The Fulfilling of the Law. Father, part of his double interest Unto thy kingdom, thy Son gives to me; His jointure in the knotty Trinity He keeps, and gives to me his death's conquest. This Lamb, whose death with life the world hath bless'd, Holy Sonnetts, xvi. Hymn to Christ. At the Author's last going into Germany. In what torn ship soever I embark, That ship shall be my emblem of thy ark; Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood. Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise I sacrifice this island unto thee, And all, whom I love here, and who love me; In winter, in my winter now I go, Where none but thee, th' eternal root Of true love, I may know. Out of four stanzas. The Will. Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore, By making me love her who'd twenty more, That I should give to none, but such as had too much before. My constancy I to the planets give; My truth to them who at the court do live; To Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness; Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me My modesty I give to soldiers bare ; My patience let gamesters share. Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity. To him, for whom the passing bell next tolls, Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give; My brazen medals, unto them which live Thou, Love, by making me love one, For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion. The vow of a Capuchin monk prevents him from possessing money. The world by dying; because Love dies too. Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me To God the Father. Out of six stanzas. Wilt thou forgive that sin, where I begun, Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son Shall shine, as he shines now and heretofore, And having done that, thou hast done; I fear no more! Divine Poems, CHALMERS' Poets, v. 209. Short Prayers. I would rather make short prayers than extend them; though God can neither be surprised nor besieged; for long prayers have more of the man, as ambition of eloquence and complacence in the work, and more of the devil by after distractions; for after, in the beginning, we have well entreated God to hearken, we speak no more to him. Letters, p. III. Joy. The oleum lætitiæ (or oil of gladness), this balm of our lives, this alacrity which dignifies even our services to God, this gallant enemy of dejection and sadness (for which and wickedness the Italian allows but one word, triste) must be sought and preserved diligently. And since it grows without us we must be sure and gather it from the right tree. To the Lady G. Letters, p. 45 Madam-I am not come out of England, if I remain in the noblest part of it, your mind; yet I confess it is too much diminution to call your mind any part of England, or this world, since every part, even of your body, deserves titles of higher dignity. No prince would be loath to die, that were assured of so fair a tomb to preserve his memory; but I have a greater advantage than so; for since there is a religion in friendship and a death in absence, to make up an entire friend there must be a heaven too; and there can be no heaven so proportional to that religion and that death as your favour; and I am gladder that it is a heaven than that it were a court, or any other high place of this world, because I am likelier to have a room there than here, and better cheap; Madam my best treasure is time, and my best employment of that (next my thoughts of thankfulness for my Redeemer) is to study good wishes for you, in which I am by continual meditation so learned, that any creature (except your own good angel) when it would do you most good might be content to come and take instructions from Your humble and affectionate servant, J. D. Amiens, the 7 Feb., 1611. This letter is a specimen of the adulatory conceits of the age. Perhaps, as Coleridge says of another letter, 'the exaggeration of the thoughts, blended with a delicate tenderness, faithfully conveys the truth as to the feelings.' b See Milton's lines on Shakespeare. b Notes, p. 258. 76. Joseph Hall, 1574-1656. (Handbook, pars. 155, 327, 514.) Reckoned with Hooker and Taylor among our richest prose writers. His satires are among the earliest that possess vigour and grace without grossness. The Male-Content. He is neither well full, nor fasting; and though he abound with complaints, yet nothing dislikes him but the present; for what he condemned while it was, once past, he magnifies, and strives to recall it out of the jaws of time. What he hath, he seeth not; his eyes are so taken up with what he wants: and what he sees, he cares not for; because he cares so much for that which is not. When his friend carves him the best morsel, he murmurs that it is a happy feast wherein each one may cut for himself.' When a present is sent him, he asks, 'Is this all?' and 'What! no better?' and so accepts it, as if he would have his friend know how much he is bound to him for vouchsafing to receive it: it is hard to entertain him with a proportionable gift; if nothing, he cries out of unthankfulness; if little, that he is basely regarded; if much, he exclaims of flattery, and expectation of a large requital. Every blessing hath somewhat to disparage and distaste it: children bring cares; single life is wild and solitary; eminency is envious; retiredness, obscure; fasting, painful; satiety, unwieldy; religion, nicely severe; liberty is lawless; wealth, burdensome; mediocrity, contemptible; everything faulteth, either in too much or too little. This man is ever headstrong and self-willed; neither is he always tied to esteem and pronounce according to reason: some things he must dislike, he knows not wherefore, but he likes them not: and, other where, rather than not censure, he will accuse a man of virtue. Every thing he meddleth with, he either findeth imperfect, or maketh so neither is there anything that soundeth so harsh in his ear as the commendation of another; whereto yet perhaps he fashionably and coldly assenteth, but with such an after-clause of exception as doth more than mar his former allowance: and, if he list not to give a verbal disgrace, yet he shakes his head and smiles, as if his silence should say, 'I could, and will not.' And, when himself is praised without excess, he complains that such imperfect kindness hath not done him right. If but an unseasonable shower cross his recreation, he is ready to fall out with |