A Hymme to God the Father
Heare mee, O God! A borken heart Is my best part: Use still thy rod, That I may prove Therein, thy Love. If thou hadst not Beene sterne to mee, But left me free, I had forgot My selfe and thee. For, sin's so sweet, As minds ill bent Rarely repent, Until they meet Their punsihment. Who more can crave Then thou hast done: That gav'st a Sonne, To free a slave? First made of nought; With all since bought. Sinne, Death, and Hell, His glorious Name Quite overcame, Yet I rebell, And slight the same. But, I'le come in, Before my losse, Me farther tosse, As sure to win Under his Crosse.
An Ode to Himselfe
Where do'st thou carelesse lie Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge, that sleepes, doth die; And this Securitie, It is the common Moath, That eats on wits, and Arts, and oft destroyes them both. Are all th'Aonian springs Dri'd up? lyes Thespia wast? Doth Clarius Harp want strings, That not a Nymph now sings! Or droop they as disgrac't To see their Seats and Bowers by chattring Pies defac't? If hence they silence be, As 'tis too just a cause; Let this thought quicken thee, Minds that are great and free, Should not on fortune pause, 'Tis crowne enough to vertue still, her owne applause. What though the greedie Frie Be taken with false Baytes Of worded Balladrie, And thinke it Poesie? They die with their conceits, And only pitious scorne, upon their folly waites. Then take in hand thy Lyre, Strike in thy proper straine, With Japhets lyne, aspire Sols Chariot for new fire, To give the world againe: Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Joves braine. And since our Daintie age Cannot endure reproofe Make not thy selfe a Page, To that strumpet the Stage, But sing high and aloofe, Safe from the wolves black jaw, and the dull Asses hoofe.
Song: from The Silent Woman
Still to be neat, still to be drest, As, you were going to a feast; Still to be pou'dred, still perfum'd: Lady, it is to be presum'd, Though arts hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a looke, give me a face, That makes simplicitie a grace; Robes loosely flowing, haire as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Then all th'adulteries of art. They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.