Upon Faireford Windowes

I knowe no painte of poetryCan mend such colour’d imag’ryIn sullen inke, yet (Fayreford) IMay rellish thy fair memory.Such is the echoe’s fainter sound,Such is the light when the sunn’s drown’d,So did the fancy look uponThe work before it was begun.Yet when those showes are out of sight,My weaker colours may delight.Those images doe faithfullieReport true feature to the eie,As you may think each picture wasSome visage in a looking-glass;Not a glass window face, unlessSuch as Cheapside hath, where a pressOf painted gallants, looking out,Bedeck the casement rounde about.But these have holy phisnomy;Each paine instructs the laityWith silent eloquence; for heereDevotion leads the eie, not eare,To note the cathechisinge paint,Whose easie phrase doth soe acquainteOur sense with Gospell, that the CreedeIn such an hand the weake may reade.Such tipes e’en yett of vertue bee,And Christ as in a glass we see—When with a fishinge rod the clarkeSt. Peter’s draught of fish doth marke,Such is the scale, the eie, the finn,You’d thinke they strive and leape within;But if the nett, which holdes them, brake,Hee with his angle some would take.But would you walke a turn in Paules,Looke up, one little pane inroulsA fairer temple. Flinge a stone,The church is out at the windowe flowne.Consider not, but aske your eies,And ghosts at mid-day seem to rise,The saintes there seemeing to descend,Are past the glass, and downwards bend.Look there! The Devill! all would cry,Did they not see that Christ was by.See where he suffers for thee! SeeHis body taken from the tree!Had ever death such life before?The limber corps, be-sully’d o’erWith meagre paleness, does displayA middle state ’twixt flesh and clay.His armes and leggs, his head and crown,Like a true lambskin dangle downe:Whoe can forbeare, the grave being nigh,To bringe fresh ointment in his eye?The wond’rous art hath equall fate,Unfixt, and yet inviolate.The Puritans were sure deceav’dWhoe thought those shaddowes mov’d and heav’d,So held from stoninge Christ; the windeAnd boysterous tempests were so kinde,As on his image not to prey,Whome both the winde and seas obey.At Momus’ wish bee not amaz’d;For if each Christian’s heart were glaz’dWith such a windowe, then each brestMight bee his owne evangelist.