O shameful foil! a maiden's easy breath

Did blow me down, and blast my soul to death.

Titles I make untruths: am I a rock,

That with so soft a gale was overthrown?
Am I fit pastor for the faithful flock,

To guide their souls, that murder'd thus my own?
A rock of ruin-not a rest to stay;

A pastor-not to feed-but to betray!

Fidelity was flown, when fear was hatch'd,
Brood incompatible in Virtue's nest!
Courage can less with cowardice be match'd,
Than fear and love lodge in divided breast.
O Adam's child, cast by a silly Eve,
Heir to thy father's foils, and born to grieve.

Like solest swan, that swims in silent deep,
And never sings but obsequies of death,
Sigh out thy plaints, and sole in secret weep,
In suing pardon spend thy perjur'd breath;
Attire thy soul in sorrow's mourning weed,
And, at thine eyes, let guilty conscience bleed.

*

Weep balm and myrrh, you sweet Arabian trees,
With purest gums perfume and pearl your rine;
Shed on your honey-drops, you busy bees,

I, barren plant, must weep unpleasant brine:
Heaven's dews were sweet, but ah! its branch repaid
With bitter fruits their kind and fostering aid."

The piece entitled, St. Mary Magdalen's Tears is of a similar kind, and, although written in prose, is much more fervid and impassioned than the greater part of his poetry. A short extract will give a sufficient idea of the strain in which it is composed.

"But fear not, Blessed Mary, for thy tears will obtain. They are too mighty orators to let thy suit fall; and though they pleaded at the most rigorous bar, yet have they so persuading a silence and so conquering a complaint, that, by yielding, they overcome, and, by entreating, they command. They tie the tongues of all accusers, and soften the rigour of the severest judge. Yea, they win the invincible and bind the omnipotent. When they seem most pitiful they have greatest power, and being most forsaken they are more victorious. Repentant eyes are the cellars of angels, and penitent tears their sweetest wines, which the savour of life perfumeth, the taste of grace

sweeteneth, and the purest colour of returning innocency highly beautifieth. This dew of devotion never faileth, but the sun of justice draweth it up, and upon what face soever it droppeth, it maketh it amiable in God's eye. For this water hath thy heart been long a limbeck, sometimes distilling it out of the weeds of thy own offences with the fire of true contrition. Sometimes out of the flowers of spiritual comforts with the flames of contemplation, and now out of the bitter herbs of thy master's miseries with the heat of a tender compassion. This water hath better graced thy looks than thy former alluring glances. It hath settled worthier beauties in thy face than all thy artificial paintings. Yea, this only water hath quenched God's anger, qualified his justice, recovered his mercy, merited his love, purchased his pardon, and brought forth the spring of all thy favour. Thy tears were the proctors for thy brother's life, the inviters of those angels for thy comfort, and the suitors that shall be rewarded with the first sight of thy revived saviour. Rewarded they shall be, but not refrained; altered in their cause, but their course continued. Heaven would weep at the loss of so pretious a water, and earth lament the absence of so fruitful showers. No, no, the angels must bathe themselves in the pure stream of thy eyes, and thy face shall still be set with this liquid pearl, that, as out of thy tears were stroken the first sparks of thy lord's love, so, thy tears may be the oil to feed his flame. Till death dam up the springs, they shall never cease running; and then shall thy soul be ferried in them to the harbour of life, that, as by them it was first passed from sinne to grace, so, in them it may be wafted from grace to glory." p. 139.

The lines entitled Scorn not the least, display the amiable spirit of the author, and are beautiful withal.

"Where wards are weak, and foes encount'ring strong,
Where mightier do assault than do defend,

The feebler part puts up enforced wrong,

And silent sees, that speech could not amend :
Yet higher powers must think, though they repine,
When sun is set the little stars will shine.

While pike doth range, the silly tench doth flie,
And crouch in privy creekes with smaller fish:
Yet pikes are caught when little fish go by,

These fleete aflote, while those do fill the dish;
There is a time even for the worms to creep,
And suck the dew while all their foes do sleep.

The merlin cannot ever soar on high,

Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase,
The tender lark will find a time to flie,

And fearefull hare to run a quiet race.
He that high growth on cedars did bestow,
Gave also lowly mush-rooms leave to grow.

In Haman's pomp poor

Mardocheus wept,

Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe.
The Lazar pin'd, while Dives' feast was kept,
Yet he to heaven: to hell did Dives go.

We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May:
Yet grass is green, when flowers do fade away."

Southwell thought the art of poetry discredited by the meretricious graces and idle fancies," the follies and feignings of love," in which poets have indulged; and it was to bring them back to those "solemn and devout matters to which, in duty, they owe their abilities," that he was induced "to weave a new web in their own loom." Poetry, therefore, with him is solely used as a medium for the expression of his ardent religious feelings and aspirations, or to enforce some point of religious or moral obligation. These lines are from his Maonia.

The Image of Death.

"Before my face the picture hangs,
That daily should put me in mind,
Of those cold names and bitter pangs
That shortly I am like to find;

But yet, alas! full little I

Do think hereon, that I must die.

I often look upon a face

Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin;
I often view the hollow place

Where eyes and nose had sometime been;

I see the bones across that lie,

Yet little think that I must die.

I read the label underneath,

That telleth me whereto I must;
I see the sentence too, that saith,
'Remember, man, thou art but dust.'

But yet, alas! how seldom I

Do think, indeed, that I must die!

Continually at my bed's head

A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell

That I ere morning may be dead,

Though now I feel myself full well;

But yet, alas! for all this, I

Have little mind that I must die!

The gown which I am us'd to wear,

The knife wherewith I cut my meat;

The stanzas headed Loss in Delays are also worth quoting.

"Shun delays, they breed remorse;

Take thy time, while time is lent thee;
Creeping snails have weakest force,
Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee.
Good is best, when soonest wrought,
Ling'ring labours come to nought,

Hoist up sail while gale doth last,

Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure:
Seek not time, when time is past,

Sober speed is wisdom's leisure.
After-wits are dearly bought,
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.

Time wears all his locks before,

Take thou hold upon his forehead;

When he flies, he turns no more,
And behind his scalp is naked.
Works adjourn'd have many stays;
Long demurs breed new delays.

\Seek thy salve while sore is green,

Fester'd wounds ask deeper lancing:

After-cures are seldom seen,

Often sought, scarce ever chancing,

Time and place give best advice,

Out of season, out of price."

The following verses are in a more vivacious strain, and are aptly and beautifully written. The title of them is Love's Servile Lot.

"She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil,
Pretending good in ill;

She offereth joy, but bringeth grief;
A kiss-where she doth kill.

A honey-show'r rains from her lips,
Sweet lights shine in her face;
She hath the blush of virgin-mind,
The mind of viper's race.

She makes thee seek—yet fear to find:
To find-but nought enjoy;

In many frowns, some passing smiles
She yields, to more annoy.

She letteth fall some luring baits,

For fools to gather up;

Now sweet-now sour-for every

She tempereth her cup.

taste

Her watery eyes have burning force,
Her floods and flames conspire;
Tears kindle sparks-sobs fuel are,
And sighs but fan the fire.

May never was the month of love,
For May is full of flowers:
But rather April-wet by kind,
For love is full of showers.

With soothing words enthralled souls
She chains in servile bands;
Her eye, in silence, hath a speech
Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours;
Short hap immortal harms :
Her loving looks are murd'ring darts,
Her songs, bewitching charms.