So much mankind true happiness mistakes;
No joy enjoys that man, that many makes.
Then, soul, to thy first pitch work up again;
Know that all lines which circles do contain,
For once that they the centre touch, do touch
Twice the circumference; and be thou such,
Double on heaven thy thoughts on earth employ'd.
-All will not serve; only who have enjoy'd
The sight of God in fullness can think it;
For it is both the object and the wit.
This is essential joy, where neither He
Can suffer diminution, nor we;

'Tis such a full, and such a filling good,

440

Had th' angels once look'd on Him, they had stood.

To fill the place of one of them, or more,

She whom we celebrate is gone before;

She, who had here so much essential joy,

As no chance could distract, much less destroy; 450
Who with God's presence was acquainted so
-Hearing and speaking to Him—as to know
His face in any natural stone or tree,
Better than when in images they be;
Who kept, by diligent devotion,
God's image in such reparation

Within her heart, that what decay was grown
Was her first parents' fault, and not her own;
Who, being solicited to any act,

Still heard God pleading His safe precontract; 460

Who by a faithful confidence, was here

Betroth'd to God, and now is married there;

Whose twilights were more clear than our mid-day;
Who dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray;
Who, being here fill d with grace, yet strove
to be

Both where more grace and more capacity

At once is given; she to heaven is gone,
Who made this world in some proportion
A heaven, and here became unto us all
Joy-as our joys admit-essential.
But could this low world joys essential touch,
Heaven's accidental joys would pass thein much.
How poor and lame must then our casual be?
If thy prince will his subjects to call thee
My lord, and this do swell thee, thou art then,
By being greater, grown to be less man.
When no physician of redress can speak,

A joyful casual violence may break

A dangerous aposthume in thy breast;

470

And whilst thou joyest in this, the dangerous rest, 480
The bag, may rise up, and so strangle thee.

Whate'er was casual, may ever be.

What should the nature change? or make the same

Certain, which was but casual, when it came?

All casual joy doth loud and plainly say,

Only by coming, that it can away.

Only in heaven joy's strength is never spent,
And accidental things are permanent.

Joy of a soul's arrival ne'er decays,
For that soul ever joys and ever stays.
Joy that their last great consummation
Approaches in the resurrection,

490

Of accidental joys in both places.

Conclusion.

When earthly bodies more celestial

Shall be, than angels' were, for they could fall;
This kind of joy doth every day admit
Degrees of growth, but none of losing it.
In this fresh joy, 'tis no small part that she,
She, in whose goodness he that names degree
Doth injure her 'tis loss to be called best
There, where the stuff is not such as the rest-
She, who left such a body, as even she
Only in heaven could learn how it can be
Made better; for she rather was two souls,
Or like to full on both sides written rolls,
Where eyes might read upon the outward skin,
As strong records for God as minds within;
She, who by making full perfection grow,
Pieces a circle, and still keeps it so ;

Long'd for, and longing for 't, to heaven is gone,
Where she receives, and gives addition.

Here, in a place where mis-devotion frames
A thousand prayers to saints, whose very names

500

510

The ancient Church knew not, Heaven knows not

yet;

And where what laws of poetry admit,

Laws of religion have at least the same;
Immortal maid, I might invoke thy name.

Could any saint provoke that appetite,

Thou here should'st make me a French convertite.

But thou would'st not; nor would'st thou be content,

To take this, for my second year's true rent,
Did this coin bear any other stamp than His,
That gave thee power to do, me to say this.

520

Since His will is, that to posterity

Thou should'st for life and death a pattern be,
And that the world should notice have of this,
The purpose and th' authority is His.
Thou art the proclamation; and I am
The trumpet, at whose voice the people came.

INFINITATI SACRUM,

16 Augusti, 1601.

METEMPSYCHOSIS.

Poëma Satyricon.

EPISTLE.

OTHERS at the porches and entries of their buildings set their arms; I, my picture; if any colours can deliver a mind so plain, and flat, and through-light as mine. Naturally, at a new author I doubt, and stick, and do not say quickly "Good." I censure much and tax; and this liberty costs me more than others, by how much my own things are worse than others. Yet I would not be so rebellious against myself, as not to do it, since I love it; nor so unjust to others, to do it sine talione. As long as I give them as good hold upon me, they must pardon me my bitings. I forbid no reprehender, but him that like the Trent Council forbids not