THE ODOUR

2 Cor. ii. 15.

HOW sweetly doth My Master sound! My Master!

As ambergris leaves a rich scent
Unto the taster:

So do these words a sweet content,
An oriental fragrancy, My Master.

With these all day I do perfume my mind,
My mind e'en thrust into them both;
That I might find

What cordials make this curious broth,
This broth of smells that feeds and fats my mind.

My Master, shall I speak? O that to Thee
My Servant were a little so,

As flesh may be;

That these two words might creep and grow To some degree of spiciness to Thee!

Then should the pomander, which was before
A speaking sweet, mend by reflection,
And tell me more:

For pardon of my imperfection

Would warm and work it sweeter than before.

For when My Master, which alone is sweet,
And e'en in my unworthiness pleasing,
Shall call and meet,

My Servant, as Thee not displeasing,
That call is but the breathing of the sweet.

This breathing would with gains by sweetening me (As sweet things traffic when they meet) Return to Thee,

And so this new commerce and sweet Should all my life employ, and busy me.

THE FOIL

F we could see below

IF

The sphere of virtue, and each shining grace
As plainly as that above doth show;

This were the better sky, the brighter place.

God hath made stars the foil

To set off virtues; griefs to set off sinning.
Yet in this wretched world we toil,
As if grief were not foul, nor virtue winning.

THE

THE FORERUNNERS

HE harbingers are come. See, see their mark; White is their colour, and behold my head. But must they have my brain? must they dispark Those sparkling notions, which therein were bred? Must dulness turn me to a clod?

Yet have they left me, "Thou art still my God."

Good men ye be, to leave me my best room,
E'en all my heart, and what is lodged there:
I pass not, I what of the rest become,
So, "Thou art still my God," be out of fear.
He will be pleased with that ditty;
And if I please Him, 1 write fine and witty.

Farewell sweet phrases, lovely metaphors:
But will ye leave me thus? when ye before
Of stews and brothels only knew the doors,
Then did I wash you with my tears, and more,

Brought you to church well drest and clad: My God must have my best, e'en all I had.

Lovely enchanting language, sugarcane,
Honey of roses, whither wilt thou fly?
Hath some fond lover 'ticed thee to thy bane?
And wilt thou leave the church, and love a sty?
Fie, thou wilt soil thy broider'd coat,

And hurt thyself, and him that sings the note.

Let foolish lovers, if they will love dung,
With canvas, not with arras clothe their shame:
Let folly speak in her own native tongue.
True beauty dwells on high: ours is a flame

But borrowed thence to light us thither. Beauty and beauteous words should go together.

Yet if you go, I pass not; take your way:
For, "Thou art still my God," is all that ye
Perhaps with more embellishment can say.
Go, birds of spring: let winter have his fee;
Let a bleak paleness chalk the door,
So all within be livelier than before.

THE ROSE

PRE S me not t t ke more pleas

re I t is or d of suga 'd lies,

And to use a larger measure

Than my strict, yet welcome size.

First, there is no pleasure here:

Coloured griefs indeed there are, Blushing woes, that look as clear,

As if they could beauty spare.

Or if such deceits there be,

Such delights I meant to say; There are no such things to me,

Who have passed my right away.

But I will not much oppose

Unto what you now advise:

Only take this gentle rose,

And therein my answer lies.

What is fairer than a rose?

What is sweeter? yet it purgeth.

Purgings enmity disclose,

Enmity forbearance urgeth.

If then all that worldlings prize
Be contracted to a rose;

Sweetly there indeed it lies,

But it biteth in the close.

So this flower doth judge and sentence
Worldly joys to be a scourge;

For they all produce repentance,
And repentance is a purge.

But I health, not physic, choose:
Only though I you oppose,

Say that fairly I refuse,

For my answer is a rose.