Part 25

220. A HYMN TO VENUS AND CUPID

Sea-born goddess, let me be By thy son thus graced, and thee, That whene'er I woo, I find Virgins coy, but not unkind. Let me, when I kiss a maid, Taste her lips, so overlaid With love's sirop, that I may In your temple, when I pray, Kiss the altar, and confess There's in love no bitterness.

221. TO BACCHUS: A CANTICLE

Whither dost thou hurry me, Bacchus, being full of thee? This way, that way, that way, this,-- Here and there a fresh Love is; That doth like me, this doth please; --Thus a thousand mistresses I have now: yet I alone, Having all, enjoy not one!

222. A HYMN TO BACCHUS

Bacchus, let me drink no more! Wild are seas that want a shore! When our drinking has no stint, There is no one pleasure in't. I have drank up for to please Thee, that great cup, Hercules. Urge no more; and there shall be Daffadils giv'n up to thee.

223. A CANTICLE TO APOLLO

Play, Phoebus, on thy lute, And we will sit all mute; By listening to thy lyre, That sets all ears on fire.

Hark, hark! the God does play! And as he leads the way Through heaven, the very spheres, As men, turn all to ears!

224. TO MUSIC, TO BECALM A SWEET SICK YOUTH

Charms, that call down the moon from out her sphere, On this sick youth work your enchantments here! Bind up his senses with your numbers, so As to entrance his pain, or cure his woe. Fall gently, gently, and a-while him keep Lost in the civil wilderness of sleep: That done, then let him, dispossess'd of pain, Like to a slumbering bride, awake again.

225. TO MUSIC: A SONG

Music, thou queen of heaven, care-charming spell, That strik'st a stillness into hell; Thou that tam'st tigers, and fierce storms, that rise, With thy soul-melting lullabies; Fall down, down, down, from those thy chiming spheres To charm our souls, as thou enchant'st our ears.

226. SOFT MUSIC

The mellow touch of music most doth wound The soul, when it doth rather sigh, than sound.

227. TO MUSIC

Begin to charm, and as thou strok'st mine ears With thine enchantment, melt me into tears. Then let thy active hand scud o'er thy lyre, And make my spirits frantic with the fire; That done, sink down into a silvery strain, And make me smooth as balm and oil again.

228. THE VOICE AND VIOL

Rare is the voice itself: but when we sing To th' lute or viol, then 'tis ravishing.

229. TO MUSIC, TO BECALM HIS FEVER

Charm me asleep, and melt me so With thy delicious numbers; That being ravish'd, hence I go Away in easy slumbers. Ease my sick head, And make my bed, Thou Power that canst sever From me this ill;-- And quickly still, Though thou not kill My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same From a consuming fire, Into a gentle-licking flame, And make it thus expire. Then make me weep My pains asleep, And give me such reposes, That I, poor I, May think, thereby, I live and die 'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like a silent dew, Or like those maiden showers, Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptism o'er the flowers. Melt, melt my pains With thy soft strains; That having ease me given, With full delight, I leave this light, And take my flight For Heaven.

MUSAE GRAVIORES

230. A THANKSGIVING TO GOD, FOR HIS HOUSE

Lord, thou hast given me a cell, Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weather proof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry; Where thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate; Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by th' poor, Who thither come, and freely get Good words, or meat. Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen's small; A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead; Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess too, when I dine, The pulse is thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth, And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land, And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one; Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day; Besides, my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year; The while the conduits of my kine Run cream, for wine: All these, and better, thou dost send Me, to this end,-- That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign, As wholly thine; --But the acceptance, that must be, My Christ, by Thee.

231. MATINS, OR MORNING PRAYER

When with the virgin morning thou dost rise, Crossing thyself come thus to sacrifice; First wash thy heart in innocence; then bring Pure hands, pure habits, pure, pure every thing. Next to the altar humbly kneel, and thence Give up thy soul in clouds of frankincense. Thy golden censers fill'd with odours sweet Shall make thy actions with their ends to meet.