But can these fair Flouds be

Freinds with the bosom fires that fill you!
Can so great flames agree

Æternall Teares should thus distill thee!
O flouds, o fires! o suns, ô showres!
Mixt & made freinds by love's sweet powres.

Twas his well-pointed dart

That digg'd these wells, & drest this wine;
And taught the wounded HEART

The way into these weeping Eyn.

Vain loves avant! bold hands forbear!
The lamb hath dipp't his white foot here.

And now where're he strayes,
Among the Galilean mountaines,

Or more unwellcome wayes,

He's followed by two faithfull fountaines;

Two walking baths; two weeping motions;
Portable, & compendious oceans.

O Thou, thy lord's fair store!
In thy so rich & rare expenses,
Even when he show'd most poor,

He might provoke the wealth of Princes.
What Prince's wanton'st pride e're could
Wash with Sylver, wipe with Gold?

Who is that King, but he

Who calls't his Crown to be call'd thine,
That thus can boast to be

Waited on by a wandring mine,

A voluntary mint, that strowes

Warm sylver shoures where're he goes!

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O pretious Prodigall!

Fair spend-thrift of thy self! thy measure
(Mercilesse love!) is all.

Even to the last Pearle in thy threasure.

All places, Times, & objects be

Thy teare's sweet opportunity.

Does the day-starre rise?
Still thy starres doe fall & fall;
Does day close his eyes?

Still the FOUNTAIN weeps for all.

Let night or day doe what they will,
Thou hast thy task; thou weepest still.

Does thy song lull the air;
Thy falling teares keep faithfull time.
Does thy sweet-breath'd prayer
Up in clouds of incense climb?
Still at each sigh, that is, each stop,
A bead, that is, A TEAR, does drop.

At these thy weeping gates,
(Watching their watry motion)
Each winged moment waits,
Takes his TEAR, & gets him gone.

By thine Ey's tinct enobled thus
Time layes him up; he's pretious.

Not, so long she lived,

Shall thy tomb report of thee;
But, so long she greived,

Thus must we date thy memory.

Others by moments, months, & yeares
Measure their ages; thou, by TEares.

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So doe perfumes expire.

So sigh tormented sweets, opprest

With proud unpittying fires.

Such Teares the suffring Rose that's vext

With ungentle flames does shed,

Sweating in a too warm bed.

Say, ye bright brothers,

The fugitive sons of those fair Eyes

Your fruitfull mothers!

What make you here? what hopes can tice

You to be born? what cause can borrow

You from those nests of noble sorrow?

Whither away so fast?

For sure the sordid earth

Your Sweetnes cannot tast

Nor does the dust deserve your birth.

Sweet, whither hast you then? o say
Why you trip so fast away?

We goe not to seek,

The darlings of Auroras bed,

The rose's modest Cheek

Nor the violet's humble head,

Though the Feild's eyes too WEEPERS be

Because they want such TEARES as we.

Much lesse mean we to trace
The Fortune of inferior gemmes,
Preferr❜d to some proud face

Or pertch't upon fear'd Diadems.

Crown'd Heads are toyes. We goe to meet

A worthy object, our Lord's FEEt.

Richard Crashaw.

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Hymn to Saint Teresa.

Ove, thou art Absolute sole lord

Love, art Absolute le prove the word,

To

Wee'l now appeal to none of all

Those thy old Souldiers, Great & tall,

Ripe Men of Martyrdom, that could reach down
With strong armes, their triumphant crown;
Such as could with lusty breath

Speak lowd into the face of death

Their Great LORD's glorious name, to none

Of those whose spatious Bosomes spread a throne
For Love at larg to fill; spare blood & sweat,
And see him take a private seat,
Making his mansion in the mild

And milky soul of a soft child.

Scarse has she learn't to lisp the name
Of Martyr; yet she thinks it shame
Life should so long play with that breath
Which spent can buy so brave a death.
She never undertook to know

What death with love should have to doe;

Nor has she e're yet understood

Why to show love, she should shed blood,
Yet though she cannot tell you why,
She can LOVE, & she can Dr.

Scarse has she Blood enough to make
A guilty sword blush for her sake;
Yet has she'a HEART dares hope to prove
How much lesse strong is DEATH then LOVE.

ΤΟ

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Man trembles at, you straight shall find
Love knowes no nonage, nor the MIND.
'Tis Love, not YEARES or LIMBS that can
Make the Martyr, or the man.

LOVE touch't her HEART, & lo it beates
High, & burnes with such brave heates ;
Such thirsts to dy, as dares drink up,
A thousand cold deaths in one cup.
Good reason. For she breathes All fire.
Her weake brest heaves with strong desire
Of what she may with fruitles wishes
Seek for amongst her MOTHER'S Kisses.

Since 'tis not to be had at home
She'l travail to a Martyrdom.

No home for hers confesses she

But where she may a Martyr be.

She'l to the Moores; And trade with them, For this unvalued Diadem.

She'l offer them her dearest Breath,

With CHRIST'S Name in't, in change for death.

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She'l bargain with them; & will give
Them GOD; teach them how to live
In him: or, if they this deny,
For him she'l teach them how to Dy.
So shall she leave amongst them sown
Her LORD'S Blood; or at lest her own.
FAREWEL then, all the world! Adieu.
TERESA is no more for you.

Farewell, all pleasures, sports, & joyes,

(Never till now esteemed toyes) Farewell what ever deare may be,

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