St. Matthew xxii.
Mid'st all the darke and knotty snares,1
Black wit or malice can, or dares,
Thy glorious wisedome breaks the nets,
And treds with uncontroulèd steps;
Thy quell'd foes are not onely now5
Thy triumphs, but Thy trophies too:
They both at once Thy conquests bee,
And Thy conquests' memorie.
Stony amazement makes them stand
Wayting on Thy victorious hand,10
Like statues fixèd to the fame
Of Thy renoune, and their own shame,
As if they onely meant to breath
To be the life of their own death.
'Twas time to hold their peace, when they15
Had ne're another word to say;
Yet is their silence unto Thee,
The full sound of Thy victorie;
Their silence speaks aloud, and is
Thy well pronounc'd panegyris.20
While they speak nothing, they speak all
Their share, in Thy memoriall.
While they speake nothing, they proclame
Thee, with the shrillest trump of Fame.
To hold their peace is all the wayes25
These wretches have to speak Thy praise.
OUR B[LESSED] LORD IN HIS CIRCUMCISION TO HIS FATHER.[30]
1. To Thee these first-fruits of My growing death1
(For what else is My life?), lo! I bequeath:
2. Tast this, and as Thou lik'st this lesser flood
Expect a sea; My heart shall make it good.
3. Thy wrath that wades here now, e're long shall swim,5
The floodgate shall be set wide ope for Him.
4. Then let Him drinke, and drinke, and doe His worst
To drowne the wantonnesse of His wild thirst.
5. Now's but the nonage of My paines, My feares
Are yett but hopes, weake as my infant yeares.10
6. The day of My darke woe is yet but morne,
My teares but tender, and My death new-borne.