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A00977
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The purple island, or, The isle of man together with Piscatorie eclogs and other poeticall miscellanies / by P.F.
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Fletcher, Phineas, 1582-1650.
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1633
(1633)
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STC 11082.5; ESTC S5142
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154,399
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335
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'gins his life when he 's of life bereaven Ah blessed soul that here begins his heaven Upon the Contemplations of the B. of Excester given to the Ladie E. W. at New-yeares-tide THis little worlds two little starres are eyes And he that all eyes framed fram'd all others Downward to fall but these to climbe the skies There to acquaint them with their starrie brothers Planets fixt in the head their spheare of sense Yet wandring still through heav'ns circumference The Intellect being their Intelligence Dull then that heavie soul which ever bent On earth and earthly toyes his heav'n neglects Content with that which cannot give content What thy foot scorning kicks thy soul respects Fond soul thy eye will up to heav'n erect thee Thou it direct'st and must it now direct thee Dull heavie soul thy scholar must correct thee Thrice happie soul that guided by thine eyes Art mounted up unto that starrie nation And leaving there thy sense entrest the skies Enshrin'd and sainted there by contemplation Heav'n thou enjoy'st on earth and now bereaven Of life a new life to thy soul is given Thrice happie soul that hast a double heaven That sacred hand which to this yeare hath brought you Perfect your yeares and with your yeares his graces And when his will unto his will hath wrought you Conduct your soul unto those happie places Where thousand joyes and pleasures ever new And blessings thicker then the morning dew With endlesse sweets rain on that heav'nly crue These Asclepiads of Mr. H. S. translated and enlarged Nè Verbum mihi sit mortua Litera Nec Christi Meritum Gratia vanida Sed Verbum fatuo sola Scientia Et Christus misero sola Redemptio UNletter'd Word which never eare could heare Unwritten Word which never eye could see Yet syllabled in flesh-spell'd character That so to senses thou might'st subject be Since thou in bread art stampt in print art read Let not thy print-stampt Word to me be dead Thou all-contriving all-deserving Spirit Made flesh to die that so thou might'st be mine That thou in us and we in thee might merit We thine thou ours thou humane we divine Let not my dead lifes merit my dead heart Forfeit so deare a purchas'd deaths desert Thou Sunne of wisdome knowledge infinite Made folly to the wise night to prophane Be I thy Moon oh let thy sacred light Increase to th' full and never never wane Wise folly set in me fond wisdome rise Make me renounce my wisdome to be wise Thou Life eternall purest blessednesse Made mortal wretched sinne it self for me Shew me my death my sin my wretchednesse That I may flourish shine and live in thee So I with praise shall sing thy life deaths storie O thou my Merit Life my Wisdome Glorie Certain of the royal Prophets Psalmes metaphrased Psalm 42. which agrees with the tune of Like the Hermite poore LOok as an hart with sweat and bloud embrued Chas'd and embost thirsts in the soil to be So my poore soul with eager foes pursued Looks longs O Lord pines pants and faints for thee When O my God when shall I come in place To see thy light and view thy glorious face I dine and sup with sighs with grones and teares While all thy foes mine eares with taunting load Who now thy cries who now thy prayer heares Where is say they where is thy boasted God My molten heart deep plung'd in sad despairs Runnes forth to thee in streams of teares and prayers With grief I think on those sweet now past dayes When to thy house my troops with joy I led We sang we danc'd we chanted sacred layes No men so haste to wine no bride to bed Why droop'st my soul why faint'st thou in my breast Wait still with praise his presence is thy rest My famisht soul driv'n from thy sweetest word From Hermon hill and Jordans swelling brook To thee laments sighs deep to thee O Lord To thee sends back her hungrie longing look Flouds of thy wrath breed flouds of grief and fears And flouds of griefbreed flouds of plaints and teares His early light with morn these clouds shall clear These drearie clouds and storms of sad despairs Sure am I in the night his songs to heare Sweet songs of joy as well as he my prayers I 'le say My God why slight'st thou my distresse While all my foes my wearie soul oppresse My cruel foes both thee and me upbraid They cut my heart they vant that bitter word Where is thy trust where is thy hope they said Where is thy God where is thy boasted Lord Why droop'st my soul why faint'st thou in my breast Wait still with praise his presence is thy rest Psal. 63. which may be sung as The widow or mock-widow O Lord before the morning Gives heav'n warning To let out the day My wakefull eyes Look for thy rise And wait to let in thy joyfull ray Lank hunger here peoples the desert cells Here thirst fills up the emptie wells How longs my flesh for that bread without leaven How thirsts my soul for that wine of heaven Such oh to taste thy ravishing grace Such in thy house to view thy glorious face Thy love thy light thy faces Bright-shining graces Whose unchanged ray Knows nor morns dawn Nor evenings wane How farre surmount they lifes winter day My heart to thy glorie tunes all his strings My tongue thy praises cheerly sings And till I slumber and death shall undresse me Thus will I sing thus will I blesse thee Fill me with love oh fill me with praise So shall I vent due thanks in joyfull layes When night all eyes hath quenched And thoughts lie drenched In silence and rest Then will I all Thy waies recall And look on thy light in darknesse best When my poore soul wounded had lost the field Thou wast my fort thou wast my shield Safe in thy trenches I boldly will vant me There will I sing there will I chant thee There I 'le triumph in thy banner of grace My conqu'ring arms shall be thy arms embrace My foes from deeps ascending In rage transcending Assaulting me sore Into their hell Are headlong fell There shall they lie there howl and roare There let deserv'd torments their spirits tear Feel they worst ills and worse yet fear But with his spouse thine anointed in pleasure Shall reigne and joy past time or measure There new delights new pleasures still spring Haste there oh haste my soul to dance and sing PSAL. 127. To the tune of that Psalme IF God build not the house and lay The ground-work sure who ever build It cannot stand one stormie day If God be not the cities shield If he be not their barres and wall In vain is watch-tower men and all Though then thou wak'st when others rest Though rising thou prevent'st the Sunne Though with lean care thou daily feast Thy labour 's lost and thou undone But God his childe will feed and keep And draw the curtains to
his sleep Though th' hast a wife fir young and fair An heritage heirs to advance Yet canst thou not command an heir For heirs are Gods inheritance He gives the seed the bud the bloom He gives the harvest to the wombe And look as arrows by strong arm In a strong bow drawn to the head Where they are meant will surely harm And if they hit wound deep and dead Children of youth are even so As harmfull deadly to a foe That man shall live in blisse and peace Who fills his quiver with such shot Whose garners swell with such increase Terrour and shame assail him not And though his foes deep hatred bear Thus arm'd he shall not need to fear PSAL. 137. To be sung as See the building WHere Perah's flowers Perfume proud Babels bowers And paint her wall There we laid asteeping Our eyes in endlesse weeping For Sions fall Our feasts and songs we laid aside On forlorn willows By Perah's billows We hung our harps and mirth and joy defi'd That Sions ruines should build foul Babels pride Our conqu'rours vaunting With bitter scoffes and taunting Thus proudly jest Take down your harps and string them Recall your songs sing them For Sions feast Were our harps well tun'd in every string Our heart-strings broken Throats drown'd and soken With tears and sighs how can we praise and sing The King of heav'n under an heathen king In all my mourning Ierusalem thy burning If I forget Forget thy running My hand and all thy cunning To th' harp to set Let thy mouth my tongue be still thy grave Lie there asleeping For Sion weeping Oh let mine eyes in tears thy office have Nor rise nor set but in their brinie wave Proud Edoms raging Their hate with bloud asswaging And vengefull sword Their cursed joying In Sions walls destroying Remember Lord Forget not Lord their spightfull cry Fire and deface it Destroy and raze it Oh let the name of Sion ever die Thus did they roare and us and thee defie So shall thy towers And all thy princely bowers Proud Babel fall Him ever blessed Who th' oppressour hath oppressed Shall all men call Thrice blest that turns thy mirth to grones That burns to ashes Thy towers and dashes Thy brats 'gainst rocks to wash thy bloudie stones With thine own bloud and pave thee with thy bones PSAL. I. BLessed who walk'st not in the worldlings way Blessed who with foul sinners wilt not stand Blessed who with proud mockers dar'st not stay Nor sit thee down amongst that scornfull band Thrice blessed man who in that heav'nly light Walk'st stand'st and sitt'st rejoycing day and night Look as a thirstie Palm full Iordan drinks Whose leaf and fruit still live when winter dies With conqu'ring branches crowns the rivers brinks And summers fires and winters frosts defies All so the soul whom that clear light revives Still springs buds grows and dying time survives But as the dust of chaffe cast in the aire Sinks in the dirt and turns to dung and mire So sinners driv'n to hell by fierce despair Shall frie in ice and freez in hellish fire For he whose flaming eyes all actions turn Sees both to light the one the other burn PSAL. 130. FRom the deeps of grief and fear O Lord to thee my soul repairs From thy heav'n bow down thine eare Let thy mercie meet my prayers Oh if thou mark'st what 's done amisse What soul so pure can see thy blisse But with thee sweet mercie stands Sealing pardons working fear Wait my soul wait on his hands Wait mine eye oh wait mine eare If he his eye or tongue affords Watch all his looks catch all his words As a watchman waits for day And looks for light and looks again When the night grows old and gray To be reliev'd he calls amain So look so wait so long mine eyes To see my Lord my Sunne arise Wait ye saints wait on our Lord For from his tongue sweet mercie flows Wait on his crosse wait on his word Upon that tree redemption grows He will redeem his Israel From sinne and wrath from death and hell AN HYMNE WAke O my soul awake and raise Up every part to sing his praise Who from his spheare of glorie fell To raise thee up from death and hell See how his soul vext for thy sinne Weeps bloud without feels hell within See where he hangs heark how he cries Oh bitter pangs Now now he dies Wake O mine eyes awake and view Those two twin-lights whence heavens drew Their glorious beams whose gracious sight Fills you with joy with life and light See how with clouds of sorrow drown'd They wash with tears thy sinfull wound See how with streams of spit th' are drencht See how their beams with death are quencht Wake O mine eare awake and heare That powerfull voice which stills thy fear And brings from heav'n those joyfull news Which heav'n commands which hell subdues Heark how his eares heav'ns mercie-seat Foul slanders with reproaches beat Heark how the knocks our ears resound Heark how their mocks his hearing wound Wake O my heart tune every string Wake O my tongue awake and sing Think not a thought in all thy layes Speak not a word but of his praise Tell how his sweetest tongue they drownd With gall think how his heart they wound That bloudie spout gagg'd for thy sinne His life lets out thy death lets in AN HYMNE DRop drop slow tears and bathe those beauteous feet Which brought from heav'n the news and Prince of peace Cease not wet eyes his mercies to intreat To crie for vengeance sinne doth never cease In your deep flouds drown all my faults and fears Nor let his eye see sinne but through my tears On my friends picture who died in travel THough now to heav'n thy travels are confin'd Thy wealth friends life and countrey all are lost Yet in this picture we thee living finde And thou with lesser travel lesser cost Hast found new life friends wealth and better coast So by thy death thou liv'st by losse thou gain'st And in thy absence present still remain'st Upon Doctor Playser WHo lives with death by death in death is lying But he who living dies best lives by dying Who life to truth who death to errour gives In life may die by death more surely lives My soul in heaven breathes in schools my fame Then on my tombe write nothing but my name Upon my brothers book called The grounds labour and reward of faith THis lamp fill'd up and fir'd by that blest Spirit Spent his last oyl in this pure heav'nly flame Laying the grounds walls roof of faith this frame With life he ends and now doth there inherit What here he built crown'd with his laurel merit Whose palms and triumphs once he loudly rang There now enjoyes what here he sweetly sang This is his monument on which he drew His spirits image that can never die But breathes in these ' live words and speaks to th' eye In these