Contents — 19 sections
La Corona
1. _Deigne at my hands this crown of prayer and praise_, Weav'd in my low devout melancholie, Thou which of good, hast, yea art treasury, All changing unchang'd Antient of dayes; But doe not, with a vile crowne of fraile bayes, Reward my muses white sincerity, But what thy thorny crowne gain'd, that give mee, A crowne of Glory, which doth flower alwayes; The ends crowne our workes, but thou crown'st our ends, For, at our end begins our endlesse rest; The first last end, now zealously possest, With a strong sober thirst, my soule attends. 'Tis time that heart and voice be lifted high, _Salvation to all that will is nigh_. So _W_ end _1633_, _A18_, _B_, _D_, _H49_, _N_, _O'F_, _TC_, _W:_ ends _1635-69_, _S96_ rest; _Ed:_ rest, _1633-69_] This _B_, _S_, _S96_, _W_ zealously] soberly _B_, _S96_, _W:_ _O'F corrects_] voice and heart _B_, _O'F_, _S_, _S96_, _W_] _nigh_, _1633_] ANNVNCIATION. 2. _Salvation to all that will is nigh_; That All, which alwayes is All every where, Which cannot sinne, and yet all sinnes must beare, Which cannot die, yet cannot chuse but die, Loe, faithfull Virgin, yeelds himselfe to lye In prison, in thy wombe; and though he there Can take no sinne, nor thou give, yet he'will weare Taken from thence, flesh, which deaths force may trie. Ere by the spheares time was created, thou Wast in his minde, who is thy Sonne, and Brother; Whom thou conceiv'st, conceiv'd; yea thou art now Thy Makers maker, and thy Fathers mother; Thou'hast light in darke; and shutst in little roome, _Immensity cloysterd in thy deare wombe_. begotten, _B_, _S_, _S96_, _W:_ _O'F corrects_] conceived; _1635-69_] NATIVITIE. 3. _Immensitie cloysterd in thy deare wombe_, Now leaves his welbelov'd imprisonment, There he hath made himselfe to his intent Weake enough, now into our world to come; But Oh, for thee, for him, hath th'Inne no roome? Yet lay him in this stall, and from the Orient, Starres, and wisemen will travell to prevent Th'effect of _Herods_ jealous generall doome. Seest thou, my Soule, with thy faiths eyes, how he Which fils all place, yet none holds him, doth lye? Was not his pity towards thee wondrous high, That would have need to be pittied by thee? Kisse him, and with him into Egypt goe, _With his kinde mother, who partakes thy woe_. his _1669_] shall _B_, _O'F_, _S_, _S96_, _W_] dire and _B_, _O'F_, _S_, _S96_, _W:_ zealous _A18, N, TC_ doome.] doome; _1633_] TEMPLE. 4. _With his kinde mother who partakes thy woe_, _Ioseph_ turne backe; see where your child doth sit, Blowing, yea blowing out those sparks of wit, Which himselfe on the Doctors did bestow; The Word but lately could not speake, and loe, It sodenly speakes wonders, whence comes it, That all which was, and all which should be writ, A shallow seeming child, should deeply know? His Godhead was not soule to his manhood, Nor had time mellowed him to this ripenesse, But as for one which hath a long taske, 'tis good, With the Sunne to beginne his businesse, He in his ages morning thus began _By miracles exceeding power of man_. to _W_ a long taske, _1633-69_, _D_, _H49:_ long taskes _B_, _N_, _O'F_, _S_, _S96_, _TCD_, _W:_ longe taske _A18_, _TCC_ 'tis] 'Tis _1633:_ thinks _W_] CRVCIFYING. 5. _By miracles exceeding power of man_, Hee faith in some, envie in some begat, For, what weake spirits admire, ambitious, hate; In both affections many to him ran, But Oh! the worst are most, they will and can, Alas, and do, unto the immaculate, Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a Fate, Measuring selfe-lifes infinity to'a span, Nay to an inch. Loe, where condemned hee Beares his owne crosse, with paine, yet by and by When it beares him, he must beare more and die. Now thou art lifted up, draw mee to thee, And at thy death giving such liberall dole, _Moyst, with one drop of thy blood, my dry soule_. meeke _B_, _O'F_, _S_, _S96_, _W_] RESVRRECTION. 6. _Moyst with one drop of thy blood, my dry soule_ Shall (though she now be in extreme degree Too stony hard, and yet too fleshly,) bee Freed by that drop, from being starv'd, hard, or foule, And life, by this death abled, shall controule Death, whom thy death slue; nor shall to mee Feare of first or last death, bring miserie, If in thy little booke my name thou enroule, Flesh in that long sleep is not putrified, But made that there, of which, and for which 'twas; Nor can by other meanes be glorified. May then sinnes sleep, and deaths soone from me passe, That wak't from both, I againe risen may _Salute the last, and everlasting day_. thy _B_, _O'F_, _S_, _S96_, _W_] shall nowe to _A18_, _N_, _O'F_, _TC_] that last long _O'F_, _S_, _S96_, _W:_ that _D_, _H49_] purified _S_, _S96_, _W_, _and O'F_ (_which corrects to_ glorified)] ASCENTION. 7. _Salute the last and everlasting day_, Joy at the uprising of this Sunne, and Sonne, Yee whose just teares, or tribulation Have purely washt, or burnt your drossie clay; Behold the Highest, parting hence away, Lightens the darke clouds, which hee treads upon, Nor doth hee by ascending, show alone, But first hee, and hee first enters the way. O strong Ramme, which hast batter'd heaven for mee, Mild Lambe, which with thy blood, hast mark'd the path; Bright Torch, which shin'st, that I the way may see, Oh, with thy owne blood quench thy owne just wrath, And if thy holy Spirit, my Muse did raise, _Deigne at my hands this crowne of prayer and praise_. way, _1633_] thy wayes _B_, _S_, _S96_, _W:_ thee _A18_, _TCC_]
Holy Sonnet I
Thou hast made me, And shall thy worke decay? Repaire me now, for now mine end doth haste, I runne to death, and death meets me as fast, And all my pleasures are like yesterday; I dare not move my dimme eyes any way, Despaire behind, and death before doth cast Such terrour, and my feeble flesh doth waste By sinne in it, which it t'wards hell doth weigh; Onely thou art above, and when towards thee By thy leave I can looke, I rise againe; But our old subtle foe so tempteth me, That not one houre my selfe I can sustaine; Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art, And thou like Adamant draw mine iron heart.
Holy Sonnet II
As due by many titles I resigne My selfe to thee, O God, first I was made By thee, and for thee, and when I was decay'd Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine; I am thy sonne, made with thy selfe to shine, Thy servant, whose paines thou hast still repaid, Thy sheepe, thine Image, and, till I betray'd My selfe, a temple of thy Spirit divine; Why doth the devill then usurpe on mee? Why doth he steale, nay ravish that's thy right? Except thou rise and for thine owne worke fight, Oh I shall soone despaire, when I doe see That thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt'not chuse me, And Satan hates mee, yet is loth to lose mee. steale _1633-39_ that's] what's _A18_, _TCC_] me. _1633_]
Holy Sonnet III
O might those sighes and teares returne againe Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent, That I might in this holy discontent Mourne with some fruit, as I have mourn'd in vaine; In mine Idolatry what showres of raine Mine eyes did waste? what griefs my heart did rent? That sufferance was my sinne; now I repent; 'Cause I did suffer I must suffer paine. Th'hydroptique drunkard, and night-scouting thiefe, The itchy Lecher, and selfe tickling proud Have the remembrance of past joyes, for reliefe Of comming ills. To (poore) me is allow'd No ease; for, long, yet vehement griefe hath beene Th'effect and cause, the punishment and sinne.
Holy Sonnet IV
Oh my blacke Soule! now thou art summoned By sicknesse, deaths herald, and champion; Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turne to whence hee is fled, Or like a thiefe, which till deaths doome be read, Wisheth himselfe delivered from prison; But damn'd and hal'd to execution, Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned. Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lacke; But who shall give thee that grace to beginne? Oh make thy selfe with holy mourning blacke, And red with blushing, as thou art with sinne; Or wash thee in Christs blood, which hath this might That being red, it dyes red soules to white.
Holy Sonnet V
I am a little world made cunningly Of Elements, and an Angelike spright, But black sinne hath betraid to endlesse night My worlds both parts, and (oh) both parts must die. You which beyond that heaven which was most high Have found new sphears, and of new lands can write, Powre new seas in mine eyes, that so I might Drowne my world with my weeping earnestly, Or wash it, if it must be drown'd no more: But oh it must be burnt! alas the fire Of lust and envie have burnt it heretofore, And made it fouler; Let their flames retire, And burne me ô Lord, with a fiery zeale Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heale. those _W_] God _W_]
Holy Sonnet VI
This is my playes last scene, here heavens appoint My pilgrimages last mile; and my race Idly, yet quickly runne, hath this last pace, My spans last inch, my minutes latest point, And gluttonous death, will instantly unjoynt My body, and soule, and I shall sleepe a space, But my'ever-waking part shall see that face, Whose feare already shakes my every joynt: Then, as my soule, to'heaven her first seate, takes flight, And earth-borne body, in the earth shall dwell, So, fall my sinnes, that all may have their right, To where they'are bred, and would presse me, to hell. Impute me righteous, thus purg'd of evill, For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devill. flesh _1633_ the devill.] and devill. _A18_, _B_, _D_, _H49_, _N_, _O'F_, _S96_, _TC_, _W_]
Holy Sonnet VII
At the round earths imagin'd corners, blow Your trumpets, Angells, and arise, arise From death, you numberlesse infinities Of soules, and to your scattred bodies goe, All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes, Shall behold God, and never tast deaths woe. But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space, For, if above all these, my sinnes abound, 'Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace, When wee are there; here on this lowly ground, Teach mee how to repent; for that's as good As if thou'hadst seal'd my pardon, with thy blood. overthrow _1669_] holy _1669_] my _1669_]
Holy Sonnet VIII
If faithfull soules be alike glorifi'd As Angels, then my fathers soule doth see, And adds this even to full felicitie, That valiantly I hels wide mouth o'rstride: But if our mindes to these soules be descry'd By circumstances, and by signes that be Apparent in us, not immediately, How shall my mindes white truth by them be try'd? They see idolatrous lovers weepe and mourne, And vile blasphemous Conjurers to call On Iefus name, and Pharisaicall Dissemblers feigne devotion. Then turne O pensive soule, to God, for he knowes best Thy true griefe, for he put it in my breast. to _B_, _S96_, _W_] thy _B_, _S96_]
Holy Sonnet IX
If poysonous mineralls, and if that tree, Whose fruit threw death on else immortall us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damn'd; Alas; why should I bee? Why should intent or reason, borne in mee, Make sinnes, else equall, in mee more heinous? And mercy being easie, and glorious To God; in his sterne wrath, why threatens hee? But who am I, that dare dispute with thee O God? Oh! of thine onely worthy blood, And my teares, make a heavenly Lethean flood, And drowne in it my sinnes blacke memorie; That thou remember them, some claime as debt, I thinke it mercy, if thou wilt forget. poysons _1639-54_ and if that] or if the _B_, _O'F_, _S96_] and _B_, _O'F_, _S96_] mee, _1633_] God, _1633_] memorie, _1633_] forget, _1633_]
Holy Sonnet X
Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe, For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then? One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die. mee; _1633_] deliverie _1633-69_] doth _1633_ dwell,] dwell. _1633_] easier _B_, _O'F_, _S96_, _W_] live _B_, _S96_, _W_]
Holy Sonnet XI
Spit in my face you Jewes, and pierce my side, Buffet, and scoffe, scourge, and crucifie mee, For I have sinn'd, and sinn'd, and onely hee, Who could do no iniquitie, hath dyed: But by my death can not be satisfied My sinnes, which passe the Jewes impiety: They kill'd once an inglorious man, but I Crucifie him daily, being now glorified. Oh let mee then, his strange love still admire: Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment. And _Iacob_ came cloth'd in vile harsh attire But to supplant, and with gainfull intent: God cloth'd himselfe in vile mans flesh, that so Hee might be weake enough to suffer woe. humbly _W_] iniquitye _D_, _H49_] glorified; _1633_] intent _1633_]
Holy Sonnet XII
Why are wee by all creatures waited on? Why doe the prodigall elements supply Life and food to mee, being more pure then I, Simple, and further from corruption? Why brook'st thou, ignorant horse, subjection? Why dost thou bull, and bore so seelily Dissemble weaknesse, and by'one mans stroke die, Whose whole kinde, you might swallow and feed upon? Weaker I am, woe is mee, and worse then you, You have not sinn'd, nor need be timorous. But wonder at a greater wonder, for to us Created nature doth these things subdue, But their Creator, whom sin, nor nature tyed, For us, his Creatures, and his foes, hath dyed. ame I _W_] Alas I am weaker, _W_]
Holy Sonnet XIII
What if this present were the worlds last night? Marke in my heart, O Soule, where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucified, and tell Whether that countenance can thee affright, Teares in his eyes quench the amasing light, Blood fills his frownes, which from his pierc'd head fell. And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell, Which pray'd forgivenesse for his foes fierce spight? No, no; but as in my idolatrie I said to all my profane mistresses, Beauty, of pitty, foulnesse onely is A signe of rigour: so I say to thee, To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign'd, This beauteous forme assures a pitious minde. Looke _W_] ranck _W_]
Holy Sonnet XIV
Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, you As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend; That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new. I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due, Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end, Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend, But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue. Yet dearely'I love you,'and would be loved faine, But am betroth'd unto your enemie: Divorce mee,'untie, or breake that knot againe, Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free, Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee. wee should _1669_]
Holy Sonnet XV
Wilt thou love God, as he thee! then digest, My Soule, this wholsome meditation, How God the Spirit, by Angels waited on In heaven, doth make his Temple in thy brest. The Father having begot a Sonne most blest, And still begetting, (for he ne'r begonne) Hath deign'd to chuse thee by adoption, Coheire to'his glory,'and Sabbaths endlesse rest. And as a robb'd man, which by search doth finde His stolne stuffe sold, must lose or buy'it againe: The Sonne of glory came downe, and was slaine, Us whom he'had made, and Satan stolne, to unbinde. 'Twas much, that man was made like God before, But, that God should be made like man, much more. rest; _1633_]
Holy Sonnet XVI
Father, part of his double interest Unto thy kingdome, thy Sonne gives to mee, His joynture in the knottie Trinitie Hee keepes, and gives to me his deaths conquest. This Lambe, whose death, with life the world hath blest, Was from the worlds beginning slaine, and he Hath made two Wills, which with the Legacie Of his and thy kingdome, doe thy Sonnes invest. Yet such are thy laws, that men argue yet Whether a man those statutes can fulfill; None doth; but all-healing grace and spirit Revive againe what law and letter kill. Thy lawes abridgement, and thy last command Is all but love; Oh let this last Will stand! Trinitie, _1633_] doth, _1633_ but all-healing _A18_, _D_, _H49_, _N_, _TC_, _W:_ but thy all-healing _1633-69_. _See note_ spirit] Spirit, _1633-69_] Revive and quicken _B_, _O'F_, _S96_, _W_ kill. _1635-69:_ kill, _1633_]
Holy Sonnet XVII
Since she whom I lov'd hath payd her last debt To Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead, And her Soule early into heaven ravished, Wholly on heavenly things my mind is sett. Here the admyring her my mind did whett To seeke thee God; so streames do shew their head; But though I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed, A holy thirsty dropsy melts mee yett. But why should I begg more Love, when as thou Dost wooe my soule for hers; offring all thine: And dost not only feare least I allow My Love to Saints and Angels things divine, But in thy tender jealosy dost doubt Least the World, Fleshe, yea Devill putt thee out. dead _W_] y^r _W_ head;] head, _W_] _spelt_ woe _W_] divine _W_] XVIII. Show me deare Christ, thy spouse, so bright and clear. What! is it She, which on the other shore Goes richly painted? or which rob'd and tore Laments and mournes in Germany and here? Sleepes she a thousand, then peepes up one yeare? Is she selfe truth and errs? now new, now outwore? Doth she, and did she, and shall she evermore On one, on seaven, or on no hill appeare? Dwells she with us, or like adventuring knights First travaile we to seeke and then make Love? Betray kind husband thy spouse to our sights, And let myne amorous soule court thy mild Dove, Who is most trew, and pleasing to thee, then When she'is embrac'd and open to most men. What _W_] _so I read W:_ lore _Gosse_]
Holy Sonnet XIX
Oh, to vex me, contraryes meet in one: Inconstancy unnaturally hath begott A constant habit; that when I would not I change in vowes, and in devotione. As humorous is my contritione As my prophane Love, and as soone forgott: As ridlingly distemper'd, cold and hott, As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none. I durst not view heaven yesterday; and to day In prayers, and flattering speaches I court God: To morrow I quake with true feare of his rod. So my devout fitts come and go away Like a fantastique Ague: save that here Those are my best dayes, when I shake with feare. y^t _W_, _so always_] & _W_, _so always_]