which speaks, diminishes the word;
When magistrates do misapply
To us, as we judge, lay or ghostly sword;
When plague, which is Thine angel, reigns,
Or wars, Thy champions, sway;
When heresy, Thy second deluge, gains;
In th’ hour of death, th’ eve of last Judgment day;
Deliver us from the sinister way.
Hear us, O hear us, Lord; to Thee
A sinner is more music, when he prays,
Than spheres’ or angels’ praises be,
In panegyric alleluias;
Hear us, for till Thou hear us, Lord,
We know not what to say;
Thine ear to our sighs, tears, thoughts, gives voice and word;
O Thou, who Satan heard’st in Job’s sick day,
Hear Thyself now, for Thou in us dost pray.
That we may change to evenness
This intermitting aguish piety;
That snatching cramps of wickedness
And apoplexies of fast sin may die;
That music of Thy promises,
Not threats in thunder may
Awaken us to our just offices;
What in Thy book Thou dost, or creatures say,
That we may hear, Lord, hear us when we pray.
That our ears’ sickness we may cure,
And rectify those labyrinths aright,
That we by heark’ning not procure
Our praise, nor others’ dispraise so invite;
That we get not a slipp’riness
And senselessly decline,
From hearing bold wits jest at kings’ excess,
To admit the like of majesty divine;
That we may lock our ears, Lord, open Thine.
That living law, the magistrate,
Which to give us, and make us physic, doth
Our vices often aggravate;
That preachers taxing sin, before her growth;
That Satan, and envenom’d men—
Which will, if we starve, dine—
When they do most accuse us, may see then
Us to amendment hear them, Thee decline;
That we may open our ears, Lord, lock Thine.
That learning, Thine ambassador,
From Thine allegiance we never tempt;
That beauty, paradise’s flower
For physic made, from poison be exempt;
That wit—born apt high good to do—
By dwelling lazily
On nature’s nothing be not nothing too;
That our affections kill us not, nor die;
Hear us, weak echoes, O, Thou Ear and Eye.
Son of God, hear us, and since Thou
By taking our blood, owest it us again,
Gain to Thyself, and us allow;
And let not both us and Thyself be slain;
O Lamb of God, which took’st our sin,
Which could not stick to Thee,
O let it not return to us again;
But patient and physician being free,
As sin is nothing, let it nowhere be.
Upon the Translation of the Psalms by Sir Philip Sidney, and the Countess of Pembroke, His Sister
Eternal God—for whom who ever dare
Seek new expressions, do the circle square,
And thrust into straight corners of poor wit
Thee, who art cornerless and infinite—
I would but bless Thy name, not name Thee now
—And Thy gifts are as infinite as Thou—
Fix we our praises therefore on this one,
That, as thy blessed Spirit fell upon
These Psalms’ first author in a cloven tongue
—For ’twas a double power by which he sung
The highest matter in the noblest form—
So Thou hast cleft that Spirit, to performs
That work again, and shed it here, upon
Two, by their bloods, and by Thy Spirit one;
A brother and a sister, made by Thee
The organ, where Thou art the harmony.
Two that make one John Baptist’s holy voice,
And who that Psalm, “Now let the Isles rejoice,”
Have both translated, and applied it too,
Both told us what, and taught us how to do.
They show us islanders our Joy, our King;
They tell us why, and teach us how to sing.
Make all this all three choirs, heaven, earth, and spheres;
The first, Heaven, hath a song, but no man hears;
The spheres have music, but they have no tongue,
Their harmony is rather danced than sung;
But our third choir, to which the first gives ear
—For angels learn by what the Church does here—
This choir hath all. The organist is he
Who hath tuned God and man, the organ we;
The songs are these, which heaven’s high holy Muse
Whisper’d to David, David to the Jews;
And David’s successors in holy zeal,
In forms of joy and art do re-reveal
To us so sweetly and sincerely too,
That I must not rejoice as I would do,
When I behold that these Psalms are become
So well attired abroad, so ill at home,
So well in chambers, in Thy Church so ill,
As I can scarce call that reform’d until
This be reform’d; would a whole state present
A lesser gift than some one man hath sent?
And shall our Church unto our Spouse and King
More hoarse, more harsh than any other, sing?
For that we pray, we praise Thy name for this,
Which, by this Moses and this Miriam, is
Already done; and as those Psalms we call,
—Though some have other authors—David’s all,
So though some have, some may some Psalms translate,
We Thy Sidneian psalms shall celebrate,
And, till we come th’ extemporal song to sing
—Learn’d the first hour that we see the King,
Who hath translated those translators—may
These their sweet learned labours all the way
Be as our tuning, that when hence we part,
We may fall in with them, and sing our part!
Ode
Vengeance Will Sit Above Our Faults; But Till
Vengeance will sit above our faults; but till
She there do sit,
We see her not, nor them. Thus, blind, yet still
We lead her way; and thus, whilst we do ill,
We suffer it.
Unhappy he whom youth makes not beware
Of doing ill.
Enough we labour under age, and care;
In number, th’ errors of the last place are
The greatest still.
Yet we, that should the ill we now begin
As soon repent,
Strange thing! perceive not; our faults are not seen,
But past us; neither felt, but only in
The punishment.
But we know ourselves least; mere outward shows
Our minds so store,
That our souls no more than our eyes disclose
But form and colour. Only he who knows
Himself, knows more.
To Mr. Tilman After He Had Taken Orders
Thou, whose diviner soul hath caused thee now
To put thy hand unto the holy plough,
Making lay-scornings of the ministry
Not an impediment, but victory;
What bring’st thou home
