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O grant, sweet Goodness, that one eye may
All, and every whit of me.


Upon the dumb Devil cast out, and the slanderous Jews put to silence.

WO devils at one blow Thou hast laid flat,

A speaking devil this, a dumb one that;
Was't Thy full victory's fairer increase

That th' one spake, or that th' other held his peace?


And a certain Priest coming that way, looked on him, and passed by.

HY dost thou wound my wounds, O thou that passest by,

Handling and turning them with an

unwounded eye?

The calm that cools thine eye does shipwreck mine, for O, Unmoved to see one wretched is to make him so!


Blessed be the Paps which Thou hast sucked.
UPPOSE He had been tabled at thy teats,
Thy hunger feels not what He eats:

He'll have His teat ere long, a bloody one,The mother then must suck the Son.

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S murder no sin? or a sin so cheap, That thou need'st heap A rape upon't? till thy adult'rous touch Taught her these sullied cheeks, this blubber'd face. She was a nymph, the meadows knew none such, Of honest parentage, of unstain'd race, The daughter of a fair and well-famed fountain, As ever silver-tipp'd the side of shady mountain. See how she weeps, and weeps, that she appears Nothing but tears; Each drop's a tear that weeps for her own waste.

Hark, how at every touch she does complain her! Hark, how she bids her frighted drops make haste,

And with sad murmurs chides the hands that stain her! Leave, leave for shame, or else, good judge, decree, What water shall wash this, when this hath washed thee.


Ye build the Sepulchres of the Prophets.

HOU trimm'st a Prophet's tomb, and dost


The life thou took'st from him unto his death. Vain man! the stones that on his tomb do lie Keep but the score of them that made him die.

Upon the Infant Martyrs.

O see both blended in one flood,

The mothers' milk, the children's blood, Makes me doubt if Heaven will gather Roses hence, or lilies rather.



Verily I


say unto you, Ye shall weep and lament. ELCOME, my grief, my joy; how dear's To me my legacy of tears!

I'll weep,

and weep,

and will therefore

Weep, 'cause I can weep no more.

Thou, Thou, dear Lord, even Thou alone,
Giv'st joy, even when Thou givest none.


Upon our Lord's last comfortable Discourse with His


LL Hybla's honey, all that sweetness can,
Flows in thy song, O fair, O dying swan!
Yet is the joy I take in't small or none;

It is too sweet to be a long-lived one.


Dives asking a Drop.

DROP, one drop, how sweetly one fair drop Would tremble on my pearl-tipp'd finger's top! My wealth is gone, O, go it where it will, Spare this one jewel, I'll be Dives still!


Give to Cæsar

And to God

ALL we have is God's, and yet
Cæsar challenges a debt;

Nor hath God a thinner share,

Whatever Cæsar's payments are;

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All is God's; and yet, 'tis true,
All we have is Cæsar's too.
All is Cæsar's; and what odds,
So long as Cæsar's self is God's?

But now they have seen and hated.

EEN? and yet hated Thee? they did not see, They saw Thee not, that saw and hated Thee: No, no, they saw Thee not, O Life! O Love! Who saw aught in Thee that their hate could move?

Upon the Crown of Thorns, taken from our Blessed. Lord's Head, all bloody.


NOW'ST thou this, soldier? 'tis a much

changed plant, which yet

Thyself didst set.

'Tis changed indeed; did Autumn e'er such beauties bring

To shame his Spring ?*

O! who so hard an husbandman did ever find

A soil so kind?

Is not the soil a kind one which returns

Roses for thorns?

She began to wash His Feet with Tears and wipe them with the Hairs of her Head.

'ER eyes' flood licks His feet's fair stain,


Her hair's flame licks

up that again.

This flame thus quench'd hath brighter beams,

This flood thus stainèd fairer streams.

• These two lines are not in the version of the Paris edition

of 1652.

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On St. Peter cutting off Malchus's Ear.
ELL, Peter, dost thou wield thy active sword;
Well for thyself, I mean, not for thy Lord.

To strike at ears is to take heed there be

No witness, Peter, of thy perjury.


But Men loved Darkness rather than Light.
HE world's Light shines: shine as it will,
The world will love its darkness still;
I doubt though, when the world's in hell,
It will not love its darkness half so well.


I am ready not only to be bound but to die.
OME death, come bands, nor do you shrink,

my ears,

At those hard words man's cowardice calls fears.

Save those of fear, no other bands fear I;

Nor other death than this; the fear to die.

On St. Peter casting away his Nets at our Saviour's


HOU hast the art on't, Peter, and canst tell

To cast thy nets on all occasions well.

When Christ calls, and thy nets would have thee stay,

To cast them well's to cast them quite away.

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