8 Grow thou and they; and be thy fair increase Live, oh for ever live and reign The Lamb whom his own love has slain! And let thy lost sheep live t' inherit That kingdom which this cross did merit. Amen. CHARITAS NIMIA; OR, THE DEAR BARGAIN. LORD, what is man? why should he cost thee Love is too kind, I see, and can Alas, sweet Lord, what were 't to thee Heaven ne'ertheless still heaven would be; In the deep hell, What have his woes to do with thee? Let him go weep O'er his own wounds: Seraphims will not sleep, Nor spheres let fall their faithful rounds; 10 Still would the youthful spirits sing, Still would those beauteous ministers of light And bow their flaming heads before thee; Still thrones and dominations would adore thee; Keep warm thy praise Both nights and days, And teach thy loved name to their noble lyre. Let froward dust then do its kind, And give itself for sport to the proud wind. Why should'st thou bow thy awful breast to see Should not the king still keep his throne Will the gallant sun E'er the less glorious run? Will he hang down his golden head, Or e'er the sooner seek his western bed, Because some foolish fly Grows wanton and will die? If I were lost in misery, What was it to thy heaven and thee? 19 30 40 What if my faithless soul and I Would needs fall in With guilt and sin, What did the Lamb that he should die? If my base lust Bargain'd with death and well-beseeming dust, Lamb's bosom write Of my sin's shame ? Why should his unstain'd breast make good O my Saviour! make me see How dearly thou hast paid for me; That lost again, my life may prove As then in death, so now in love. 49 60 SANCTA MARIA DOLORUM; OR, THE MOTHER OF SORROWS: A PATHETICAL DESCANT UPON THE DEVOUT PLAINSONG OF STABAT MATER DOLOROSA. 1 IN shade of death's sad tree Stood doleful she, Ah she now by no other Name to be known, alas, but Sorrow's mother. Before her eyes Her's and the whole world's joys, Hanging all torn, she sees; and in his woes 2 What kind of marble than Who can look on and see, Nor keep such noble sorrows company? (My flints) some drops are due, To see so many unkind swords contest While with a faithful, mutual flood 3 0 costly intercourse Of deaths, and worse, Divided loves: while son and mother Discourse alternate wounds to one another; Quick deaths that grow And gather, as they come and go: His nails write swords in her, which soon her heart Pays back with more than their own smart; Her swords, still growing with his pain, Turn spears, and straight come home again. 4 She sees her Son, her God, Of borrow'd sins; and swim Of love! here must she stand, Charged to look on, and with a steadfast eye See her life die; Leaving her only so much breath 5 O mother turtle-dove! That these dry lids might borrow Of thine (the noblest nest Both of love's fires and floods) might I recline The chill lump would relent, and prove 6 Oh, teach those wounds to bleed This book of loves, thus writ Oh, let me here claim shares; Yield something in thy sad prerogative (Great queen of griefs!), and give Me to my tears; who, though all stone, Think much that thou shouldst mourn alone. 7 Yea, let my life and me Fix here with thee, And at the humble foot Of this fair tree take our eternal root, That so we may At least be in love's way; |