With Circe, Scylla, ftand to wait upon her
But her best housewifes are the Parca, which
Still work for her, and have their wages from her,
They prick a bleeding heart at every stitch.

Her cruel clothes of coftly threads they weave,
Which fhort-cut lives of murder'd infants leave.

XLIV.

The house is hers'd about with a black wood,
Which nods with many a heavy headed tree.
Each flower's a pregnant poison, try'd and good,
Each herb a plague. The winds fighs timed be
By a black fount, which weeps into a flood.
Through the thick fhades obfcurely might you fee
Minotaurs, Cyclopfes, with a dark drove
Of dragons, hydras, sphinxes, fill the grove.

XLV.

Here Diomed's horfes, Phereus dogs appear,
With the fierce lions of Therodamas,
Bufiris has his bloody altar here,
Here Sylla his feverest prison has.
The Leftrigonians here their table rear;
Here ftrong Procruftes plants his bed of brass.
Here cruel Scyron boasts his bloody rocks,
And hateful Schinis his so feared oaks.

XLVI.

Whatever schemes of blood, fantastic frames
Of death Mezentius, or Geryon drew;
Phalaris, Ochus, Ezelimus, names
Mighty in mifchief, with dread Nero too,
Here are they all, here all the fwords or flames
Affyrian tyrants, or Egyptian knew.

Such was the house, fo furnish'd was the hall,
Whence the fourth fury answer'd Pluto's call.

XLVII.

Scarce to this monster could the shady king,
The horrid fum of his intentions tell;
But the (fwift as the momentary wing
Of lightning, or the words he fpoke) left hell.
She rofe, and with her to our world did bring,
Pale proof of her fell prefence. Th' air too well
With a chang'd countenance witness'd the fight,
And poor fowls intercepted in their flight.

XLVIII.

Heav'n faw her rife, and faw hell in the fight.
The fields fair eyes faw her, and saw no more,
But shut their flow'ry lids, for ever night,
And winter frew her way; yea, fuch a fore
Is the to nature, that a general fright,
An univerfal palfy fpreading o'er

The face of things, from her dire eyes had run,
Had not her thick fnakes hid them from the fun.
XLIX.

Now had the night's companion from her den,
Where all the busy day the close doth lie,
With her foft wing wip'd from the brows of men
Day's sweat, and by a gentle tyranny,
And sweet oppreffion, kindly cheating them
Of all their cares, tam'd the rebellious eye

Of forrow, with a foft and downy hand,
Sealing all breasts in a Lethean band.

L.

When the Erinny's her black pinions spread,
And came to Bethle'm, where the cruel king
Had now retir'd himself, and borrowed
His breast a while from Care's unquiet fting;

'Gainft thy own fons and brothers thou haft stood In arms, when leffer caufe was to complain :

And now cross Fates a watch about thee keep, Canft thou be careless now? now canft thou Деер?

LVIII.

Where art thou, man? what cowardly mistake Of thy great felf, hath ftol'n King Herod from thee?

O call thyself home to thyself, wake, wake, And fence the hanging word Heav'n throws upon thee.

Redeem a worthy wrath, rouse thee, and fhake Thyself into a shape that may become thee.

Be Herod, and thou shalt not miss from me Immortal ftings to thy great thoughts, and thee.

LIX.

So faid, her richest fnake, which to her wrist
For a befeeming bracelet she had ty'd
(A fpecial worm it was as ever kifs'd
The foamy lips of Cerberus), the apply'd
To the king's heart; the fnake no fooner hifs'd,
But Virtue heard it, and away fhe hied,

Dire flames diffuse themselves through every vein;

This done, home to her hell the hied amain.

LX.

He wakes, and with him ne'er to fleep), new fears;
His fweat-bedewed bed hath now betray'd him,
To a vaft field of thorns, ten thousand spears
All pointed in his heart feem'd to invade him :
So mighty were th' amazing characters

With which his feeling dreani had thus difmay'd him,

He his own fancy-framed foes defies:

In rage, My arms, give me my arms, he cries.

LXI.

As when a pile of food-preparing fire,
The breath of artificial lungs embraves,
The cauldron-prifon'd waters ftraight confpire,
And beat the hot brafs with rebellious waves.
He murmurs, and rebukes their boid defire;
Th' impatient liquor frets, and foams, and raves;
Till his o'erflowing pride fupprefs the flame,
Whence all his high fpirits, and hot courage

came.

LXII.

So boils the fired Herod's blood-fwol'n breast,
Not to be flak'd but by a sea of blood.
His faithlefs crown he feels loose on his creft,
Which on false tyrants head ne'er firmly stood.
The worm of jealous envy and unrest,
To which his gnaw'd heart is the growing food,
Makes him impatient of the ling'ring light;
Hate the sweet peace of all-compoung Night.

LXIII.

A thousand prophecies that talk ftrange things,
Had fown of old thefe doubts in his deep breaft.
And now of late came tributary kings,
Bringing him nothing but new fears from th' eaft,
More deep fufpicions, and more deadly ftings,
With which his fev'rous cares their cold increas'd.
And now his dream (Hell's firebrand) ftill more
bright,
[fight.
Show'd him his fears, and kill'd him with the

Make to thy reason man, and mock thy doubts,
Look how below thy fears their caufes are ;
Thou art a foldier, Herod; fend thy scouts,
See how he's furnish'd for fo fear'd a war?
What armour does he wear? A few thin clouts.
His trumpets? tender cries; his men to dare

So much? rude shepherds; what his steeds? alas
Poor beafts! a flow ox, and a fimple afs.
Il fine del primo Libro.

On a Prayer-Book fent to Mrs. M. R.
Lo, here a little volume, but great book,
A neft of new-born fweets,

Whose native fires difdaining
To lie thus folded and complaining
Of these ignoble sheets.

Affect more comely bands
(Fair one) from thy kind hands,
And confidently look

To find the reft

Of a rich binding in your breast.
It is in one choice handful, heaven, and all
Heaven's royal hoft, encamp thus fmall;
To prove that true, fchools ufe to tell,
Ten thousand angels in one point can dwell.
It is Love's great artillery,

Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie
Clofe couch'd in your white bofom, and from
thence,

As from a fnowy fortrefs of defence,

Against the ghoftly foe to take your part;
And fortify the hold of your chafte heart.

It is an armory of light;

Let conftant ufe but keep it bright,
You'll find it yields

To holy hands and humble hearts,
More fwords and fhields,

Than fin hath fnares, or hell hath darts,
Only be fure

The hands be pure
That hold thefe weapons, and the eyes
Thofe of turtles, chafte, and true,
Wakeful, and wife;

Here is a friend fhall fight for you;

Hold but this book before your heart,
Let prayer alone to play its part.

But O the heart
That ftudies this high art,
Must be a sure house-keeper,
And yet no fleeper.

Dear foul be ftrong,

Mercy will come ere long,

And bring its bofom full of bleffings;
Flowers of never-fading graces,
To make immortal dreffings

For worthy fouls, whofe wife embraces
Store up themselves for him, who is alone
The spouse of virgins, and the Virgin's Son.
But if the noble Bridegroom, when he come,
Shall find the loit'ring heart from home,
Leaving its chafts abode,
To gad abroad,

Among the gay mates of the god of flies;
To take her pleasure, and to play,
And keep the devil's holiday;
To dance i' th' fun-fhine of fome fmiling
But beguiling

Sphere of fweet, and fugar'd lies,
Some flippery pair,

Of falle, perhaps as fair,

Flattering, but forfwearing eyes.

Doubtlefs fome other heart

Will get the start,
And flepping in before,

Will take poffeffion of the facred flore
Of hidden sweets, and holy joys;
Words which are not heard with cars
(Thofe tumultuous fhops of noise),
Effectual whispers, whofe ftill voice,
The foul itself more feels than hears.
Amorous languifhments, luminous trances,
Sights which are not feen with eyes,
Spiritual, and foul piercing glances,
Whose pure and fubtle lightning flies
Home to the heart, and fets the house on fire,
And melts it down in sweet defire;
Yet doth not stay

To afk the windows leave to pass that way.
Delicious deaths, foft exhalations
Of foul, dear and divine annihilations;

A thousand unknown rites;

O joys and rarify'd delights!

A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces,
And many a myftic thing,
Which the divine embraces

Of the dear Spouse of Spirits, with them will bring,
For which it is no fhame,

That dull mortality muft not know a name.

Of all this store

Of bleffings, and ten thousand more;

(If, when he come,

He find the heart from home),
Doubtlefs he will unload

Himself some other where,

And pour abroad

His precious fweets,

On the fair foul whom firft he mects.

-bottomlefs treasures,

Of pure inebriating pleasures.
Happy proof! fhe fhail discover
What joy, what blifs,

How many heav'ns at once it is,
To have her God become her lover.

On Mr. G. Herbert's Book, intituled, the Temple of Sas
cred Poems. Sent to a Gentlewoman,
KNOW, you fair, on what you look;
Divineft love lies in this book;
Expecting fire from your eyes,
To kindle this his facrifice.
When your hands untie these strings,
Think you've an angel by the wings.
One that gladly will be nigh,
To wait upon each morning figh.
To flutter in the balmy air,

Of your well-perfumed prayer;
Thefe white plumes of his he'll lend you,
Which every day to heaven will send you;
To take acquaintance of the fphere,
And all the fmooth fac'd kindred there.

And though Herbert's name do owe
These devotions, fairest, know,
That while I lay them on the fhrine
Of your white hand, they are mine.

A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Terefa, Foundress of the Reformation of the difcalced Carmelites, botb Men and Women; a Woman for Angelical beight of Speculation, for Mefculine Courage of Performance, more than a Woman; who, yet a Child, out-ran Maturity, and durft plot a Martyrdom.

Love, thou art abfolute fole lord

Of life and death.—————To prove the word,
We'll now appeal to none of all

Thofe thy old foldiers, great and tall

Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach dow
With strong arms their triumphant crown;
Such as could with lufty breath,

Speak loud into the face of death,

Their great Lord's g'orious name; to none
Of thofe whofe fpacious bofoms fpread a throne
For love at large to fill: fpare blood and fwear,
And fee him take a private feat,
Making his mantion in the mild
And milky foul of a foft child.

Scarce hath the learn'd to lifp the name,
Of martyr: yet the thinks it fhame
Life fhould fo long play with that breath,
Which spent can buy fo brave a death.
She never undertook to know,

What death with love, fhould have to do;
Nor hath the e'er yet understood,
Why to show love, the should fhed blood,
Yet though the cannot tell you why,
She can love, and she can die.
Scarce hath the blood enough, to make
A guilty fword bluth for her fake;
Yet hath the a heart dare hope to prove,
How much less Arong is death than love.
Be love but there, let poor fix years
Be pos'd with the maturest fears
Man trembles at, you straight fhall find
Love knows no nonage, nor the mind.
'Tis love, not years, nor limbs, that can
Make the martyr or the man.

Love touch'd her heart, and lo it beats
High, and burns with fuch brave heats!
Such thirsts to die, as dares drink up
A thoufand cold deaths in one cup..
Good reafon; for she breathes all fire,
Her weak breaft heaves with strong defire,
of what the may with fruitless wishes
Seek for amongst her mother's killes.
Since 'tis not to be had honie,
She'll travel for a martyrdom.
No home for her's confeffes the,
But where the may a martyr be..
She'll to the Moors and try with them,
For this unvalued diadem,

She'll offer them her dearest breath,
With Chrift's name in't, in change for death.
She'll bargain with them, and will give
Them God, and teach them how to live
In him; or if they this deny,

For him, fhe'll teach them how to die.
So fhall the leave amongst them sown,
Her Lord's blood, or at least her own.
Farewell, then, all the world! adicu,
Terefa is no more for you :
Farewell all pleafures, fports, and joys,
(Never till now efteemed toys):
Tarewell whatever dear may be,
Mother's arms or father's knee:
Farewell houfe, and farewell home,
She's for the Moors and martyrdom.

Sweet, not fo faft lo thy fair fpoufe,
Whom thou feek'ft with fo fwift vows
Calls thee back, and bids thee come,
T'embrace a milder martyrdom.
Bleft powers for bid thy tender life,
Should bleed upon a barbarous knife;
Or fome bafe hand have power to race,
Thy breafl's foft cabinet, and uncats
Vol. IV.

A foul kept there so sweet. O no;
Wife Heaven will never have it fo
Thou art love's victim, and must die
A death more myftical and high.
Into love's arms thou fhalt let fall,
A ftill furviving funeral.

His is the dart must make the death,
Whofe Broke shall taste thy hallow'd breath;
A dart thrice dipt in that rich flame,
Which writes thy fpoufe's radiant name
Upon the roof of heav'n, where ay
It fhines, and with a fov'reign ray
Beats bright upon the burning faces
Of fouls, which in that name's fweet graces
Find everlasting fmiles; fo tate,
So fpiritual, pure, and fair,
Must be th' immortal instrument,
Upon whofe choice point fhall be fent,
A life fo lov'd: and that there be
Fit executioners for thee.

The fair'ft, and first born fons of fire,
Bleft Seraphims fhall leave their quire,
And turn love's foldiers, upon thee
To exercise their archery.

O how oft fhalt thou complain
Of a sweet and fubtile pain?
Of intollerable joys?

Of a death, in which who dies
Loves his death, and dies again,
And would for ever fo be flain !

And lives, and dies; and knows not why

To live; but that he thus may never leave to

die.

How kindly will thy gentle heart,
Kifs the fweetly-killing dart?
And clofe in thine embraces keep,
Thofe delicious wounds that weep,
Balfam to heal themselves with. Thus
When thefe thy deaths fo numerous,
Shall all at left die into one,
And melt thy foul's fweet manfion;
Like a foft lump of incenfe, hafted
By too hot a fire, and wafted
Into perfuming clouds, so fast
Shalt thou exhale to heav'n at last,
In a refolving figh, and then,
O what?-afk not the tongues of men.
Angels cannot tell. Suffice,

Thyfelf fhall feel thine own full joys,
And hold them faft for ever. There,
So foon as thou shalt first appear,
The moon of maiden ftars, thy white
Miftrefs attended by fuch bright
Souls as thy fhining-felt, fhall come,
And in her first ranks make thee room.
Where 'mongst her inowy family,
Immortal welcomes wait for thee.

O what delight when reveal'd life fhall fland,
And teach thy lips heav'n with her hand,
On which thou now may'ft to thy wishes,
Heap up thy confecrated kiffes!

What joys thaii feize thy foul, when she,
Bending her blefied eyes on thee,

(1 hofe fecond fmiles of heav'n) shall dart,
fler.mild rays through thy melting heart ?

Za

Angels thy old friends, there hall greet thee,
Glad at their own home now to meet thee.
All thy good works which went before,
And waited for thee at the door,
Shall own thee there; and all in one
Weave a conftellation

Of crowns with which the king thy spouse,
Shall build up thy triumphant brows;
All thy old woes fhall now fmile on thee,
And thy pains fit bright upon thee.
All thy forrows here fhall fhine,
And thy fuff'rings be divine;

Tears fhall take comfort, and turn gems,
And wrongs repent to diadems.
Ev'n thy death's fhall live, and new
Drefs the foul, that erft they flew.
Thy wounds shall blush to fuch bright scars,
As keep account of the Lamb's wars.
Thofe rare-works where thou fhal: leave writ,
Love's noble history, with wit

Taught thee by none but him, while bere
They feed our fouls, fhall clothe thine there.
Each heavenly word, by whofe hid flame
Our hard hearts fhall ftrike fire, the fame
Shall flourish on thy brow, and be
Both fire to us, and flame to thee;.
Whole light fhall live bright, in thy face
By glory, in our hearts by grace
Thou shalt look round about, and fee
Thousands of crown'd fouls throng to be
Themfelves thy crown; fons of thy vows,
The virgin births, with which thy fovereign fpoufe
Made fruitful thy fair foul. Go now,
And with them all about thee, Bow
To him, put on (he'll fay) put on
(My rofy love) that thy rich zone,
Sparkling with the facred flames,
Of thoufand fouls, whofe happy names
Heav'n keeps upon thy fcore (thy bright
Life brought them firft to kifs the light,
That kindled them to stars and fo
Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord fhalt go,
And wherefo'er he fets his white
Steps, walk with him thole ways of light;
Which who in death would live to fee,
Mutt learn in life to die like thee.

An Apology for the Precedent Hymn, as having been
writ when the Author was yet a Protefiant.
THUS have I back again to thy bright name,
(Fair flood of holy fires) tran-fus'd the flame
I took from reading thee. 'Tis to thy wrong
I know, that in my weak and worthlefs fong
Thou here are let to fhine, where thy full day
Scarce dawns, O! pardon if I dare to fay
Thine own dear books are guilty for from thence
I learn'd to know that love is eloquence.
That hopeful maxim gave me heart to try,
If, what to other tongues is tun'd fo high,
Thy praise might not fpeak English too. Forbid
(By all the myfteries that here lie hid)
Forbid it mighty love let no fond hate'
Of names and w. rds fo far prejudicate;
Souls are not Spaniards too. One friendly flood,
Of baptifm, blends them all into a blood.

Chrift's faith makes hut one body of all fouls;
And loves that body's foul. No law controls
Our free traffic for heav'n, we may maintain
Peace, fure, with piety, though it come from Spain,
What foul fe c'er in any language can

Speak heav'n like hers, is my foul's countryman.
Otis not Spanish, but 'tis heav'n the speaks!
'Tis heaven that lies in ambush there, and breaks
From thence into a wond'ring reader's breast;
Who feels his warm heart ha-ch'd into a neft
Of little eagles and young loves, whofe high
Flights fcorn the lazy du and things that die.
There are en w whofe draughts (as deep as hell)
Drink up all Spain in fack. Let my foul well
With thee, ftrong wine of love! let others fwint
In puddles; we will pledge this Seraphim
Bowls full of richer blood than blush of grape
Was ever guilty of. Change we to our shape,
My feul, fome drink from men to beafts, O
then,

Drink we till we prove more, not less than men,
And turn not beafts but angels. Let the king,
Me ever into thefe his cellars bring.
Where flows fuch wine, as we can have of none,
But him who trod the wine-prefs all alone.
Wine of youth, life, and the fweet deaths of love,
Wine of immortal mixture; which can prove,
Its tincture from the roly nectar; wine,
That can exalt weak earth, and so refine
Our duft, that in one draught, mortality
May drink itself up, and forget to die.
On a Treatife of Charity

RISE then, immortal maid Religion rife!
Put on thyself in thine own looks; t'our eyes
Be what thy beauties, not our blots have made

thee,

Such as (e'er our dark fins to duft betrayed thee) Heav'n let thee down new dreft, when thy bright

birth

Shot thee like lightning, to th' aftonish'd earth.
From th' dawn of thy fair eyelids wipe away,
Dull mills, and melancholy clouds; take day,
And thine own beams about thee, bring the best
Of whatioe'er perfum'd thy eaftern neft.
Girt ail thy glories to thee: then fit down,
Open thy book, fair Queen, and take thy crown.
Thefe learned leaves fhall vindicate to thee,
Thy holift, humbleft, hand-maid Charity.
She'll drefs the like thyfelf, fet thee on high,
Where the thall reach all hearts, comniand cack

eye,

Lo, where I fee thy off'rings wake, and rise,
From the pale duft of that strange facrifice,
Which they themselves were; each one putting on
A majesty, that may befeem thy throne.
The holy youth of heav'n whose golden rings,
Girt round thy awful altars, with bright wings,
Fanning thy fair locks (which the world believes,
As much as fees) fhall with these facred leaves,
Trick their tall plumes, and in that garb fhall go,
If not more glorious, more confpicuous though.
-Be it enacted then,

By the fair laws of thy firm-pointed pen,
God's fervices no longer fhall put on
A fluttishness, for pure religion: