Poems, Poem 5 – Poem 11
The Croſſe.
SInce Chriſt embrac'd the Croſſe it ſelfe, dare I
His image, th'image of his Croſſe deny?
Would I have profit by the ſacrifice,
And dare the choſen Altar to deſpiſe?
It bore all other ſinnes, but is it fit
That it ſhould beare the ſinne of ſcorning it?
Who from the picture would avert his eye,
How would he flye his paines, who there did dye?
From mee, no Pulpit, nor miſgrounded law,
Nor ſcandall taken, ſhall this Croſſe withdraw,
It ſhall not, for it cannot; for, the loſſe
Of this Croſſe, were to mee another Croſſe.
Better were worſe, for, no affliction
No Croſſe is ſo extreme, as to have none;
Who can blot out the Croſſe, which th'inſtrument
Of God, dew'd on mee in the Sacrament?
Who can deny mee power, and liberty
To ſtretch mine armes, and mine owne Croſſe to be?
Swimme, and at every ſtroake, thou art thy Croſſe,
The Maſt and yard make one, where ſeas do toſſe.
Looke downe, thou ſpieſt out Croſſes in ſmall things;
Looke up, thou ſeeſt birds rais'd on croſſed wings;
All the Globes frame, and ſpheares, is nothing elſe
But the Meridians croſſing Parallels.
Materiall Croſſes then, good phyſicke bee,
But yet ſpirituall have chiefe dignity.
Theſe for extracted chimique medicine ſerve,
And cure much better, and as well preſerve;
Then are you your own phyſicke, or need none,
When Still'd, or purg'd by tribulation.
For when that Croſſe ungrudg'd, unto you ſtickes,
Then are you to your ſelfe, a Crucifixe.
As perchance, Carvers do not faces make:
But that away, which hid them there, do take.
Let Croſſes, ſoe, take what hid Chriſt in thee,
And be his image, or not his, but hee.
But, as oft, Alchimiſts doe coyners prove,
So may a ſelfe-diſpiſing, get ſelfe-love.
And then as worſt ſurfets, of beſt meates bee,
Soe is pride, iſſued from humility,
For, 'tis no child, but monſter; therefore Croſſe
Your joy in croſſes, elſe, 'tis double loſſe,
And croſſe thy ſenſes, elſe, both they, and thou
Muſt periſh ſoone, and to deſtruction bowe.
For if the'eye ſeeke good objects, and will take
No croſſe from bad, wee cannot ſcape a ſnake.
So with harſh, hard, ſowre, ſtinking, croſſe the reſt,
Make them indifferent; call nothing beſt.
But moſt the eye needs croſſing, that can rome,
And move; To th'other th'objects muſt come home.
And croſſe thy heart: for that in man alone
Pants downewards, and hath palpitation.
Croſſe thoſe dejections, when it downeward tends,
And when it to forbidden heights pretends.
And as the braine through bony walls doth vent
By ſutures, which a Croſſes forme preſent,
So when thy braine workes, ere thou utter it,
Croſſe and correct concupiſcence of witt.
Be covetous of Croſſes, let none fall.
Croſſe no man elſe, but croſſe thy ſelfe in all.
Then doth the Croſſe of Chriſt worke faithfully
Within our hearts, when wee love harmleſly
The Croſſes pictures much, and with more care
That Croſſes children, which our Croſſes are.
Elegie on the Lady Marckham.
MAn is the World, and death th'Ocean,
To which God gives the lower parts of man.
This Sea invirons all, and though as yet
God hath ſet markes, and bounds, twixt us and it,
Yet doth it rore, and gnaw, and ſtill pretend,
And breaks our banke, when ere it takes a friend.
Then our land waters (teares of paſſion) vent;
Our waters, then, above our firmament.
(Teares which our Soule doth for her ſins let fall)
Take all a brackiſh taſt, and Funerall.
And even thoſe teares, which ſhould waſh ſin, are ſin.
We, after Gods Noe, drowne the world againe.
Nothing but man of all invenom'd things
Doth worke upon itſelfe, with inborne ſtings.
Teares are falſe Spectacles, we cannot ſee
Through paſſions miſt, what wee are, or what ſhee.
In her this ſea of death hath made no breach,
But as the tide doth waſh the ſlimie beach,
And leaves embroderd workes upon the ſand,
So is her fleſh refin'd by deaths cold hand.
As men of China, 'after an ages ſtay
Do take up Porcelane, where they buried Clay;
So at this grave, her limbecke, which refines
The Diamonds, Rubies, Saphires, Pearles, & Mines,
Of which, this fleſh was, her ſoule ſhall inſpire
Fleſh of ſuch ſtuffe, as God, when his laſt fire
Annuls this world, to recompence it, ſhall,
Make and name then, th'Elixar of this All.
They ſay, the ſea, when it gaines, loſeth too;
If carnall Death (the yonger brother) doe
Uſurpe the body, 'our ſoule, which ſubject is
To th'elder death, by ſinne, is freed by this;
They periſh both, when they attempt the juſt;
For, graves our trophies are, and both, deaths duſt.
So, unobnoxious now, ſhe'hath buried both;
For, none to death ſinnes, that to ſinne is loth.
Nor doe they die, which are not loth to die,
So hath ſhe this, and that virginity.
Grace was in her extremely diligent,
That kept her from ſinne, yet made her repent.
Of what ſmall ſpots pure white complaines! Alas,
How little poyſon cracks a chriſtall glaſſe?
She ſinn'd, but juſt enough to let us ſee
That, extreme truth lack'd little of a lye,
Making omiſſions, acts; laying the touch
Of ſinne, on things that ſometimes may be ſuch.
As Moſes Cherubines, whoſe natures doe
Surpaſſe all ſpeed, by him are winged too:
So would her ſoule, already'in heaven, ſeeme then,
To clyme by teares, the common ſtaires of men.
How fit ſhe was for God, I am content
To ſpeake, that death his vaine haſt may repent.
How fit for us, how even and how ſweet,
How good in all her titles, and how meet,
To have reform'd this forward hereſie,
That woman can no parts of friendſhip bee;
How Morall, how Divine ſhall not be told,
Leſt they that heare her vertues, thinke her old.
And leſt we take Deaths part, and make him glad
Of ſuch a prey, and to his tryumph adde.
Elegie on Mris Boulſtred.
DEath I recant, and ſay, unſaid by mee
What ere hath ſlip'd, that might diminiſh thee.
Spirituall treaſon, atheiſme 'tis, to ſay,
That any can thy Summons diſobey.
Th'earths face is but thy Table; there are ſet
Plants, cattell, men, diſhes for Death to eate.
In a rude hunger now hee millions drawes
Into his bloody, or plaguy, or ſterv'd jawes.
Now hee will ſeeme to ſpare, and doth more waſt,
Eating the beſt firſt, well preſerv'd to laſt.
Now wantonly he ſpoiles, and eates us not,
But breakes off friends, and lets us peecemeale rot.
Nor will this earth ſerve him; he ſinkes the deepe
Where harmeleſſe fiſh monaſtique ſilence keepe.
Who (were Death dead) by Roes of living ſand,
Might ſpunge that element, and make it land.
He rounds the aire, and breakes the hymnique notes
In birds, Heavens choriſters, organique throats,
Which (if they did not dye) might ſeeme to bee
A tenth ranke in the heavenly hierarchie.
O ſtrong and long-liv'd death, how cam'ſt thou in?
And how without Creation didſt begin?
Thou haſt, and ſhalt ſee dead, before thou dyeſt,
All the foure Monarchies, and Antichriſt.
How could I thinke thee nothing, that ſee now
In all this All, nothing elſe is, but thou.
Our births and life, vices, and vertues, bee
Waſtfull conſumptions, and degrees of thee.
For, wee to live, our bellowes weare, and breath,
Nor are wee mortall, dying, dead, but death.
And though thou beeſt, O mighty bird of prey,
So much reclaim'd by God, that thou muſt lay
All that thou kill'ſt at his feet, yet doth hee
Reſerve but few, and leaves the moſt to thee.
And of thoſe few, now thou haſt overthrowne
One whom thy blow, makes, not ours, nor thine own.
She was more ſtories high: hopeleſſe to come
To her Soule, thou'haſt offer'd at her lower roome.
Her Soule and body was a King and Court:
But thou haſt both of Captaine miſt and fort.
As houſes fall not, though the King remove,
Bodies of Saints reſt for their ſoules above.
Death gets'twixt ſoules and bodies ſuch a place
As ſinne inſinuates 'twixt juſt men and grace,
Both worke a ſeparation, no divorce.
Her Soule is gone to uſherup her corſe,
Which ſhall be'almoſt another ſoule, for there
Bodies are purer, then beſt Soules are here.
Becauſe in her, her virtues did outgoe
Her yeares, would'ſt thou, O emulous death, do ſo?
And kill her young to thy loſſe? muſt the coſt
Of beauty,'and wit, apt to doe harme, be loſt?
What though thou found'ſt her proofe'gainſt ſins of youth?
Oh, every age a diverſe ſinne purſueth.
Thou ſhould'ſt have ſtay'd, and taken better hold,
Shortly ambitious, covetous, when old,
She might have prov'd: and ſuch devotion
Might once have ſtray'd to ſuperſtition.
If all her vertues muſt have growne, yet might
Abundant virtue'have bred a proud delight.
Had ſhe perſever'd juſt, there would have bin
Some that would ſinne, miſ-thinking ſhe did ſinne.
Such as would call her friendſhip, love, and faine
To ſociableneſſe, a name profane.
Or ſinne, by tempting, or, not daring that,
By wiſhing, though they never told her what.
Thus might'ſt thou'have ſlain more ſoules, had'ſt thou not croſt
Thy ſelfe, and to triumph, thine army loſt.
Yet though theſe wayes be loſt, thou haſt left one,
Which is, immoderate griefe that ſhe is gone.
But we may ſcape that ſinne, yet weepe as much,
Our teares are due, becauſe we are not ſuch.
Some teares, that knot of friends, her death muſt coſt,
Becauſe the chaine is broke, but no linke loſt.
To Sr Henry Goodyere.
WHo makes the Paſt, a patterne for next yeare,
Turnes no new leafe, but ſtill the ſame things reads,
Seene things, he ſees againe, heard things doth heare,
And makes his life, but like a paire of beads.
A Palace, when 'tis that, which it ſhould be,
Leaves growing, and ſtands ſuch, or elſe decayes,
But hee which dwels there, is not ſo; for hee
Strives to urge upward, and his fortune raiſe;
So had your body'her morning, hath her noone,
And ſhall not better; her next change is night:
But her faire larger gueſt, to'whom Sun and Moone
Are ſparkes, and ſhort liv'd, claimes another right.
The noble Soule by age growes luſtier,
Her appetite, and her digeſtion mend,
Wee muſt not ſterve, nor hope to pamper her
With womens milke, and pappe unto the end.
Provide you manlyer dyet, you have ſeene
All libraries, which are Schools, Camps, & Courts;
But aske your Garners if you have not beene
In harveſts, too indulgent to your ſports.
Would you redeeme it? then your ſelfe tranſplant
A while from hence. Perchance outlandiſh ground
Beares no more wit, then ours, but yet more ſcant
Are thoſe diverſions there, which here abound.
To be a ſtranger hath that benefit,
Wee can beginnings, but not habits choke.
Goe, whither? hence; you get, if you forget;
New faults, till they preſcribe in us, are ſmoake.
Our ſoule, whoſe country'is heaven, & God her father,
Into this world, corruptions ſinke, is ſent,
Yet, ſo much in her travaile ſhe doth gather,
That ſhe returnes home, wiſer then ſhe went;
It payes you well, if it teach you to ſpare,
And make you'aſham'd, to make your hawks praiſe, yours,
Which when herſelfe ſhe leſſens in the aire,
You then firſt ſay, that high enough ſhe toures.
However, keepe the lively taſt you hold
Of God, love him as now, but feare him more,
And in your afternoones thinke what you told
And promiſ'd him, at morning prayer before.
Let falſhood like a diſcord anger you,
Elſe be not froward; But why doe I touch
Things, of which none is in your practiſe new,
And Tables, or fruit-trenchers teach as much;
But thus I make you keepe your promiſe Sir,
Riding I had you, though you ſtill ſtaid there,
And in theſe thoughts, although you never ſtirre,
You came with mee to Micham, and are here.
To Mr Rowland Woodward.
LIke one who'in her third widdowhood doth profeſſe,
Her ſelfe a Nunne, tyed to retiredneſſe,
So'affects my muſe now, a chaſt fallowneſſe.
Since ſhee to few, yet to too many'hath ſhowne
How love-ſong weeds, and Satyrique thornes are growne
Where ſeeds of better Arts, were early ſown.
Though to uſe, and love Poëtrie, to mee,
Betroth'd to no'one Art, be no'adulterie;
Omiſſions of good, ill, as ill deeds bee.
For though to us it ſeeme, 'and be light and thinne,
Yet in thoſe faithfull ſcales, where God throwes in
Mens workes, vanity weighs as much as ſinne.
If our Soules have ſtain'd their firſt white, yet wee
May cloth them with faith, and deare honeſtie,
Which God imputes, as native puritie,
There is no Vertue, but Religion,
Wiſe, valiant, ſober, juſt, are names, which none
Want, which want not Vice-covering diſcretion.
Seeke wee then our ſelves in our ſelves; for as
Men force the Sunne with much more force to paſſe,
By gathering his beames with a chriſtall glaſſe;
So wee, If wee into our ſelves will turne,
Blowing our ſparkes of vertue, may outburne
The ſtraw, which doth about our hearts ſojourne.
You know, Phyſitians, when they would infuſe
Into any'oyle, the Soules of Simples, uſe
Places, where they may lie ſtill warme, to chuſe.
So workes retiredneſſe in us; to rome
Giddily and bee every where, but at home,
Such freedome doth a baniſhment become.
Wee are but termers of our ſelves, yet may,
If we can ſtocke our ſelves, and thrive, uplay
Much, much deare treaſure for the great rent day.
Manure thy ſelfe then, to thy ſelfe be'approv'd,
And with vaine outward things be no more mov'd,
But to know, that I love thee'and would be lov'd.
To Sr Henry Wootton.
HEre's no more newes, then vertue, 'I may as well
Tell you Calis, or St Michaels tale for newes, as tell
That vice doth here habitually dwell.
Yet, as to'get ſtomachs, we walke up and downe,
And toyle to ſweeten reſt, ſo, may God frowne,
If, but to loth both, I haunt Court, or Towne.
For here no one is from the'extremitie
Of vice, by any other reaſon free,
But that the next to'him, ſtill, is worſe then hee.
In this worlds warfare, they whom rugged Fate,
(Gods Commiſſary,) doth ſo throughly hate,
As in'the Courts Squadron to marſhall their ſtate
If they ſtand arm'd with ſeely honeſty,
With wiſhing prayers, and neat integritie,
Like Indians 'gainſt Spaniſh hoſts they bee.
Suſpitious boldneſſe to this place belongs,
And to'have as many eares as all have tongues;
Tender to know, tough to acknowledge wrongs.
Beleeve mee Sir, in my youths giddieſt dayes,
When to be like the Court, was a playes praiſe,
Playes were not ſo like Courts, as Courts'are like playes.
Then let us at theſe mimicke antiques jeaſt,
Whoſe deepeſt projects, and egregious geſts
Are but dull Moralls of a game at Cheſts.
But now 'tis incongruity to ſmile,
Therefore I end; and bid farewell a while,
At Court, though from Court, were the better ſtile▪
To the Counteſſe of Bedford.
MADAME,
REaſon is our Soules left hand, Faith her right,
By theſe wee reach divinity, that's you;
Their loves, who have the bleſſings of your light,
Grew from their reaſon, mine from faire faith grew.
But as, although a ſquint lefthandedneſſe
Be'ungracious, yet we cannot want that hand,
So would I, not to encreaſe, but to expreſſe
My faith, as I beleeve, ſo underſtand.
Therefore I ſtudy you firſt in your Saints,
Thoſe friends, whom your election glorifies,
Then in your deeds, acceſſes, and reſtraints,
And what you reade, and what your ſelfe devize.
But ſoone, the reaſons why you'are lov'd by all,
Grow infinite, and ſo paſſe reaſons reach,
Then backe againe to'implicite faith I fall,
And reſt on what the Catholique faith doth teach;
That you are good: and not one Heretique
Denies it: if he did, yet you are ſo.
For, rockes, which high top'd and deep rooted ſticke,
Waves waſh, not undermine, nor overthrow.
In every thing there naturally growes
A Balſamum to keepe it freſh, and new,
If 'twere not injur'd by extrinſique blowes;
Your birth and beauty are this Balme in you.
But, you of learning and religion,
And vertue,'and ſuch ingredients, have made
A methridate, whoſe operation
Keepes off, or cures what can be done or ſaid.
Yet, this is not your phyſicke, but your food,
A dyet fit for you; for you are here
The firſt good Angell, ſince the worlds frame ſtood,
That ever did in womans ſhape appeare.
Since you are then Gods maſterpeece, and ſo
His Factor for our loves; do as you doe,
Make your returne home gracious; and beſtow
Thy life on that; ſo make one life of two.
For ſo God helpe mee, 'I would not miſſe you there
For all the good which you can do me here.
To the Counteſſe of Bedford.
MADAME,
YOu have refin'd mee, and to worthyeſt things
Vertue, Art, Beauty, Fortune, now I ſee
Rareneſſe, or uſe, not nature value brings;
And ſuch, as they are circumſtanc'd, they bee.
Two ills can nere perplexe us, ſinne to'excuſe;
But of two good things, we may leave and chuſe.
Therefore at Court, which is not vertues clime,
(Where a tranſcendent height, (as, lowneſſe mee)
Makes her not be, or not ſhow: all my rime
Your vertues challenge, which there rareſt bee;
For, as darke texts need notes: there ſome muſt bee
To uſher vertue, and ſay, This is ſhee.
So in the country'is beauty; to this place
You are the ſeaſon (Madame) you the day,
'Tis but a grave of ſpices, till your face
Exhale them, and a thick cloſe bud diſplay.
Widow'd and reclus'd elſe, her ſweets ſhe'enſhrines
As China, when the Sunne at Braſill dines.
Out from your chariot, morning breaks at night,
And falſifies both computations ſo;
Since a new world doth riſe here from your light,
We your new creatures, by new recknings goe.
This ſhowes that you from nature lothly ſtray,
That ſuffer not an artificiall day.
In this you'have made the Court the Antipodes,
And will'd your Delegate, the vulgar Sunne,
To doe profane autumnall offices,
Whilſt here to you, wee ſacrificers runne;
And whether Prieſts, or Organs, you wee'obey,
We ſound your influence, and your Dictates ſay▪
Yet to that Deity which dwels in you,
Your vertuous Soule, I now not ſacrifice;
Theſe are Petitions, and not Hymnes; they ſue
But that I may ſurvay the edifice.
In all Religions as much care hath bin
Of Temples frames, and beauty, 'as Rites within.
As all which goe to Rome, doe not thereby
Eſteeme religions, and hold faſt the beſt,
But ſerve diſcourſe, and curioſity,
With that which doth religion but inveſt,
And ſhunne th'entangling laborinths of Schooles,
And make it wit, to thinke the wiſer fooles▪
So in this pilgrimage I would behold
You as you'are vertues temple, not as ſhee,
What walls of tender chriſtall her enfold,
What eyes, hands, boſome, her pure Altars bee;
And after this ſurvay, oppoſe to all
Bablers of Chappels, you th'Eſcuriall.
Yet not as conſecrate, but merely'as faire;
On theſe I caſt a lay and country eye.
Of paſt and future ſtories, which are rare,
I finde you all record, and prophecie.
Purge but the booke of Fate, that it admit
No ſad nor guilty legends, you are it.
If good and lovely were not one, of both
You were the tranſcript, and originall,
The Elements, the Parent, and the Growth
And every peece of you, is both their All,
So'intire are all your deeds, and you, that you
Muſt do the ſame things ſtill: you cannot two.
But theſe (as nice thinne Schoole divinity
Serves hereſie to furder or repreſſe)
Taſt of Poëtique rage, or flattery,
And need not, where all hearts one truth profeſſe;
Oft from new proofes, and new phraſe, new doubts grow,
As ſtrange attire aliens the men wee know.
Leaving then buſie praiſe, and all appeale,
To higher Courts, ſenſes decree is true,
The Mine, the Magazine, the Commonweale,
The ſtory of beauty', in Twicknam is, and you.
Who hath ſeene one, would both; As, who had bin
In Paradiſe, would ſeeke the Cherubin.
To Sr Edward Herbert. at Iulyers.
MAn is a lumpe, where all beaſts kneaded bee,
Wiſdome makes him an Arke where all agree;
The foole, in whom theſe beaſts do live at jarre,
Is ſport to others, and a Theater,
Nor ſcapes hee ſo, but is himſelfe their prey;
All which was man in him, is eate away,
And now his beaſts on one another feed,
Yet couple'in anger, and new monſters breed;
How happy'is hee, which hath due place aſſign'd
To'his beaſts, and diſaforeſted his minde?
Empail'd himſelfe to keepe them out, not in;
Can ſow, and dares truſt corne, where they have bin;
Can uſe his horſe, goate, wolfe, and every beaſt,
And is not Aſſe himſelfe to all the reſt.
Elſe, man not onelyonly is the heard of ſwine,
But he's thoſe devills too, which did incline
Them to a headlong rage, and made them worſe:
For man can adde weight to heavens heavieſt curſe.
As Soules (they ſay) by our firſt touch, take in
The poyſonous tincture of Originall ſinne,
So, to the puniſhments which God doth fling,
Our apprehenſion contributes the ſting.
To us, as to his chickins, he doth caſt
Hemlocke, and wee as men, his hemlocke taſte.
We do infuſe to what he meant for meat,
Corroſiveneſſe, or intenſe cold or heat.
For, God no ſuch ſpecifique poyſon hath
As kills we know not how; his fierceſt wrath
Hath no antipathy, but may be good
At leſt for phyſicke, if not for our food.
Thus man, that might be'his pleaſure, is his rod,
And is his devill, that might be his God.
Since then our buſineſſe is, to rectifie
Nature, to what ſhe was, wee'are led awry
By them, who man to us in little ſhow,
Greater then due, no forme we can beſtow
On him; for Man into himſelfe can draw
All, All his faith can ſwallow, 'or reaſon chaw.
All that is fill'd, and all that which doth fill,
All the round world, to man is but a pill,
In all it workes not, but it is in all
Poyſonous, or purgative, or cordiall,
For, knowledge kindles Calentures in ſome,
And is to others jcy Opium.
As brave as true, is that profeſſion than
Which you doe uſe to make; that you know man.
This makes it credible, you have dwelt upon
All worthy bookes; and now are ſuch an one.
Actions are authors, and of thoſe in you
Your friends finde every day a mart of new.