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Which render God his prayses meete,
Unto which ioyes for to attayne
Haud ictus sapio.
But searche within thy secret thought,
And thinke, how well so euer it be
But if thy sinfull sluggishe eye
Thus if this paine procure thine ease
The stretching armes, the yauning breath, Which I to bedward vse, Are patternes of the pangs of death, When life will me refuse: And of my bed eche sundrye part In shaddowes doth resemble The sundry shapes of deth, whose dart Shal make my flesh to tremble.
My bed it selfe is like the graue, My sheetes the winding sheete,
My cloths the inould which I must haue
My bones shall in this bed remaine,
SONNET II. SWEETE Saviour! from whose fivefold bleeding
wound That comfortable antidote distilde,
Which that ranck poyson hath expeld and kild, In our old wretched father Adam found In Paradise, when he desertlesse crown'd
Receav'd it as th' envenomde Serpent willde;
Insteede of lustfull eyes with arrowes fillde Of sinful loves, which from their beames abound,
Let those sweete blessed wounds with streams
Aboundantly sollicite my poor spirite,
Ravishde with love of Thee, that didst debase Thyselfe on earth, that I might heaven inherite.
O blessed sweet wounds ! fountains of electre ! My wounded soul's balm, and salvation's nectre.
BLESSED Creatour ! let thine onely Sonne,
Sweete blossome, stocke, and root of David's line, The cleare, bright morning-starre, give light
and shine On my poore spirit; which hath new begunne With his Love's praise, and with vain loves hath
donne. To my poor Muse let him his eares incline, Thirsting to taste of that celestiall wine
Whose purple streame hath our salvation wonne. O gracious Bridegroome! and thrice-lovely
Bride! Which—"Come and fill who will”—for ever crie;
“ Water of life to no man is denyde; Fill still, who will,—if any man be drye."
O heavenly voice! I thirst, I thirst, and come For life, with other sinners to get some.
SONNET VII. White spotlesse Lambe! whose precious sweete
bloudshed The whole world's sinneful debt hath satis
fied, For sinners scorn'd, whippde, wounded, cruci
Beholde my sinfull soule by Sathan led
My Conscience's blacke booke; unlesse supplide
wide, Whose purple issue, which for sinners bled,
Shall wash the register of my foul sin, And thence blot out the vile memoriall :
Then let thy blessed Angell enter in My temple purged, and that bistoriall
Of my sinnes numberlesse in deepe seas cast; So shall I be new borne and sav'd at last.
SONNET VIII. LYON of Judah! which dost judge, and fight
With endlesse justice; whose anointed head
Was once with wounding thornes invironed, But now with sacred crownes, by glorious right; Whose glorious hoast succeedes in armour white;