From 'Carmen Deo Nostro' (1652).
Non vi.
''Tis not the work of force but skill
To find the way into man's will.
'Tis loue alone can hearts unlock;
Who knowes the Word, he needs not knock.'
To the noblest and best of Ladyes, the Countesse of Denbigh, perswading her to Resolution in Religion, and to render her selfe without further delay into the Communion of the Catholick Church.
What heau'n-intreated heart is this1
Stands trembling at the gate of blisse?
Holds fast the door, yet dares not venture
Fairly to open it, and enter.
Whose definition is a doubt5
'Twixt life and death, 'twixt in and out.
Say, lingring Fair! why comes the birth
Of your brave soul so slowly forth?
Plead your pretences (O you strong
In weaknes!) why you choose so long10
In labor of your selfe to ly,
Nor daring quite to liue nor dy?
Ah! linger not, lou'd soul! a slow
And late consent was a long no;
Who grants at last, long time try'd15
And did his best to haue deny'd:
What magick bolts, what mystick barres
Maintain the will in these strange warres?
What fatall yet fantastick, bands
Keep the free heart from its own hands?20
So when the year takes cold, we see
Poor waters their own prisoners be:
Fetter'd and lockt vp they ly
In a sad selfe-captivity.
The astonisht nymphs their flood's strange fate deplore,25
To see themselues their own seuerer shore.
Thou that alone canst thaw this cold,
And fetch the heart from its strong-hold;
Allmighty Love! end this long warr,
And of a meteor make a starr.30
O fix this fair Indefinite!
And 'mongst Thy shafts of soueraign light
Choose out that sure decisiue dart
Which has the key of this close heart,
Knowes all the corners of't, and can controul35
The self-shutt cabinet of an vnsearcht soul.
O let it be at last, Loue's hour!
Raise this tall trophee of Thy powre;
Come once the conquering way; not to confute
But kill this rebell-word 'irresolute,'40
That so, in spite of all this peeuish strength
Of weaknes, she may write 'resolv'd' at length.
Vnfold at length, vnfold fair flowre
And vse the season of Loue's showre!
Meet His well-meaning wounds, wise heart,45
And hast to drink the wholsome dart.
That healing shaft, which Heaun till now
Hath in Loue's quiuer hid for you.
O dart of Loue! arrow of light!
O happy you, if it hitt right!50
It must not fall in vain, it must
Not mark the dry, regardless dust.
Fair one, it is your fate; and brings
Æternal worlds upon its wings.
Meet it with wide-spread armes, and see55
Its seat your soul's iust center be.
Disband dull feares; giue faith the day;
To saue your life, kill your delay.
It is Loue's seege, and sure to be
Your triumph, though His victory.60
'Tis cowardise that keeps this feild
And want of courage not to yeild.
Yeild then, O yeild, that Loue may win
The fort at last, and let life in.
Yeild quickly, lest perhaps you proue65
Death's prey, before the prize of Loue.
This fort of your faire selfe, if't be not won,
He is repulst indeed; but you are vndone.
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON: ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Turnbull in line 19 misprints 'Diseased his ...' making nonsense. Disease is = dis-ease, discompose, as used by Phineas Fletcher: cf. vol. iii. p. 194 et alibi.