My bosom friend, if he blaspheme thy name,

I will tear thence his love and fame.

One half of me being gone, the rest I give
Unto some chapel, die or live.
As for thy Passion-but of that anon,

When with the other I have done.

For thy Predestination, I'll contrive,

That three years hence, if I survive, I'll build a spital, or mend common ways;

But mend my own without delays. Then I will use the works of thy creation,

As if I used them but for fashion. The world and I will quarrel; and the year

Shall not perceive that I am here. My music shall find thee, and every string Shall have his attribute to sing; That all together may accord in thee,

And prove one God, one harmony. If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appear,

If thou hast given it me, 'tis here. Nay, I will read thy book, and never move

Till I have found therein thy loveThy art of love; which I'll turn back on thee, O my dear Saviour, Victory!—

Then for thy Passion, I will do for that—

Alas! my God, I know not what.

The Reprisal.

I HAVE Considered it, and find

There is no dealing with thy mighty Passion.
For, though I die for thee, I am behind;
My sins deserve the condemnation.

Oh, make me innocent! that I

May give a disentangled state and free.
And yet, thy wounds still my attempts defy;
For by thy death I die for thee.

Ah! was it not enough, that thou By thy eternal glory didst outgo me? Couldst thou not grief's sad conquest me allow ? But in all vict'ries overthrow me?

Yet, by confession, will I come

Into the conquest. Though I can do nought
Against thee, in thee I will overcome

The man who once against thee fought.

The Agony.

PHILOSOPHERS have measured mountains, Fathomed the depths of seas, of states and kings, Walked with a staff to heaven, and traced fountains; But there are two vast, spacious things,

The which to measure it doth more behove,

Yet few there are that sound them-Sin and Love.

Who would know Sin, let him repair
Unto mount Olivet; there shall he see
A man so wrung with pains, that all his hair,
His skin, his garments, bloody be.

Sin is that press and vice, which forceth pain
To hunt his cruel food through every vein.

Who knows not Love, let him assay
And taste that juice which on the cross a pike
Did set abroach; then let him say,

If ever he did taste the like.

Love is that liquor sweet and most divine,
Which my God feels as blood; but I, as wine.

The Sinner.

LORD! how am I all ague, when I seek
What I have treasured in my memory!
Since, if my soul make even with the week,
Each seventh note by right is due to thee.

I find there quarries of piled vanities;

But shreds of holiness, that dare not venture

To shew their face; since, cross to thy decrees, There the circumference earth is, heaven the centre.

In so much dregs the quintessence is small:

The spirit and good extract of my heart Comes to about the many hundredth part. Yet, Lord, restore thine image; hear my call:

And, though my hard heart scarce to thee can groan, Remember that thou once didst write in stone.

Good Friday.

O, MY Chief Good!

How shall I measure out thy blood?
How shall I count what thee befell,
And each grief tell?

Shall I thy woes

Number, according to thy foes?

Or, since one star shewed thy first breath,
Shall all thy death?

Or shall each leaf

Which falls in autumn, score a grief?
Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be sign
Of the true vine?

Then let each hour

Of my whole life one grief devour;
That thy distress through all may run,
And be my sun.

Or rather let

My several sins their sorrows get,
That, as each beast his cure doth know,
Each sin may so.

SINCE blood is fittest, Lord, to write

Thy sorrows in, and bloody fight;

My heart hath store, write there; where, in

One box, doth lie both ink and sin.

That, when Sin spies so many foes,

Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes, All come to lodge there, Sin may say"No room for me," and fly away.

Sin being gone, O fill the place-
And keep possession-with thy grace;
Lest Sin take courage, and return,
And all the writings blot or burn.

Redemption.

HAVING been tenant long to a rich Lord,
Not thriving, I resolved to be bold,

And make a suit unto him, to afford

A new small rented lease, and cancel th' old.

In heaven, at his manor, I him sought.

They told me there, that he was lately gone
About some land, which he had dearly bought
Long since on earth, to take possession.

I straight returned; and, knowing his great birth,
Sought him accordingly in great resorts,
In cities, theatre's, gardens, parks, and courts.
At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth

Of thieves and murderers; there I him espied,
Who straight "Your suit is granted," said, and died.

Sepulchre.

O BLESSED body! whither art thou thrown?
No lodging for thee, but a cold, hard stone?
So many hearts on earth, and yet not one

Receive thee?