Two Bookes of Ayres - The First Booke

Author of light, revive my dying sprite;
Redeem it from the snares of all confounding night.
Lord, light me to thy blessed way,
For blind with worldly vain desires
I wander as a stray.
Sun and moon, stars and underlights I see,
But all their glorious beams
Are mists and darkness being compared to thee.

Fountain of health, my soul's deep wounds recure.
Sweet showers of pity rain, wash my uncleanness pure.
One drop of thy desired grace
The faint and fading heart can raise,
And in joy's bosom place.
Sin and death, hell and tempting fiends may rage;
But God his own will guard,
And their sharp pains and grief in time assuage.

The man of life vpright,
    Whose chearfull minde is free
From waight of impious deedes,
    And yoake of vanitee ;

The man whose silent dayes
    In harmelesse ioyes are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude
    Nor sorrowes discontent ;

That man needes neyther towres,
    Nor armour for defence :
Nor vaults his guilt to shrowd
    From thunders violence ;

Hee onely can behold
    With vnaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deepe
    And terrors of the Skies.

Thus, scorning all the cares
    That fate or fortune brings,
His Booke the Heau'ns hee makes,
    His wisedome heau'nly things ;

Good thoughts his surest friends,
    His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober Inne
    And quiet pilgrimage.

Where are all thy beauties now, all harts enchayning?
Whither are thy flatt'rers gone with all their fayning ?
All fled ; and thou alone still here remayning.

Thy rich state of twisted gold to Bayes is turned ;
Cold, as thou art, are thy loues, that so much burned :
Who dye in flatt'rers armes are seldome mourned.

Yet, in spight of enuie, this be still proclaymed,
That none worthyer then thy selfe thy worth hath blamed ;
When their poore names are lost, thou shalt liue famed.

When thy story, long time hence, shall be perused,
Let the blemish of thy rule be thus excused,
None euer liu'd more iust, none more abused.

Out of my soules deapth to thee my cryes have sounded:
Let thine eares my plaints receiue, on iust feare grounded.
Lord, should'st thou weigh our faults, who's not confounded?

But with grace thou censur'st thine when they haue erred,
Therefore shall thy blessed name be lou'd and feared.
Eu'n to thy throne my thoughts and eyes are reared.

Thee alone my hopes attend, on thee relying ;
In thy sacred word I'le trust, to thee fast flying,
Long ere the Watch shall breake, the morne descrying.

In the mercies of our God who liue secured,
May of full redemption rest in him assured,
Their sinne-sicke soules by him shall be recured.

View mee, Lord, a worke of thine :
Shall I then lye drown'd in night?
Might thy grace in mee but shine,
I should seeme made all of light.

But my soule still surfets so
On the poysoned baytes of sinne,
That I strange and vgly growe,
All is darke and foule within.

Clense mee, Lord, that I may kneele
At thine Altar, pure and white :
They that once thy Mercies feele,
Gaze no more on earths delight.

Worldly ioyes like shadowes fade,
When the heau'nly light appeares ;
But the cou'nants thou hast made,
Endlesse, know nor dayes, nor yeares.

In thy word, Lord, is my trust,
To thy mercies fast I flye ;
Though I am but clay and dust,
Yet thy grace can lift me high.

Brauely deckt, come forth, bright day,
Thine houres with Roses strew thy way,
                As they well remember.
Thou receiu'd shalt be with feasts :
Come, chiefest of the British guests,
                Thou fift of Nouember.
Thou with triumph shalt exceede
                In the strictest ember ;
For by thy returne the Lord records his blessed deede.

Britaines, frolicke at your bourd ;                                               
But first sing praises to the Lord
                In your Congregations.
Hee preserued your state alone,
His louing grace hath made you one
                Of his chosen Nations.
But this light must hallowed be
                With your best Oblations ;
Prayse the Lord, for onely great and mercifull is hee.

Death had enter'd in the gate,
And ruine was crept neare the State ;                                        
                But heau'n all reuealed.
Fi'ry Powder hell did make,
Which, ready long the flame to take,
                Lay in shade concealed.
God vs helped, of his free grace :
                None to him appealed ;
For none was so bad to feare the treason or the place.

God his peacefull Monarch chose,
To him the mist he did disclose,
                To him, and none other :                                            
This hee did, O King, for thee,
That thou thine owne renowne might'st see,
                Which no time can smother.
May blest Charles, thy comfort be,
                Firmer then his Brother :
May his heart the loue of peace, and wisedome learne from thee.

To Musicke bent is my retyred minde,
And faine would I some song of pleasure sing ;
But in vaine ioys no comfort now I finde,
From heau'nly thoughts all true delight doth spring.
Thy power, O God, thy mercies, to record,
Will sweeten eu'ry note and eu'ry word.

All earthly pompe or beauty to expresse,
Is but to carue in snow, on waues to write.
Celestiall things, though men conceiue them lesse,
Yet fullest are they in themselues of light :
Such beames they yeeld as know no meanes to dye,
Such heate they cast as lifts the Spirit high.

    Tune thy Musicke to thy hart,
Sing thy ioy with thankes, and so thy sorrow :
    Though Devotion needes not Art,
Sometimes of the poore the rich may borrow.

    Striue not yet for curious wayes :
Concord pleaseth more, the lesse 'tis strained ;
    Zeale affects not outward prayse,
Onely striues to show a loue vnfained.

    Loue can wondrous things affect,
Sweetest Sacrifice, all wrath appeasing ;
    Loue the highest doth respect ;
Loue alone to him is euer pleasing.

Most sweet and pleasing are thy wayes, O God,
Like Meadowes deckt with Christall streames and flowers:
Thy paths no foote prophane hath euer trod:
Nor hath the proud man rested in thy Bowers:
There liues no Vultur, no deuouring Beare,
But onely Doues and Lambs are harbor'd there.

The Wolfe his young ones to their prey doth guide;
The Foxe his Cubbs with false deceit endues;
The Lyons Whelpe suckes from his Damme his pride;
In hers the Serpent malice doth infuse:                                       
The darksome Desart all such beasts contaynes,
Not one of them in Paradice remaynes.

Wise men patience never want,
  Good men pity cannot hide;
Feeble spirits only vaunt
  Of revenge, the poorest pride:
He alone forgive that can
Bears the true soul of a man.

Some there are debate that seek,
  Making trouble their content;
Happy if they wrong the meek,
  Vex them that to peace are bent:
Such undo the common tie
Of mankind, Society.

Kindness grown is lately cold,
  Conscience hath forgot her part;
Blessèd times were known of old
  Long ere Law became an art:
Shame deterred, not statutes then;
Honest love was law to men.

Deeds from love, and words, that flow,
  Foster like kind April showers;
In the warm sun all things grow,
  Wholesome fruits and pleasant flowers:
All so thrives his gentle rays
Whereon human love displays.

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore.
Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more,
Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest.

Ever blooming are the joys of Heaven's high Paradise.
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the sun outshines whose beams the blessed only see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to thee!

Lift vp to heau'n, sad wretch, thy heauy spright,
What though thy sinnes, thy due destruction threat ?
The Lord exceedes in mercy as in might ;
His ruth is greater, though thy crimes be great.
Repentance needes not feare the heau'ns iust rod,
It stayes eu'n thunder in the hand of God.

With chearefull voyce to him then cry for grace,
Thy Faith and fainting Hope with Prayer reuiue ;
Remorce for all that truely mourne hath place ;
Not God, but men of him themselues depriue :
Striue then, and hee will help ;  call him he'll heare :
The Sonne needes not the Fathers fury feare.

Loe, when backe mine eye,
     Pilgrim-like, I cast,
What fearefull wayes I spye,
Which, blinded, I securely past ?

But now heau'n hath drawne
     From my browes that night ;
As when the day doth dawne,
So cleares my long imprison'd sight.

Straight the caues of hell,
     Drest with flowres I see :                                  
Wherein false pleasures dwell,
That, winning most, most deadly be.

Throngs of masked Feinds,
     Wing'd like Angels flye,
Euen in the gates of Friends
In faire disguise blacke dangers lye.

Straight to Heau'n I rais'd
     My restored sight,
And with loud voyce I prais'd
The Lord of euer-during light.

And since I had stray'd
     From his wayes so wide,
His grace I humble pray'd
Hence-forth to be my guard and guide.

As by the streames of Babilon
Farre from our natiue soyle we sat,
Sweet Sion thee we thought vpon,
And eu'ry thought a teare begat.

Aloft the trees, that spring vp there,
Our silent Harps wee pensiue hung :
Said they that captiu'd vs, Let's heare
Some song, which you in Sion sung.

Is then the song of our God fit
To be prophaned in forraine land ?
O Salem, thee when I forget,
Forget his skill may my right hand !

Fast to the roofe cleaue may my tongue,
If mindelesse I of thee be found :
Or if, when all my ioyes are sung,
Ierusalem be not the ground.

Remember, Lord, how Edoms race
Cryed in Ierusalems sad day,
Hurle downe her wals, her towres deface,
And, stone and by stone, all leuell lay.

Curst Babels seede !  for Salems sake
Iust ruine yet for thee remaines !
Blest shall they be thy babes that take
And 'gainst the stones dash out their braines.

    Sing a song of ioy
        Prayse our God with mirth :
His flocke who can destroy?
Is hee not Lord of heau'n and earth?

    Sing wee then secure,
        Tuning well our strings :
With voyce, as Eccho pure,
Let vs renowne the King of Kings.

    First who taught the day
        From the East to rise?
Whom doth the Sunne obey
When in the Seas his glory dyes?

    Hee the Starres directs
        That in order stand :
Who heau'n and earth protects
But hee that fram'd them with his hand?

    Angels round attend,
        Wayting on his will ;
Arm'd millions hee doth send
To ayde the good or plague the ill.

    All that dread his Name,
        And his Hests obserue,
His arme will shield from shame :
Their steps from truth shall neuer swerue.

    Let us then reioyce,
        Sounding loud his prayse :
So will hee heare our voyce
And blesse on earth our peacefull dayes.

Awake, awake! thou heavy sprite
  That sleep’st the deadly sleep of sin!
Rise now and walk the ways of light,
  ’Tis not too late yet to begin.
Seek heaven early, seek it late;
True Faith finds still an open gate.

Get up, get up, thou leaden man!
  Thy track, to endless joy or pain,
Yields but the model of a span:
  Yet burns out thy life’s lamp in vain!
One minute bounds thy bane or bliss;
Then watch and labour while time is.

Come, cheerful day, part of my life, to me;
For while thou view'st me with thy fading light,
Part of my life doth still depart with thee,
And I still onward haste to my last night.
Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly,
So every day we live a day we die.

But, O ye nights, ordained for barren rest,
How are my days deprived of life in you;
When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossessed
By feigned death life sweetly to renew,
Part of my life in that you life deny;
So every day we live a day we die.

Seeke the Lord, and in his wayes perseuer.
      O faint not, but as Eagles flye ;
      For his steepe hill is high ;
Then striuing gaine the top, and triumph euer.

When with glory there thy browes are crowned,
      New ioys so shall abound in thee,
      Such sights thy soule shall see,
That worldly thoughts shall by their beames be drowned.

Farewell, World, thou masse of meere confusion,
      False light, with many shadowes dimm'd,
      Old Witch, with new foyles trimm'd,
Thou deadly sleepe of soule, and charm'd illusion.

I the King will seeke, of Kings adored ;
      Spring of light, tree of grace and blisse,
      Whose fruit so sou'raigne is
That all who taste it are from death restored.

Lighten, heauy heart, thy spright,
      The ioyes recall that thence are fled ;
Yeeld thy brest some liuing light ;
      The man that nothing doth is dead.
Tune thy temper to these sounds,
      And quicken so thy ioylesse minde ;
Sloth the worst and best confounds :
      It is the ruine of mankinde.

From her caue rise all distasts,
      Which vnresolu'd Despaire pursues ;
Whom soone after, Violence hasts,
      Her selfe vngratefull to abuse.
Skies are clear'd with stirring windes,
      Th' vnmoued water moorish growes ;
Eu'ry eye much pleasure findes
      To view a streame that brightly flowes.

Jack and Joan, they think no ill,
But loving live, and merry still;
Do their week-days’ work, and pray
Devoutly on the holy day:
Skip and trip it on the green,
And help to choose the Summer Queen;
Lash out at a country feast
Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale,
And tell at large a winter tale;
Climb up to the apple loft,
And turn the crabs till they be soft.
Tib is all the father’s joy,
And little Tom the mother’s boy.
All their pleasure is Content;
And Care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows
And deck her windows with green boughs;
She can wreaths and tutties make,
And trim with plums a bridal cake.
Jack knows what brings gain or loss;
And his long flail can stoutly toss:
Makes the hedge which others break,
And ever thinks what he doth speak.

Now, you courtly dames and knights,
That study only strange delights;
Though you scorn the homespun gray
And revel in your rich array;
Though your tongues dissemble deep,
And can your heads from danger keep;
Yet, for all your pomp and train,
Securer lives the silly swain.

All lookes be pale, harts cold as stone,
For Hally now is dead, and gone,
            Hally, in whose sight,
                Most sweet sight,
            All the earth late tooke delight.
Eu'ry eye, weepe with mee.
Ioyes drown'd in teares must be.

His Iu'ry skin, his comely hayre,
His Rosie cheekes, so cleare and faire,
            Eyes that once did grace
                His bright face,
            Now in him all want their place.
Eyes and hearts weepe with mee
For who so kinde as hee?

His youth was like an Aprill flowre,
Adorn'd with beauty, loue, and powre.
            Glory strow'd his way,
                Whose wreaths gay
            Now are all turn'd to decay.
Then againe weepe with mee
None feele more cause then wee.

No more may his wisht sight returne,
His golden Lampe no more can burne.
            Quencht is all his flame ;
                His hop't fame
            Now hath left him nought but name.
For him all weepe with mee
Since more him none shall see.