Sonnet II

As due by many titles I resigneMy selfe to thee, O God, first I was madeBy thee, and for thee, and when I was decay'dThy blood bought that, the which before was thine;I am thy sonne, made with thy selfe to shine,Thy servant, whose paines thou hast still repaid,Thy sheepe, thine Image, and, till I betray'dMy selfe, a temple of thy Spirit divine;Why doth the devill then usurpe on mee?Why doth he steale, nay ravish that's thy right?Except thou rise and for thine owne worke fight,Oh I shall soone despaire, when I doe seeThat thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt'not chuse me,And Satan hates mee, yet is loth to lose mee.

O might those sighes and teares returne againeInto my breast and eyes, which I have spent,That I might in this holy discontentMourne with some fruit, as I have mourn'd in vaine;In mine Idolatry what showres of raineMine eyes did waste? what griefs my heart did rent?That sufferance was my sinne; now I repent;'Cause I did suffer I must suffer paine.Th'hydroptique drunkard, and night-scouting thiefe,The itchy Lecher, and selfe tickling proudHave the remembrance of past joyes, for reliefeOf comming ills. To (poore) me is allow'dNo ease; for, long, yet vehement griefe hath beeneTh'effect and cause, the punishment and sinne.

Oh my blacke Soule! now thou art summonedBy sicknesse, deaths herald, and champion;Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath doneTreason, and durst not turne to whence hee is fled,Or like a thiefe, which till deaths doome be read,Wisheth himselfe delivered from prison;But damn'd and hal'd to execution,Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned.Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lacke;But who shall give thee that grace to beginne?Oh make thy selfe with holy mourning blacke,And red with blushing, as thou art with sinne;Or wash thee in Christs blood, which hath this mightThat being red, it dyes red soules to white.

I am a little world made cunninglyOf Elements, and an Angelike spright,But black sinne hath betraid to endlesse nightMy worlds both parts, and (oh) both parts must die.You which beyond that heaven which was most highHave found new sphears, and of new lands can write,Powre new seas in mine eyes, that so I mightDrowne my world with my weeping earnestly,Or wash it, if it must be drown'd no more:But oh it must be burnt! alas the fireOf lust and envie have burnt it heretofore,And made it fouler; Let their flames retire,And burne me ô Lord, with a fiery zealeOf thee and thy house, which doth in eating heale.

This is my playes last scene, here heavens appointMy pilgrimages last mile; and my raceIdly, yet quickly runne, hath this last pace,My spans last inch, my minutes latest point,And gluttonous death, will instantly unjoyntMy body, and soule, and I shall sleepe a space,But my'ever-waking part shall see that face,Whose feare already shakes my every joynt:Then, as my soule, to'heaven her first seate, takes flight,And earth-borne body, in the earth shall dwell,So, fall my sinnes, that all may have their right,To where they'are bred, and would presse me, to hell.Impute me righteous, thus purg'd of evill,For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devill.

At the round earths imagin'd corners, blowYour trumpets, Angells, and arise, ariseFrom death, you numberlesse infinitiesOf soules, and to your scattred bodies goe,All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes,Shall behold God, and never tast deaths woe.But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space,For, if above all these, my sinnes abound,'Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace,When wee are there; here on this lowly ground,Teach mee how to repent; for that's as goodAs if thou'hadst seal'd my pardon, with thy blood.

If faithfull soules be alike glorifi'dAs Angels, then my fathers soule doth see,And adds this even to full felicitie,That valiantly I hels wide mouth o'rstride:But if our mindes to these soules be descry'dBy circumstances, and by signes that beApparent in us, not immediately,How shall my mindes white truth by them be try'd?They see idolatrous lovers weepe and mourne,And vile blasphemous Conjurers to callOn Iefus name, and PharisaicallDissemblers feigne devotion. Then turneO pensive soule, to God, for he knowes bestThy true griefe, for he put it in my breast.

If poysonous mineralls, and if that tree,Whose fruit threw death on else immortall us,If lecherous goats, if serpents enviousCannot be damn'd; Alas; why should I bee?Why should intent or reason, borne in mee,Make sinnes, else equall, in mee more heinous?And mercy being easie, and gloriousTo God; in his sterne wrath, why threatens hee?But who am I, that dare dispute with theeO God? Oh! of thine onely worthy blood,And my teares, make a heavenly Lethean flood,And drowne in it my sinnes blacke memorie;That thou remember them, some claime as debt,I thinke it mercy, if thou wilt forget.

Death be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Spit in my face you Jewes, and pierce my side,Buffet, and scoffe, scourge, and crucifie mee,For I have sinn'd, and sinn'd, and onely hee,Who could do no iniquitie, hath dyed:But by my death can not be satisfiedMy sinnes, which passe the Jewes impiety:They kill'd once an inglorious man, but ICrucifie him daily, being now glorified.Oh let mee then, his strange love still admire:Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment.And Iacob came cloth'd in vile harsh attireBut to supplant, and with gainfull intent:God cloth'd himselfe in vile mans flesh, that soHee might be weake enough to suffer woe.

Why are wee by all creatures waited on?Why doe the prodigall elements supplyLife and food to mee, being more pure then I,Simple, and further from corruption?Why brook'st thou, ignorant horse, subjection?Why dost thou bull, and bore so seelilyDissemble weaknesse, and by'one mans stroke die,Whose whole kinde, you might swallow and feed upon?Weaker I am, woe is mee, and worse then you,You have not sinn'd, nor need be timorous.But wonder at a greater wonder, for to usCreated nature doth these things subdue,But their Creator, whom sin, nor nature tyed,For us, his Creatures, and his foes, hath dyed.

What if this present were the worlds last night?Marke in my heart, O Soule, where thou dost dwell,The picture of Christ crucified, and tellWhether that countenance can thee affright,Teares in his eyes quench the amasing light,Blood fills his frownes, which from his pierc'd head fell.And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,Which pray'd forgivenesse for his foes fierce spight?No, no; but as in my idolatrieI said to all my profane mistresses,Beauty, of pitty, foulnesse onely isA signe of rigour: so I say to thee,To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign'd,This beauteous forme assures a pitious minde.

Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, youAs yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bendYour force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due,Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.Yet dearely'I love you,'and would be loved faine,But am betroth'd unto your enemie:Divorce mee,'untie, or breake that knot againe,Take mee to you, imprison mee, for IExcept you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

Wilt thou love God, as he thee! then digest,My Soule, this wholsome meditation,How God the Spirit, by Angels waited onIn heaven, doth make his Temple in thy brest.The Father having begot a Sonne most blest,And still begetting, (for he ne'r begonne)Hath deign'd to chuse thee by adoption,Coheire to'his glory,'and Sabbaths endlesse rest.And as a robb'd man, which by search doth findeHis stolne stuffe sold, must lose or buy'it againe:The Sonne of glory came downe, and was slaine,Us whom he'had made, and Satan stolne, to unbinde.'Twas much, that man was made like God before,But, that God should be made like man, much more.

Father, part of his double interestUnto thy kingdome, thy Sonne gives to mee,His joynture in the knottie TrinitieHee keepes, and gives to me his deaths conquest.This Lambe, whose death, with life the world hath blest,Was from the worlds beginning slaine, and heHath made two Wills, which with the LegacieOf his and thy kingdome, doe thy Sonnes invest.Yet such are thy laws, that men argue yetWhether a man those statutes can fulfill;None doth; but all-healing grace and spiritRevive againe what law and letter kill.Thy lawes abridgement, and thy last commandIs all but love; Oh let this last Will stand!

Since she whom I lov'd hath payd her last debtTo Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,And her Soule early into heaven ravished,Wholly on heavenly things my mind is sett.Here the admyring her my mind did whettTo seeke thee God; so streames do shew their head;But though I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed,A holy thirsty dropsy melts mee yett.But why should I begg more Love, when as thouDost wooe my soule for hers; offring all thine:And dost not only feare least I allowMy Love to Saints and Angels things divine,But in thy tender jealosy dost doubtLeast the World, Fleshe, yea Devill putt thee out.

Show me deare Christ, thy spouse, so bright and clear.What! is it She, which on the other shoreGoes richly painted? or which rob'd and toreLaments and mournes in Germany and here?Sleepes she a thousand, then peepes up one yeare?Is she selfe truth and errs? now new, now outwore?Doth she, and did she, and shall she evermoreOn one, on seaven, or on no hill appeare?Dwells she with us, or like adventuring knightsFirst travaile we to seeke and then make Love?Betray kind husband thy spouse to our sights,And let myne amorous soule court thy mild Dove,Who is most trew, and pleasing to thee, thenWhen she'is embrac'd and open to most men.

Oh, to vex me, contraryes meet in one:Inconstancy unnaturally hath begottA constant habit; that when I would notI change in vowes, and in devotione.As humorous is my contritioneAs my prophane Love, and as soone forgott:As ridlingly distemper'd, cold and hott,As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none.I durst not view heaven yesterday; and to dayIn prayers, and flattering speaches I court God:To morrow I quake with true feare of his rod.So my devout fitts come and go awayLike a fantastique Ague: save that hereThose are my best dayes, when I shake with feare.