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CXLIX. THE FORERUNNERS.
The harbingers are come. See, see their mark ;
Must dulness turn me to a clod ?
Good men ye be, to leave me my best room,
He will be pleased with that ditty ;
Farewell sweet phrases, lovely metaphors :
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,
Fy, thou wilt soil thy broider'd coat,
Let foolish lovers, if they will love dung,
Let folly speak in her own native tongue.
But borrow'd thence to light us thither. Beauty and beauteous words should go together.
I pass not; take your way:
Let a bleak paleness chalk the door, So all within be livelier than before.
CL, THE ROSE,
Press me not to take more pleasure
In this world of sugar'd lies,
my strict, yet welcome size.
First, there is no pleasure here :
Colour'd griefs indeed there are,
As if they could beauty spare.
Or if such deceits there be,
Such delights I meant to say ;
Who have pass'd my right away.
But I will not much oppose
Unto what you now advise :
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.
Throw away thy rod,
CLII. THE INVITATION.
Is your waste; Save your cost, and mend your fare. God is here prepared and dress'd,
And the feast, God, in whom all dainties are.
And drink this,
Come ye hither all whom pain
Doth arraign, Bringing all your sins to sight: Taste and fear not: God is here
In this cheer, And on sin doth cast the fright.
Come ye hither all, whom joy
Doth destroy, While ye graze without your
bounds : Here is joy that drowneth quite
Your delight, As a flood the lower grounds.
Is your dove,