Life and Existence

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lack’d anything.

A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine: Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws, Makes that and th’ action fine.

Teach me, my God and King, In all things thee to see And what I do in any thing, To do it as for thee.

And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing: O my only light, It cannot be That I am he On whom thy tempests fell all night.

And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing: O my only light, It cannot be That I am he On whom thy tempests fell all night.

And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing: O my only light, It cannot be That I am he On whom thy tempests fell all night.

The harbingers are come. See, see their mark; White is their color, and behold my head.

The harbingers are come. See, see their mark; White is their color, and behold my head.

Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart Could have recovered greenness?

Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart Could have recovered greenness?

Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.

Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast.

He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: So both should losers be.

But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wild At every word, Methought I heard one calling, Child! And I replied, My Lord.

Call in thy death’s head there: tie up thy fears.

God’s works are wide, and let in future times; His ancient justice overflows our crimes.

Who goes to bed and does not pray, Maketh two nights to every day.

I got me flowers to strew Thy way, I got me boughs off many a tree: But Thou wast up by break of day, And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee.

For thirty pence he did my death devise, Who at three hundred did the ointment prize.

Man is God’s image; but a poor man is Christ’s stamp to boot: both images regard.

By all means use sometimes to be alone.

Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind. 2

Ferdinand: Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young. Bosola: I think not so; her infelicity

Heaven-gates are not so highly arch’d As princes’ palaces; they that enter there Must go upon their knees.