LXII.

So boils the firèd Herod's blood-swollen breast,
Not to be slaked but by a sea of blood.
His faithless crown he feels loose on his crest,

Which on false tyrant's head ne'er firmly stood.
The worm of jealous envy and unrest,

To which his gnawed heart is the growing food,
Makes him impatient of the lingering light,
Hate the sweet peace of all-composing Night.
LXIII.

A thousand prophecies, that talk strange things,
Had sown of old these doubts in his deep breast;
And now of late came tributary kings,

Bringing him nothing but new fears from th' East,
More deep suspicions, and more deadly stings,

With which his feverous cares their cold increased; And now his dream (Hell's firebrand), still more

bright,

Showed him his fears, and killed him with the sight.
LXIV.

No sooner therefore shall the Morning see

(Night hangs yet heavy on the lids of Day),
But all the counsellors must summoned be
To meet their troubled lord: without delay
Heralds and messengers immediately

Are sent about, who posting every way

To th' heads and officers of every band,

Declare who sends, and what is his command.

LXV.

Why art thou troubled, Herod? what vain fear
Thy blood-revolving breast to rage doth move?
Heaven's King, Who doffs Himself weak flesh to wear,
Comes not to rule in wrath, but serve in love:
Nor would He this thy feared crown from thee tear,
But give thee a better with Himself above.

Poor jealousy! why should He wish to prey
Upon thy crown, Who gives His own away?

LXVI.

Make to thy reason, man, and mock thy doubts;
Look how below thy fears their causes are;
Thou art a soldier, Herod; send thy scouts,
See how He's furnished for so feared a war.
What armour does He wear? a few thin clouts.
His trumpets? tender cries. His men, to dare

So much? rude shepherds.

What His steeds? alas!

Poor beasts! a slow ox and a simple ass.

IL FINE DEL PRIMO LIBRO-THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK.'

The Tear.

What bright soft thing is this,

Sweet Mary, thy fair eyes' expense?

A moist spark it is,

A watery diamond; from whence
The very term, I think, was found,
The water of a diamond.

O, 'tis not a tear,

'Tis a star about to drop

From thine eye, its sphere

The Sun will stoop and take it up.

Proud will his sister be to wear

This thine eye's jewel in her ear.

O, 'tis a tear,

Too true a tear; for no sad eyne,
How sad soe'er,

Rain so true a tear as thine;

Each drop, leaving a place so dear,
Weeps for itself, is its own tear.

Such a pearl as this is,

(Slipp'd from Aurora's dewy breast) The rose-bud's sweet lip kisses;

And such the rose itself, that's vex'd With ungentle flames, does shed, Sweating in a too warm bed.

Such the maiden gem

By the purpling vine put on, Peeps from her parent stem,

And blushes on the bridegroom Sun:

The watery blossom of thy eyne,

Ripe, will make the richer wine.

Fair drop, why quak'st thou so?

'Cause thou straight must lay thy head

In the dust? O no;

The dust shall never be thy bed:

A pillow for thee will I bring,

Stuffed with down of angel's wing.

Thus carried up on high,

(For to Heaven thou must go)

Sweetly shalt thou lie,

And in soft slumbers bathe thy woe;

Till the singing orbs awake thee,

And one of their bright chorus make thee.

There thyself shalt be

An eye, but not a weeping one; Yet I doubt of thee,

Whether th' had'st rather there have shone

An eye of Heaven; or still shine here

In the Heaven of Mary's eye, a TEAR.

-:0:

Our Blessed] Lord in his Circumcision to his Father.

To Thee these first-fruits of My growing death,
(For what else is My life?) lo! I bequeath.
Taste this, and as Thou lik'st this lesser flood
Expect a sea; My heart shall make it good.

Thy wrath that wades here now, ere long shall swim,
The flood-gate shall be set wide ope for Him.
Then let Him drink, and drink, and do His worst,

To drown the wantonness of His wild thirst.

Now's but the nonage of My pains, My fears
Are yet both in their hopes, not come to years.
The day of My dark woes is yet but morn,
My tears but tender, and My death new-born.
Yet may these unfledged griefs give fate some guess,
These cradle-torments have their towardness.
These purple buds of blooming death may be
Erst the full stature of a fatal tree.

And till My riper woes to age are come,
This knife may be the spear's præludium.

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