The Hesperides & Noble Numbers: Vol. 1 and 2

God's bounty, that ebbs less and less
As men do wane in thankfulness.

Thus, thus, and thus we compass round
Thy harmless and unhaunted ground;
And as we sing thy dirge, we will
The daffodil
And other flowers lay upon
The altar of our love, thy stone.

Thou wonder of all maids, liest here.
Of daughters all the dearest dear;
The eye of virgins; nay, the queen
Of this smooth green,
And all sweet meads; from whence we get
The primrose and the violet.

Too soon, too dear did Jephthah buy,
By thy sad loss, our liberty:
His was the bond and cov'nant, yet
Thou paid'st the debt:
Lamented maid! he won the day,
But for the conquest thou didst pay.

Thy father brought with him along
The olive branch and victor's song:
He slew the Ammonites, we know,
But to thy woe;
And in the purchase of our peace,
The cure was worse than the disease.

For which obedient zeal of thine,
We offer here, before thy shrine,
Our sighs for storax, tears for wine;
And to make fine
And fresh thy hearse-cloth, we will, here,
Four times bestrew thee ev'ry year.

Receive, for this thy praise, our tears:
Receive this offering of our hairs:
Receive these crystal vials fill'd
With tears distill'd
From teeming eyes; to these we bring,
Each maid, her silver filleting,

To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls,
These laces, ribbons, and these falls,
These veils, wherewith we use to hide
The bashful bride,
When we conduct her to her groom:
And all we lay upon thy tomb.

No more, no more, since thou art dead,
Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed;
No more, at yearly festivals
We cowslip balls
Or chains of columbines shall make
For this or that occasion's sake.

No, no; our maiden pleasures be
Wrapp'd in the winding-sheet with thee:
'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave:
Or, if we have
One seed of life left, 'tis to keep
A Lent for thee, to fast and weep.

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,
And make this place all paradise:
May sweets grow here: and smoke from hence
Fat frankincense:
Let balm and cassia send their scent
From out thy maiden-monument.

May no wolf howl, or screech-owl stir
A wing about thy sepulchre!
No boisterous winds, or storms, come hither
To starve or wither
Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring,
Love keep it ever flourishing.

May all shy maids, at wonted hours,
Come forth to strew thy tomb with flow'rs:
May virgins, when they come to mourn,
Male-incense burn
Upon thine altar! then return,
And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.

Cauls, nets for the hair.
Falls, trimmings hanging loosely.
Male-incense, incense in globular drops.

84. TO GOD: ON HIS SICKNESS.

What though my harp and viol be
Both hung upon the willow tree?
What though my bed be now my grave,
And for my house I darkness have?
What though my healthful days are fled,
And I lie number'd with the dead?
Yet I have hope, by Thy great power,
To spring; though now a wither'd flower.

85. SINS LOATHED, AND YET LOVED.

Shame checks our first attempts; but then 'tis prov'd
Sins first dislik'd are after that belov'd.

86. SIN.

Sin leads the way, but as it goes, it feels
The following plague still treading on his heels.

87. UPON GOD.

God, when He takes my goods and chattels hence,
Gives me a portion, giving patience:
What is in God is God; if so it be
He patience gives, He gives Himself to me.

88. FAITH.

What here we hope for, we shall once inherit;
By faith we all walk here, not by the Spirit.

89. HUMILITY.

Humble we must be, if to heaven we go:
High is the roof there; but the gate is low:
Whene'er thou speak'st, look with a lowly eye:
Grace is increased by humility.

90. TEARS.

Our present tears here, not our present laughter,
Are but the handsels of our joys hereafter.

Handsels, earnest money, foretaste.

91. SIN AND STRIFE.

After true sorrow for our sins, our strife
Must last with Satan to the end of life.

92. AN ODE, OR PSALM TO GOD.

Dear God,
If Thy smart rod
Here did not make me sorry,
I should not be
With Thine or Thee
In Thy eternal glory.

But since
Thou didst convince
My sins by gently striking;
Add still to those
First stripes new blows,
According to Thy liking.

Fear me,
Or scourging tear me;
That thus from vices driven,
I may from hell
Fly up to dwell
With Thee and Thine in heaven.

93. GRACES FOR CHILDREN.

What God gives, and what we take,
'Tis a gift for Christ, His sake:
Be the meal of beans and peas,
God be thanked for those and these:
Have we flesh, or have we fish,
All are fragments from His dish.
He His Church save, and the king;
And our peace here, like a spring,
Make it ever flourishing.

94. GOD TO BE FIRST SERVED.

Honour thy parents; but good manners call
Thee to adore thy God the first of all.

95. ANOTHER GRACE FOR A CHILD.

Here a little child I stand
Heaving up my either hand;
Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat and on us all. Amen.

Paddocks, frogs.

96. A CHRISTMAS CAROL SUNG TO THE KING IN
THE PRESENCE AT WHITEHALL.

Chor. What sweeter music can we bring,
Than a carol for to sing
The birth of this our heavenly King?
Awake the voice! awake the string!
Heart, ear, and eye, and everything
Awake! the while the active finger
Runs division with the singer.

FROM THE FLOURISH THEY CAME TO THE SONG.

1. Dark and dull night, fly hence away
And give the honour to this day
That sees December turn'd to May.

2. If we may ask the reason, say
The why and wherefore all things here
Seem like the spring-time of the year.

3. Why does the chilling winter's morn
Smile like a field beset with corn?
Or smell like to a mead new shorn,
Thus, on the sudden?

4. Come and see
The cause, why things thus fragrant be:
'Tis He is born, whose quick'ning birth
Gives life and lustre, public mirth,
To heaven and the under-earth.

Chor. We see Him come, and know Him ours,
Who, with His sunshine and His showers,
Turns all the patient ground to flowers.

1. The darling of the world is come,
And fit it is we find a room
To welcome Him.
2. The nobler part
Of all the house here is the heart,

Chor. Which we will give Him; and bequeath
This holly and this ivy wreath,
To do Him honour; who's our King,
And Lord of all this revelling.

The musical part was composed by M. Henry Lawes.

Division, a rapid passage of music sung in one breath or a single syllable.

97. THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT: OR, CIRCUMCISION'S
SONG. SUNG TO THE KING IN THE
PRESENCE AT WHITEHALL.

1. Prepare for songs; He's come, He's come;
And be it sin here to be dumb,
And not with lutes to fill the room.

2. Cast holy water all about,
And have a care no fire goes out,
But 'cense the porch and place throughout.

3. The altars all on fire be;
The storax fries; and ye may see
How heart and hand do all agree
To make things sweet. Chor. Yet all less sweet than He.

4. Bring Him along, most pious priest,
And tell us then, whenas thou seest
His gently-gliding, dove-like eyes,
And hear'st His whimpering and His cries;
How can'st thou this Babe circumcise?

5. Ye must not be more pitiful than wise;
For, now unless ye see Him bleed,
Which makes the bapti'm, 'tis decreed
The birth is fruitless. Chor. Then the work God speed.

1. Touch gently, gently touch; and here
Spring tulips up through all the year;
And from His sacred blood, here shed,
May roses grow to crown His own dear head.

Chor. Back, back again; each thing is done
With zeal alike, as 'twas begun;
Now singing, homeward let us carry
The Babe unto His mother Mary;
And when we have the Child commended
To her warm bosom, then our rites are ended.
Composed by M. Henry Lawes.

98. ANOTHER NEW-YEAR'S GIFT: OR, SONG FOR
THE CIRCUMCISION.

1. Hence, hence profane, and none appear
With anything unhallowed here;
No jot of leaven must be found
Conceal'd in this most holy ground.

2. What is corrupt, or sour'd with sin,
Leave that without, then enter in;

Chor. But let no Christmas mirth begin
Before ye purge and circumcise
Your hearts, and hands, lips, ears, and eyes.

3. Then, like a perfum'd altar, see
That all things sweet and clean may be:
For here's a Babe that, like a bride,
Will blush to death if ought be spi'd
Ill-scenting, or unpurifi'd.

Chor. The room is 'cens'd: help, help t' invoke
Heaven to come down, the while we choke
The temple with a cloud of smoke.

4. Come then, and gently touch the birth
Of Him, who's Lord of Heaven and Earth:

5. And softly handle Him; y'ad need,
Because the pretty Babe does bleed.
Poor pitied Child! who from Thy stall
Bring'st, in Thy blood, a balm that shall
Be the best New-Year's gift to all.

1. Let's bless the Babe: and, as we sing
His praise, so let us bless the King.

Chor. Long may He live till He hath told
His New-Years trebled to His old:
And when that's done, to re-aspire
A new-born Phœnix from His own chaste fire.

99. GOD'S PARDON.

When I shall sin, pardon my trespass here;
For once in hell, none knows remission there.

100. SIN.

Sin once reached up to God's eternal sphere,
And was committed, not remitted there.

101. EVIL.

Evil no nature hath; the loss of good
Is that which gives to sin a livelihood.

102. THE STAR-SONG: A CAROL TO THE KING
SUNG AT WHITEHALL.

The Flourish of Music; then followed the Song.

1. Tell us, thou clear and heavenly tongue,
Where is the Babe but lately sprung?
Lies he the lily-banks among?

2. Or say, if this new Birth of ours
Sleeps, laid within some ark of flowers,
Spangled with dew-light; thou canst clear
All doubts, and manifest the where.

3. Declare to us, bright star, if we shall seek
Him in the morning's blushing cheek,
Or search the beds of spices through,
To find him out.

Star. No, this ye need not do;
But only come and see Him rest
A Princely Babe in's mother's breast.

Chor. He's seen, He's seen! why then a round,
Let's kiss the sweet and holy ground;
And all rejoice that we have found
A King before conception crown'd.

4. Come then, come then, and let us bring
Unto our pretty Twelfth-tide King,
Each one his several offering;

Chor. And when night comes, we'll give Him wassailing;
And that His treble honours may be seen,
We'll choose Him King, and make His mother Queen.

103. TO GOD.

With golden censers, and with incense, here
Before Thy virgin-altar I appear,
To pay Thee that I owe, since what I see
In, or without, all, all belongs to Thee.
Where shall I now begin to make, for one
Least loan of Thine, half restitution?
Alas! I cannot pay a jot; therefore
I'll kiss the tally, and confess the score.
Ten thousand talents lent me, Thou dost write;
'Tis true, my God, but I can't pay one mite.

Tally, the record of his score or debt.

104. TO HIS DEAR GOD.

I'll hope no more
For things that will not come;
And if they do, they prove but cumbersome.
Wealth brings much woe;
And, since it fortunes so,
'Tis better to be poor
Than so t' abound
As to be drown'd
Or overwhelm'd with store.

Pale care, avaunt!
I'll learn to be content
With that small stock Thy bounty gave or lent.
What may conduce
To my most healthful use,
Almighty God, me grant;
But that, or this,
That hurtful is,
Deny Thy suppliant.

105. TO GOD: HIS GOOD WILL.

Gold I have none, but I present my need,
O Thou, that crown'st the will, where wants the deed.
Where rams are wanting, or large bullocks' thighs,
There a poor lamb's a plenteous sacrifice.
Take then his vows, who, if he had it, would
Devote to Thee both incense, myrrh and gold
Upon an altar rear'd by him, and crown'd
Both with the ruby, pearl, and diamond.

106. ON HEAVEN.

Permit mine eyes to see
Part, or the whole of Thee,
O happy place!
Where all have grace,
And garlands shar'd,
For their reward;
Where each chaste soul
In long white stole,
And palms in hand,
Do ravish'd stand;
So in a ring,
The praises sing
Of Three in One
That fill the Throne;
While harps and viols then
To voices say, Amen.

107. THE SUM AND THE SATISFACTION.

Last night I drew up mine account,
And found my debits to amount
To such a height, as for to tell
How I should pay 's impossible.
Well, this I'll do: my mighty score
Thy mercy-seat I'll lay before;
But therewithal I'll bring the band
Which, in full force, did daring stand
Till my Redeemer, on the tree,
Made void for millions, as for me.
Then, if thou bidst me pay, or go
Unto the prison, I'll say, no;
Christ having paid, I nothing owe:
For, this is sure, the debt is dead
By law, the bond once cancelled.

Score, debt or reckoning.
Band, bond.
Daring, frightening.

108. GOOD MEN AFFLICTED MOST.

God makes not good men wantons, but doth bring
Them to the field, and, there, to skirmishing.
With trials those, with terrors these He proves,
And hazards those most whom the most He loves;
For Sceva, darts; for Cocles, dangers; thus
He finds a fire for mighty Mutius;
Death for stout Cato; and besides all these,
A poison, too, He has for Socrates;
Torments for high Attilius; and, with want,
Brings in Fabricius for a combatant:
But bastard-slips, and such as He dislikes,
He never brings them once to th' push of pikes.

109. GOOD CHRISTIANS

Play their offensive and defensive parts,
Till they be hid o'er with a wood of darts.

110. THE WILL THE CAUSE OF WOE.

When man is punish'd, he is plagued still,
Not for the fault of nature, but of will.

111. TO HEAVEN.

Open thy gates
To him, who weeping waits,
And might come in,
But that held back by sin.
Let mercy be
So kind to set me free,
And I will straight
Come in, or force the gate.

112. THE RECOMPENSE.

All I have lost that could be rapt from me;
And fare it well: yet, Herrick, if so be
Thy dearest Saviour renders thee but one
Smile, that one smile's full restitution.

113. TO GOD.

Pardon me, God, once more I Thee entreat,
That I have placed Thee in so mean a seat
Where round about Thou seest but all things vain,
Uncircumcis'd, unseason'd and profane.
But as Heaven's public and immortal eye
Looks on the filth, but is not soil'd thereby,
So Thou, my God, may'st on this impure look,
But take no tincture from my sinful book:
Let but one beam of glory on it shine,
And that will make me and my work divine.

114. TO GOD.

Lord, I am like to mistletoe,
Which has no root, and cannot grow
Or prosper but by that same tree
It clings about; so I by Thee.
What need I then to fear at all,
So long as I about Thee crawl?
But if that tree should fall and die,
Tumble shall heav'n, and down will I.

115. HIS WISH TO GOD.

I would to God that mine old age might have
Before my last, but here a living grave,
Some one poor almshouse; there to lie, or stir
Ghostlike, as in my meaner sepulchre;
A little piggin and a pipkin by,
To hold things fitting my necessity,
Which rightly used, both in their time and place,
Might me excite to fore and after-grace.
Thy Cross, my Christ, fix'd 'fore mine eyes should be,
Not to adore that, but to worship Thee.
So, here the remnant of my days I'd spend,
Reading Thy Bible, and my Book; so end.

Piggin, a small wooden vessel.

116. SATAN.

When we 'gainst Satan stoutly fight, the more
He tears and tugs us than he did before;
Neglecting once to cast a frown on those
Whom ease makes his without the help of blows.

117. HELL.

Hell is no other but a soundless pit,
Where no one beam of comfort peeps in it.

118. THE WAY.

When I a ship see on the seas,
Cuff'd with those wat'ry savages,
And therewithal behold it hath
In all that way no beaten path,
Then, with a wonder, I confess
Thou art our way i' th' wilderness;
And while we blunder in the dark,
Thou art our candle there, or spark.

119. GREAT GRIEF, GREAT GLORY.

The less our sorrows here and suff'rings cease,
The more our crowns of glory there increase.

120. HELL.

Hell is the place where whipping-cheer abounds,
But no one jailer there to wash the wounds.

121. THE BELLMAN.

Along the dark and silent night,
With my lantern and my light,
And the tinkling of my bell,
Thus I walk, and this I tell:
Death and dreadfulness call on
To the gen'ral session,
To whose dismal bar we there
All accounts must come to clear.
Scores of sins w'ave made here many,
Wip'd out few, God knows, if any.
Rise, ye debtors, then, and fall
To make payment while I call.
Ponder this, when I am gone;
By the clock 'tis almost one.

122. THE GOODNESS OF HIS GOD.

When winds and seas do rage
And threaten to undo me,
Thou dost, their wrath assuage
If I but call unto Thee.

A mighty storm last night
Did seek my soul to swallow,
But by the peep of light
A gentle calm did follow.

What need I then despair,
Though ills stand round about me;
Since mischiefs neither dare
To bark or bite without Thee?

123. THE WIDOWS' TEARS: OR, DIRGE OF DORCAS.

Come pity us, all ye who see
Our harps hung on the willow tree:
Come pity us, ye passers-by
Who see or hear poor widows cry:
Come pity us; and bring your ears
And eyes to pity widows' tears.
Chor. And when you are come hither
Then we will keep
A fast, and weep
Our eyes out altogether.

For Tabitha, who dead lies here,
Clean washed, and laid out for the bier,
O modest matrons, weep and wail!
For now the corn and wine must fail:
The basket and the bin of bread,
Wherewith so many souls were fed,
Chor. Stand empty here for ever:
And ah! the poor
At thy worn door
Shall be relieved never.

Woe worth the time, woe worth the day
That 'reaved us of thee, Tabitha!
For we have lost with thee the meal,
The bits, the morsels, and the deal
Of gentle paste and yielding dough
That thou on widows did'st bestow.
Chor. All's gone, and death hath taken
Away from us
Our maundy; thus
Thy widows stand forsaken.

Ah, Dorcas, Dorcas! now adieu
We bid the cruse and pannier too:
Ay, and the flesh, for and the fish
Doled to us in that lordly dish.
We take our leaves now of the loom
From whence the housewives' cloth did come:
Chor. The web affords now nothing;
Thou being dead,
The worsted thread
Is cut, that made us clothing.

Farewell the flax and reaming wool
With which thy house was plentiful;
Farewell the coats, the garments, and
The sheets, the rugs, made by thy hand;
Farewell thy fire and thy light
That ne'er went out by day or night:
Chor. No, or thy zeal so speedy,
That found a way
By peep of day,
To feed and cloth the needy.

But, ah, alas! the almond bough
And olive branch is withered now.
The wine press now is ta'en from us,
The saffron and the calamus.
The spice and spikenard hence is gone,
The storax and the cinnamon.
Chor. The carol of our gladness
Has taken wing,
And our late spring
Of mirth is turned to sadness.

How wise wast thou in all thy ways!
How worthy of respect and praise!
How matron-like didst thou go dressed!
How soberly above the rest
Of those that prank it with their plumes,
And jet it with their choice perfumes!
Chor. Thy vestures were not flowing:
Nor did the street
Accuse thy feet
Of mincing in their going.

And though thou here li'st dead, we see
A deal of beauty yet in thee.
How sweetly shows thy smiling face,
Thy lips with all-diffused grace!
Thy hands, though cold, yet spotless white,
And comely as the chrysolite!
Chor. Thy belly like a hill is,
Or as a neat
Clean heap of wheat,
All set about with lilies.

Sleep with thy beauties here, while we
Will show these garments made by thee;
These were the coats, in these are read
The monuments of Dorcas dead.
These were thy acts, and thou shall have
These hung as honours o'er thy grave;
Chor. And after us, distressed,
Should fame be dumb,
Thy very tomb
Would cry out, Thou art blessed.

Deal, portion.
Maundy, the alms given on Thursday in Holy Week.
Reaming, drawing out into threads.
Calamus, a fragrant plant, the sweet flag.
Chrysolite, the topaz.

The Hesperides & Noble Numbers: Vol. 1 and 2

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