Grace is a taste of blisse, a glorious gift,
Which can the soul to heav'nly comforts lift:
It will not shine to me, whose mind is drown'd
In sorrowes, and with worldly troubles bound;
It will not daigne within that house to dwell,
Where drynesse reigns, and proud distractions swell.
Perhaps it sought me in those lightsome dayse
Of my first fervour, when few winds did raise
The waves, and ere they could full strength obtain,
Some whispering gale straight charm'd them down
again;

When all seem'd calme, and yet the virgin's Child
On my devotions in His manger smiled;

While then I simply walkt, nor heed could take
Of Complacence, that slye deceitful snake;
When yet I had not dang'rously refus'd
So many calls to virtue, nor abus'd

The spring of life, which I so oft enjoy'd,
Nor made so many good intentions voyd;
Deserving thus that grace should quite depart,
And dreadfull hardnesse should possesse my heart:
Yet in that state this onely good I found,
That fewer spots did then my conscience wound;
Though who can censure, whether in those times,
The want of feeling seem'd the want of crimes?
If solid vertues dwell not but in paine,
I will not wish that golden age againe
Because it flow'd with sensible delights
Of heavenly things: God hath created nights

As well as dayes, to deck the varied globe;
Grace comes as oft clad in the dusky robe
Of desolation, as in white attire,

Which better fits the bright celestiall quire.
Some in foul seasons perish through despaire,
But more through boldnesse when the days are
faire.

This then must be the med'cine for my woes,
To yield to what my Saviour shall dispose;
To glory in my basenesse; to rejoice
In mine afflictions; to obey His voice,

As well when threatenings my defects reprove
As when I cherisht am with words of love;
To say to Him in ev'ry time and place,
"Withdraw Thy comforts, so Thou leave Thy
grace."

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

SONNET

Leaue me, O Loue, which reachest but to dust; And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things; Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;

Whateuer fades, but fading pleasure brings. Draw in thy beames, and humble all thy might To that sweet yoke where lasting freedomes be; Which breakes the clowdes, and opens forth the light,

That doth both shine, and giue us sight to see.

O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide In this small course which birth drawes out to death,

And thinke how euill becommeth him to slide, Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly breath.

Then farewell, world, thy vttermost I see:
Eternall Loue, maintaine Thy life in me.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL

THE BURNING BABE

As I in hoary Winter's night stood shivering in the snowe,

Surpris'd I was with sudden heat, which made my herte to glowe;

And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was

near,

A prety Babe all burning bright, did in the ayre

appear,

Who scorchéd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed,

As though His floodes should quench His flames which with His teares were fed;

Alas! quoth He, but newly borne, in fiery heats I frye,

Yet none approach to warm their herts or feel My fire but I!

My faultles breast the fornace is, the fuell wounding thornes,

Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scornes;

The fuell Justice layeth on, and Mercy blowes the

coales;

The metall in this fornace wrought are men's defiléd soules,

For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath to wash them in My

blood:

With this He vanisht out of sight and swiftly shronck away,

And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas-daye.

NEW PRINCE, NEW POMPE

Behold a sely, tender Babe,

In freezing winter nighte,
In homely manger trembling lies;
Alas! a piteous sighte!

The inns are full, no man will yelde
This little pilgrime bedd;

But forced He is with sely beastes

In cribb to shroude His headd.

Despise not Him for lyinge there,
First what He is enquire;
An orient perle is often founde
In depth of dirty mire.

Waye not His cribbe, His wodden dishe, Nor beastes that by Him feede; Waye not His mother's poore attire Nor Josephe's simple weede.

His stable is a Prince's courte,
The cribbe His chaire of State;
The beastes are parcel of His pompe,
The wodden dishe, His plate.

The parsons in that poore attire

His royal ivery weare;

The Prince Himself is come from heaven, This pompe is priséd there.

With joy approach, O Christian wighte! Do homage to thy Kinge;

And highly prise His humble pompe Which He from Heaven doth bringe.