Brought you to Church well-drest and clad:
My God must have my best, ev'n all I had.

Lovely enchanting language, sugar-cane,
Hony of roses, whither wilt thou flie?

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care not

Hath some fond lover tic'd thee to thy bane?
And wilt thou leave the Church, and love a stie?

Fie! thou wilt soil thy broider'd coat,

And hurt thyself and him that sings the note.

ΙΟ

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enticed

Let foolish lovers, if they will love dung,

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With canvas, not with arras, clothe their shame;

Let Follie speak in her own native tongue:

True Beautie dwells on high; ours is a flame

But borrow'd thence to light us thither:
Beautie and beauteous words should go together.
Yet if you go, I passe not; take your way:
For Thou art still my God' is all that ye
Perhaps with more embellishment can say.

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Go, birds of Spring; let Winter have his fee;
Let a bleak palenesse chalk the doore,

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So all within be livelier then before.

148. THE ROSE.

Presse me not to take more pleasure
In this world of sugred lies,

And to use a larger measure

Then my strict yet welcome size.

First, there is no pleasure here:

Colour'd griefs indeed there are, Blushing woes that look as cleare

As if they could beautie spare.

Or if such deceits there be

Such delights I meant to sayThere are no such things to me,

Who have pass'd my right away.

But I will not much oppose

Unto what you now advise;

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JO

Onely take this gentle rose,

And therein my answer lies.

What is fairer then a rose ?

What is sweeter? yet it purgeth.

Purgings enmitie disclose,

Enmitie forbearance urgeth.

If, then, all that worldlings prize
Be contracted to a rose,

Sweetly there indeed it lies,

But it biteth in the close.

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So this flow'r doth judge and sentence
Worldly joyes to be a scourge;

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For they all produce repentance,

And repentance is a purge.