Redeem a worthy wrath; rouse thee, and shake Be Herod, and thou shalt not miss from me 54 So said, her richest snake, which to her wrist 10 Dire flames diffuse themselves through every vein : He wakes, and with him, ne'er to sleep, new fears: In rage, My arms! Give me my arms! he cries. As when a pile of food-preparing fire So boils the firèd Herod's blood-swoll'n breast, His faithless crown he feels loose on his crest, 63 64 A thousand prophecies that talk strange things Bringing him nothing but new fears from th' East; And now his dream, hell's firebrand, still more bright, No sooner, therefore, shall the morning see— To th' heads and officers of every band, Why art thou troubled, Herod? What vain fear Nor would He this thy fear'd crown from thee tear, Poor jealousy! Why should He wish to prey Make to thy reason, man, and mock thy doubts; So much? rude shepherds. What his steeds? alas, Poor beasts! a slow ox, and a simple ass. IL FINE DEL LIBRO PRIMO. ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R. O, here a little volume, but great book! Whose native pages disdaining To be thus folded, and complaining Of these ignoble sheets, Affect more comely bands, Fair one, from thy kind hands, And confidently look To find the rest Of a rich binding in your breast.* So in the Paris edition of 1652. Fear it not, sweet, It is no hypocrite, In all the others Much larger in itself, than in its look! It is in one choice handful, heaven; and all Το prove A thousand angels in one point can dwell. It is love's great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couch'd in their white bosom; and from thence, Against their ghostly foe to take their part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. It is an armoury of light; Let constant use but keep it bright, You'll find it yields To holy hands and humble hearts, More swords and shields Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Those of turtles, chaste, and true, Wakeful, and wise. Here's a friend shall fight for you; Let prayer alone to play his part. But, O! the heart That studies this high art Must be a sure housekeeper, And yet no sleeper. Dear soul, be strong, Mercy will come ere long, And bring her bosom full of blessings, For worthy souls, whose wise embraces But if the noble bridegroom when He comes Shall find the wand'ring heart from home, Leaving her chaste abode To gad abroad: Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies Spheres of sweet and sugar'd lies, Some slippery pair Of false, perhaps, as fair Flattering, but fores wearing eyes. Doubtless some other heart Will get the start Meanwhile, and, stepping in before, Words which are not heard with ears |