A Litanie

Father of Heaven, and him, by whomIt, and us for it, and all else, for usThou madest, and govern'st ever, comeAnd re-create mee, now growne ruinous:My heart is by dejection, clay,And by selfe-murder, red.From this red earth, O Father, purge awayAll vicious tinctures, that new fashionedI may rise up from death, before I'am dead.

O Sonne of God, who seeing two things,Sinne, and death crept in, which were never made,By bearing one, tryed'st with what stingsThe other could thine heritage invade;O be thou nail'd unto my heart,And crucified againe,Part not from it, though it from thee would part,But let it be, by applying so thy paine,Drown'd in thy blood, and in thy passion slaine.

O Holy Ghost, whose temple IAm, but of mudde walls, and condensed dust,And being sacrilegiouslyHalfe wasted with youths fires, of pride and lust,Must with new stormes be weatherbeat;Double in my heart thy flame,Which let devout sad teares intend; and let(Though this glasse lanthorne, flesh, do suffer maime)Fire, Sacrifice, Priest, Altar be the same.

O Blessed glorious Trinity,Bones to Philosophy, but milke to faith,Which, as wise serpents, diverslyMost slipperinesse, yet most entanglings hath,As you distinguish'd undistinctBy power, love, knowledge bee,Give mee a such selfe different instinctOf these; let all mee elemented bee,Of power, to love, to know, you unnumbred three.

For that faire blessed Mother-maid,Whose flesh redeem'd us; That she-Cherubin,Which unlock'd Paradise, and madeOne claime for innocence, and disseiz'd sinne,Whose wombe was a strange heav'n, for thereGod cloath'd himselfe, and grew,Our zealous thankes wee poure. As her deeds wereOur helpes, so are her prayers; nor can she sueIn vaine, who hath such titles unto you.

And since this life our nonage is,And wee in Wardship to thine Angels be,Native in heavens faire Palaces,Where we shall be but denizen'd by thee,As th'earth conceiving by the Sunne,Yeelds faire diversitie,Yet never knowes which course that light doth run,So let mee study, that mine actions beeWorthy their sight, though blinde in how they see.

And let thy Patriarches Desire(Those great Grandfathers of thy Church, which sawMore in the cloud, then wee in fire,Whom Nature clear'd more, then us Grace and Law,And now in Heaven still pray, that weeMay use our new helpes right,)Be satisfy'd, and fructifie in mee;Let not my minde be blinder by more lightNor Faith, by Reason added, lose her sight.

Thy Eagle-sighted Prophets too,Which were thy Churches Organs, and did soundThat harmony, which made of twoOne law, and did unite, but not confound;Those heavenly Poëts which did seeThy will, and it expresseIn rythmique feet, in common pray for mee,That I by them excuse not my excesseIn seeking secrets, or Poëtiquenesse.

And thy illustrious ZodiackeOf twelve Apostles, which ingirt this All,(From whom whosoever do not takeTheir light, to darke deep pits, throw downe, and fall,)As through their prayers, thou'hast let mee knowThat their bookes are divine;May they pray still, and be heard, that I goeTh'old broad way in applying; O declineMee, when my comment would make thy word mine.

And since thou so desirouslyDid'st long to die, that long before thou could'st,And long since thou no more couldst dye,Thou in thy scatter'd mystique body wouldstIn Abel dye, and ever sinceIn thine; let their blood comeTo begge for us, a discreet patienceOf death, or of worse life: for Oh, to someNot to be Martyrs, is a martyrdome.

Therefore with thee triumpheth thereA Virgin Squadron of white Confessors,Whose bloods betroth'd, not marryed were,Tender'd, not taken by those Ravishers:They know, and pray, that wee may know,In every ChristianHourly tempestuous persecutions grow;Tentations martyr us alive; A manIs to himselfe a Dioclesian.

The cold white snowie Nunnery,Which, as thy mother, their high Abbesse, sentTheir bodies backe againe to thee,As thou hadst lent them, cleane and innocent,Though they have not obtain'd of thee,That or thy Church, or I,Should keep, as they, our first integrity;Divorce thou sinne in us, or bid it die,And call chast widowhead Virginitie.

Thy sacred Academic aboveOf Doctors, whose paines have unclasp'd, and taughtBoth bookes of life to us (for loveTo know thy Scriptures tells us, we are wroteIn thy other booke) pray for us thereThat what they have misdoneOr mis-said, wee to that may not adhere;Their zeale may be our sinne. Lord let us runneMeane waies, and call them stars, but not the Sunne.

And whil'st this universall Quire,That Church in triumph, this in warfare here,Warm'd with one all-partaking fireOf love, that none be lost, which cost thee deare,Prayes ceaslesly,'and thou hearken too,(Since to be gratiousOur taske is treble, to pray, beare, and doe)Heare this prayer Lord: O Lord deliver usFrom trusting in those prayers, though powr'd out thus.

From being anxious, or secure,Dead clods of sadnesse, or light squibs of mirth,From thinking, that great courts immureAll, or no happinesse, or that this earthIs only for our prison fram'd,Or that thou art covetousTo them whom thou lovest, or that they are maim'dFrom reaching this worlds sweet, who seek thee thus,With all their might, Good Lord deliver us.

From needing danger, to bee good,From owing thee yesterdaies teares to day,From trusting so much to thy blood,That in that hope, wee wound our soule away,From bribing thee with Almes, to excuseSome sinne more burdenous,From light affecting, in religion, newes,From thinking us all soule, neglecting thusOur mutuall duties, Lord deliver us.

From tempting Satan to tempt us,By our connivence, or slack companie,From measuring ill by vitious,Neglecting to choake sins spawne, Vanitie,From indiscreet humilitie,Which might be scandalous,And cast reproach on Christianitie,From being spies, or to spies pervious,From thirst, or scorne of fame, deliver us.

Deliver us for thy descentInto the Virgin, whose wombe was a placeOf middle kind; and thou being sentTo'ungratious us, staid'st at her full of grace;And through thy poore birth, where first thouGlorifiedst Povertie,And yet soone after riches didst allow,By accepting Kings gifts in the Epiphanie,Deliver, and make us, to both waies free.

And through that bitter agonie,Which is still the agonie of pious wits,Disputing what distorted thee,And interrupted evennesse, with fits;And through thy free confessionThough thereby they were thenMade blind, so that thou might'st from them have gone,Good Lord deliver us, and teach us whenWee may not, and we may blinde unjust men.

Through thy submitting all, to blowesThy face, thy clothes to spoile; thy fame to scorne,All waies, which rage, or Justice knowes,And by which thou could'st shew, that thou wast born;And through thy gallant humblenesseWhich thou in death did'st shew,Dying before thy soule they could expresse,Deliver us from death, by dying so,To this world, ere this world doe bid us goe.

When senses, which thy souldiers are,Wee arme against thee, and they fight for sinne,When want, sent but to tame, doth warreAnd worke despaire a breach to enter in,When plenty, Gods image, and sealeMakes us Idolatrous,And love it, not him, whom it should reveale,When wee are mov'd to seeme religiousOnly to vent wit, Lord deliver us.

In Churches, when the'infirmitieOf him which speakes, diminishes the Word,When Magistrates doe mis-applyTo us, as we judge, lay or ghostly sword,When plague, which is thine Angell, raignes,Or wars, thy Champions, swaie,When Heresie, thy second deluge, gaines;In th'houre of death, the'Eve of last judgement day,Deliver us from the sinister way.

Heare us, O heare us Lord; to theeA sinner is more musique, when he prayes,Then spheares, or Angels praises bee,In Panegyrique Allelujaes;Heare us, for till thou heare us, LordWe know not what to say;Thine eare to'our sighes, teares, thoughts gives voice and word.O Thou who Satan heard'st in Jobs sicke day,Heare thy selfe now, for thou in us dost pray.

That wee may change to evennesseThis intermitting aguish Pietie;That snatching cramps of wickednesseAnd Apoplexies of fast sin, may die;That musique of thy promises,Not threats in Thunder mayAwaken us to our just offices;What in thy booke, thou dost, or creatures say,That we may heare, Lord heare us, when wee pray.

That our eares sicknesse wee may cure,And rectifie those Labyrinths aright,That wee, by harkning, not procureOur praise, nor others dispraise so invite,That wee get not a slipperinesseAnd senslesly decline,From hearing bold wits jeast at Kings excesse,To'admit the like of majestie divine,That we may locke our eares, Lord open thine.

That living law, the Magistrate,Which to give us, and make us physicke, dothOur vices often aggravate,That Preachers taxing sinne, before her growth,That Satan, and invenom'd menWhich well, if we starve, dine,When they doe most accuse us, may see thenUs, to amendment, heare them; thee decline:That we may open our eares, Lord lock thine.

That learning, thine Ambassador,From thine allegeance wee never tempt,That beauty, paradises flowerFor physicke made, from poyson be exempt,That wit, borne apt high good to doe,By dwelling lazilyOn Natures nothing, be not nothing too,That our affections kill us not, nor dye,Heare us, weake ecchoes, O thou eare, and cry.

Sonne of God heare us, and since thouBy taking our blood, owest it us againe,Gaine to thy self, or us allow;And let not both us and thy selfe be slaine;O Lambe of God, which took'st our sinneWhich could not stick to thee,O let it not returne to us againe,But Patient and Physition being free,As sinne is nothing, let it no where be.