Weep, what ye have drunk amiss; Which, before you drink, is blood. Come ye hither, all, whom pain Bringing all your sins to sight. And on sin doth cast the fright. Come ye hither, all, whom joy While ye graze without your bounds. As a flood the lower grounds. Come ye hither, all, whose love And exalts you to the sky. Here is love, which, having breath After death can never die. Lord, I have invited all ; And I shall Still invite, still call, to thee. For it seems but just and right Where is all, there all should be. The Banquet. WELCOME, Sweet and sacred cheer! With me, in me, live and dwell: Passeth tongue, to taste, or tell. Oh, what sweetness from the bowl Such as is, and makes, divine ! As we sugar melt in wine? Or hath sweetness in the bread To subdue the smell of sin; Lest the enemy should win? Doubtless, neither star, nor flower Such a sweetness to impart. Only God, who gives perfumes, Flesh assumes; And with it, perfumes my heart. But, as pomanders and wood Still are good; Yet being bruised, are better scented: God, to shew how far his love Here, as broken, is presented When I had forgot my birth, In delights of earth was drowned, And so found me on the ground. Having raised me to look up, Sweetly he doth meet my taste. Wine becomes a wing at last. For, with it alone, I fly To the sky; Where I wipe mine eyes, and see Him I view, Who hath done so much for me. Let the wonder of this pity And take up my lines and life: Hands and breath, Strive in this; and love the strife. The Poesy. LET wits contest, And, with their words and poesies, windows fill. LESS THAN THE LEAST OF ALL THY MERCIES, is my poesy still : This on my ring, This by my picture, in my book, I write. Or say, or dictate, this is my delight. Invention, rest; Comparisons, go play; wit, use thy will: LESS THAN THE LEAST OF ALL GOD'S MERCIES, is my poesy still. A Parody. SOUL's joy, when thou art gone, Which cannot be, Because thou dost abide with me, Yet, when thou dost suppress The cheerfulness Of thy abode, And in my powers not stir abroad, But leave me to my load; Oh, what a damp and shade Doth me invade ! No stormy night Can so afflict, or so affright, Ah, Lord! do not withdraw, Lest want of awe Make sin appear; And, when thou dost but shine less clear, Say, that thou art not here. And then what life I have, (While sin doth rave, And falsely boast, That I may seek, but thou art lost,) Oh, what a deadly cold Doth me infold! I half believe That sin says true. But while I grieve, Thou com'st, and dost relieve. The Elixir. TEACH me, my God and King, Not rudely, as a beast, To run into an action; But still to make thee prepossessed, |