The Hesperides & Noble Numbers Part 103

264. HIS WORDS TO CHRIST GOING TO THE CROSS.

When Thou wast taken, Lord, I oft have read, All Thy disciples Thee forsook and fled.

Let their example not a pattern be For me to fly, but now to follow Thee.

265. ANOTHER TO HIS SAVIOUR.

If Thou be'st taken, G.o.d forbid I fly from Thee, as others did: But if Thou wilt so honour me As to accept my company, I'll follow Thee, hap hap what shall, Both to the judge and judgment hall: And, if I see Thee posted there, To be all-flayed with whipping-cheer, I'll take my share; or else, my G.o.d, Thy stripes I'll kiss, or burn the rod.

266. HIS SAVIOUR'S WORDS GOING TO THE CROSS.

Have, have ye no regard, all ye Who pa.s.s this way, to pity Me, Who am a man of misery!

A man both bruis'd, and broke, and one Who suffers not here for Mine own, But for My friends' transgression!

Ah! Sion's daughters, do not fear The cross, the cords, the nails, the spear, The myrrh, the gall, the vinegar;

For Christ, your loving Saviour, hath Drunk up the wine of G.o.d's fierce wrath; Only there's left a little froth,

Less for to taste than for to show What bitter cups had been your due, Had He not drank them up for you.

267. HIS ANTHEM TO CHRIST ON THE CROSS.

When I behold Thee, almost slain, With one and all parts full of pain: When I Thy gentle heart do see Pierced through and dropping blood for me, I'll call, and cry out, thanks to Thee.

_Vers._ But yet it wounds my soul to think That for my sin Thou, Thou must drink, Even Thou alone, the bitter cup Of fury and of vengeance up.

_Chor._ Lord, I'll not see Thee to drink all The vinegar, the myrrh, the gall:

_Vers. Chor._ But I will sip a little wine; Which done, Lord, say: The rest is Mine.

268.

This crosstree here Doth Jesus bear, Who sweet'ned first The death accurs'd.

Here all things ready are, make haste, make haste away; For long this work will be, and very short this day.

Why then, go on to act: here's wonders to be done Before the last least sand of Thy ninth hour be run; Or ere dark clouds do dull or dead the mid-day's sun.

Act when Thou wilt, Blood will be spilt; Pure balm, that shall Bring health to all.

Why then, begin To pour first in Some drops of wine, Instead of brine, To search the wound So long unsound: And, when that's done, Let oil next run To cure the sore Sin made before.

And O! dear Christ, E'en as Thou di'st, Look down, and see Us weep for Thee.

And tho', love knows, Thy dreadful woes We cannot ease, Yet do Thou please, Who mercy art, T' accept each heart That gladly would Help if it could.

Meanwhile let me, Beneath this tree, This honour have, To make my grave.

269. TO HIS SAVIOUR'S SEPULCHRE: HIS DEVOTION.

Hail, holy and all-honour'd tomb, By no ill haunted; here I come, With shoes put off, to tread thy room.

I'll not profane by soil of sin Thy door as I do enter in; For I have washed both hand and heart, This, that, and every other part, So that I dare, with far less fear Than full affection, enter here.

Thus, thus I come to kiss Thy stone With a warm lip and solemn one: And as I kiss I'll here and there Dress Thee with flow'ry diaper.

How sweet this place is! as from hence Flowed all Panchaia's frankincense; Or rich Arabia did commix, Here, all her rare aromatics.

Let me live ever here, and stir No one step from this sepulchre.

Ravish'd I am! and down I lie Confused in this brave ecstasy.

Here let me rest; and let me have This for my heaven that was Thy grave: And, coveting no higher sphere, I'll my eternity spend here.

_Panchaia_, a fabulous spice island in the Erythrean Sea.

270. HIS OFFERING, WITH THE REST, AT THE SEPULCHRE.

To join with them who here confer Gifts to my Saviour's sepulchre, Devotion bids me hither bring Somewhat for my thank-offering.

Lo! thus I bring a virgin flower, To dress my Maiden Saviour.

271. HIS COMING TO THE SEPULCHRE.

Hence they have borne my Lord; behold! the stone Is rolled away and my sweet Saviour's gone.

Tell me, white angel, what is now become Of Him we lately sealed up in this tomb?

Is He, from hence, gone to the shades beneath, To vanquish h.e.l.l as here He conquered death?

If so, I'll thither follow without fear, And live in h.e.l.l if that my Christ stays there.

Of all the good things whatsoe'er we do, G.o.d is the ????, and the ????S too.

POEMS

NOT INCLUDED IN _HESPERIDES_.

THE DESCRIPTION OF A WOMAN.

Whose head, befringed with bescattered tresses, Shows like Apollo's when the morn he dresses,[B]

Or like Aurora when with pearl she sets Her long, dishevell'd, rose-crown'd trammelets: Her forehead smooth, full, polish'd, bright and high Bears in itself a graceful majesty, Under the which two crawling eyebrows twine Like to the tendrils of a flatt'ring vine, Under whose shade two starry sparkling eyes Are beautifi'd with fair fring'd canopies.

Her comely nose, with uniformal grace, Like purest white, stands in the middle place, Parting the pair, as we may well suppose.

Each cheek resembling still a damask rose, Which like a garden manifestly show How roses, lilies, and carnations grow, Which sweetly mixed both with white and red, Like rose leaves, white and red, seem[C] mingled.

Then nature for a sweet allurement sets Two smelling, swelling, bashful cherrylets, The which with ruby redness being tipp'd, Do speak a virgin, merry, cherry-lipp'd.

Over the which a neat, sweet skin is drawn, Which makes them show like roses under lawn: These be the ruby portals, and divine, Which ope themselves to show a holy shrine Whose breath is rich perfume, that to the sense Smells like the burn'd Sabean frankincense: In which the tongue, though but a member small, Stands guarded with a rosy-hilly wall; And her white teeth, which in the gums are set Like pearl and gold, make one rich cabinet.

Next doth her chin with dimpled beauty strive For his white, plump, and smooth prerogative; At whose fair top, to please the sight, there grows The fairest[D] image of a blus.h.i.+ng rose, Mov'd by the chin, whose motion causeth this, That both her lips do part, do meet, do kiss; Her ears, which like two labyrinths are plac'd On either side, with rich rare jewels grac'd, Moving a question whether that by them The gem is grac'd, or they grac'd by the gem.

But the foundation of the architect Is the swan-staining, fair, rare, stately neck Which with ambitious humbleness stands under, Bearing aloft this rich, round world of wonder.

Her breast, a place for beauty's throne most fit, Bears up two globes where love and pleasure sit, Which, headed with two rich, round rubies, show Like wanton rosebuds growing out of snow; And in the milky valley that's between Sits Cupid, kissing of his mother queen, Fingering the paps that feel like sieved silk, And press'd a little they will weep pure milk.

Then comes the belly, seated next below, Like a fair mountain in Riphean snow, Where Nature, in a whiteness without spot, Hath in the middle tied a Gordian knot.

Now love invites me to survey her thighs, Swelling in likeness like two crystal skies, Which to the knees by Nature fastened on, Derive their ever well 'greed motion.

Her legs with two clear calves, like silver tri'd, Kindly swell up with little pretty pride, Leaving a distance for the comely[E] small To beautify the leg and foot withal.

Then lowly, yet most lovely stand the feet, Round, short and clear, like pounded spices sweet, And whatsoever thing they tread upon They make it scent like bruised cinnamon.

The lovely shoulders now allure the eye To see two tablets of pure ivory From which two arms like branches seem to spread With tender rind[F] and silver coloured, With little hands and fingers long and small To grace a lute, a viol, virginal.

In length each finger doth his next excel, Each richly headed with a pearly sh.e.l.l.