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Hail, most high, most humble one!
Above the world; below thy Son,
Whose blush the moon beauteously marres,
And staines the timerous light of starres.
He that made all things had not done,
Till he had made himself thy Son.
The whole world's host would be thy guest,
And board himself at thy rich brest;
O boundless hospitality !
The feast of all things feeds on thee.
The first Eve, mother of our fall,
E're she bore any one, slew all.
Of her unkind gift might we have
The inheritance of a hasty grave;
Quick buryed in the wanton tomb
Of one forbidden bitt;
Had not a better fruit forbidden it;
Had not thy healthfull womb
The world's new eastern window bin,
And given us heaven again in giving him.
Thine was the rosy dawn that sprung the day,
Which renders all the starres she stole away.
Let then the aged world be wise, and all
Prove nobly, here, unnaturall:
'Tis gratitude to forgett that other,
And call the maiden Eve their mother.
Yee redeem'd nations farr and near,
Applaud your happy selves in her,
(All you to whom this love belongs)
And keep't alive with lasting songs.
Let hearts and lippes speak lowd, and say,
Hail, door of life, and sourse of day!
The door was shutt, the fountain seal'd;
Yet light was seen and life reveal'd;
The fountain seal'd, yet life found way.
Glory to thee, great virgin's Son,
In bosom of thy Father's blisse:
The same to thee, sweet Spirit be done;
As ever shall be, was, and is,
AN ODE WHICH WAS PREFIXED TO A PRAYER BOOKE GIVEN TO A YOUNG
LOE, here a little volume, but great booke,
A nest of new-borne sweetes,
Whose native fires disdaining
To lye thus folded and complaining
Of these ignoble sheetes.
Affect more comely bands
(Faire one) from thy kind hands,
And confidently looke
To find the rest
Of a rich binding in your brest.
It is in one choice handfull, heaven, and all
Heaven's royall hoast, encampt thus small;
To prove that true, schooles use to tell,
Ten thousand angells in one point can dwell.
It is Love's great artyllery,
Which here contracts itself, and comes to ly
Close couch't in your white bosome, and from thence,
As from a snowy fortresse of defence,
Against the ghostly foe to take your part ;
And fortifie the hold of your chast heart.
It is an armory of light;
Let constant use but keep it bright,
You'l find it yields
To holy hands and humble hearts,
More swords and shields,
Than sinne hath snares, or hell hath darts,
Onely be sure
The hands be pure
That hold these weapons, and the eyes
Those of turtles, chast, and true,
Wakefull, and wise;
Here is a friend shall fight for you ;
Hold but this book before your heart,
Let prayer alone to play its part.
But o the heart
That studies this high art,
Must be a sure house-keeper,
And yet no sleeper.
Deare soule be stron
Mercy will come ere long,
And bring its bosome full of blessings;
Flowers of never-fading graces,
To make immortall dressings
For worthy soules, whose wise embraces
Store up themselves for him, who is alone
The spouse of virgins, and the Virgin's Son.
But if the noble Bridegroome, when he come,
Shall find the loyt'ring heart from home,
Leaving its chast abode,
To gad abroad,
Amongst the gay mates of the god of flyes;
To take her pleasure, and to play,
And keep the devill's holyday;
To dance i' th' sunne-shine of some smiling
Spheare of sweet, and sugred lies,
Some slippery paire,
Of false perhaps, as fair,
Flattering, but forswearing eyes;
Doubtlesse some other heart
Will get the start,
And stepping in before,
Will take possession of the sacred store
Of hidden sweets, and holy joyes;
Words which are not heard with ears,
(Those tumultuous shops of noise),
Effectuall whispers, whose still voice,
The soul itselfe more feeles than heares.
Amorous languishments, luminous trances,
Sights which are not seen with eyes,
Spirituall, and soule piercing glances,
Whose pure and subtle lightning flyes
Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire.
And melts it downe in sweet desire;
Yet doth not stay
To aske the windowes leave to passe that way.
Delicious deaths, soft exhalations
Of soule, deare and divine annihilations;
A thousand unknowne rites;
O joyes and rarify'd delights!
A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces,
And many a mistic thing,
Which the divine
Of the deare Spouse of Spirits, with them will bring. For which it is no shame,
That dull mortality must not know a name
Of all this store
Of blessings and ten thousand more
(If, when he come,
He find the heart from home),
Doubtlesse he will unload
Himselfe some other where,
And powre abroad
His precious sweets,
On the faire soule whom first he meets.
O faire! O fortunate! O rich! O deare!
O happy! and thrice happy shee,
Whoe're she bee,
Whose early love,
With winged vowes,
Makes hast to meet her morning spouse
And close with his immortall kisses.
Happie indeed who never misses,
To improve that precious howre,
And every day
Seize her sweet prey;
All fresh and fragrant as he rises,
Dropping with a balmy showre
A delicious dew of spices.
O let the blisseful heart hold fast
Her heav'nly armeful, she shall tast,
At once ten thousand paradices;
She shall have power
To rifle and deflower
The rich and roseall spring of those rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosome there she meets. Boundlesse and infinite
Of pure inebriating pleasures.
Happy proofe! she shall discover
What joy, what blisse,
How many heav'ns at once it is,
To have her God become her lover.