Part 1 of Salve Deus Rex Euderum. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. With divers other things not unfit to be read. Written by Mr. Similia Lanier, wife to Captain Alfonso Lanier, servant to the King's Majesty. At London, printed by Valentine Sims for Richard Bunyan, and are to be sold at his shop in Paul's Churchyard at the sign of the Florida Loose and Crown. 1611. Part 1. To the Queen's Most Excellent Majesty. Renowned Empress and Great Britain's Queen. Most gracious mother of succeeding kings. About safe to view that which is seldom seen. A woman's writing of divinest things. Read it, fair Queen, though it defective be. Your excellence can grace both it and me. For you have rifled nature of her store, and all the goddesses have dispossessed of those rich gifts which they enjoyed before. But now, great Queen, in you they all do rest. If now they strive for the golden ball, Paris would give it you before them all. From Juneau you have state and dignities, from warlike palace, wisdom, fortitude, and from Fair Venus all her excellencies, with their best parts your highness is endued. How much are we to honour those that springs from such rare beauty in the blood of kings? The muses do attend upon your throne, with all the artists at your beck and call. The Sylvan gods and satyrs every one before your fair triumphant chariot fall. And shining Cynthia with her nymphs attend to honour you, whose honour hath no end. From your bright sphere of greatness where you sit, reflecting light to all those glorious stars that wait upon your throne, to virtue yet vouchsafe that splendour which my meanness bars. Be like fair Phoebe, who doth love to grace the darkest night with her most beautyous face. Apollo's beams do comfort every creature, and shines upon the meanest things that be. Since in a state and virtue none is greater, I humbly wish that yours may light on me. That so these rude, unpolished lines of mine, graced by you, may seem the more divine. Look in this mirror of a worthy mind, where some of your fair virtues will appear. Though all it is impossible to find, unless my glass were crystal or more clear, which is dim steel, yet full of spotless truth, and for one look from your fair eyes at sooth. Here may your sacred majesty behold that mighty monarch both of heaven and earth, he that all nations of the world controlled, yet took our flesh in base and meanest birth, whose days were spent in poverty and sorrow, and yet all kings their wealth of him do borrow. For he is crown and crowner of all kings, the hopeful haven of the meaner sort. It is he that all our joyful tidings brings of happy reign within his royal court. It is he that in extremity can give comfort to them that have no time to live. And since my wealth within his region stands, and that his cross my chiefest comfort is, yea, in his kingdom only rests my lands, of honour there I hope I shall not miss. Though I on earth do live unfortunate, yet there I may attain a better state. In the meantime, accept most gracious queen this holy work, virtue presents to you, in poor apparel shaming to be seen, or once to appear in your judicial view, but that fair virtue, though in mean attire, all princes of the world do most desire. And sith all royal virtues are in you, the natural, the moral and divine, I hope how plain so ever being true you will accept even of the meanest line fair virtue yields, by whose rare gifts you are so highly graced, to exceed the fairest fair. Behold, great queen, fair Eve's apology, which I have written honour of your sex, and do refer unto your majesty, to judge of it green knot with the text, and if it do, why are poor women blamed, or by more faulty men so much defamed? And this great lady I have here attired, in all her richest ornaments of honour, that you, fair queen of all the world admired, may take the more delight to look upon her, for she must entertain you to this feast, to which your highness is the welcomed guest. For here I have prepared my partial lamb, the figure of that living sacrifice, who dying all the infernal powers or cam, that we with him to turnity might rise. This precious Passover feed upon, O queen, let your fair virtues in my glass be seen. And she that is the pattern of all beauty, the very model of your majesty, whose rarest parts enforceeth love and duty, the perfect pattern of all piety, O let my book by her fair eyes be blessed, in whose pure thoughts all innocencey rests. Then shall I think my glass a glorious sky, when two such glittering suns at once appear, the one replete with sovereign majesty, both shining brighter than the clearest clear, and both reflecting comfort to my spirits, to find their grace so much above my merits, whose untuned voice the doleful notes doth sing, of sad affliction and an humble strain, much like unto a bird that wants a wing, and cannot fly but warbles forth her pain, or he that bored from the sun's bright light wanting day's comfort doth commend the night.  And this great lady whom I love and honour, and from my very tender years have known, this holy habit still to take upon her, still to remain the same and still her own, and what our fortunes do enforce us to, she of devotion and mere zeal doth do. Which makes me think our heavy burden light, when such a one as she will help to bear it, treading the paths that make our way go right, what garment is so fair but she may wear it, especially for her that entertains a glorious queen in whom all worth remains, whose power may raise my sad dejected muse from this low mansion of a troubled mind, whose princely favour may such grace infuse that I may spread her virtues in like kind, but in the trial of my slender skill I wanted knowledge to perform my will. For even as they that do behold the stars, not with the eye of learning but of sight, to find their motions want of knowledge bars, although they see them in their brightest light, so though I see the glory of her state, it's she that must instruct and elevate. My weak distempered brain and feeble spirits, which all unlearned have adventured, this to write of Christ and of his sacred merits, desiring that this book her hands may kiss, and though I be unworthy of that grace, yet let her blessed thought this book embrace. And pardon me, fair queen, though I presume to do that which so many better can, not that I learning to myself assume or that I would compare with any man, but as they are scholars and by art do write, so nature yields my soul a sad delight. And since all arts at first from nature came, that goodly creature, mother of perfection, whom Joe's almighty hand at first did frame, taking both her and hers in his protection, why should not she now grace my barren muse, and in a woman all defect excuse? So peerless princess, humbly I desire, that your great wisdom would vouchsafe to meet all faults, and pardon if my spirits retire, leaving to aim at what they cannot hit. To write your worth, which no pen can express, were but to eclipse your fame and make it less. To the Lady Elizabeth's Grace. Most gracious lady, fair Elizabeth, whose name and virtues put us still in mind of her of whom we are deprived by death, the phoenix of her age, whose worth did bind all worthy minds so long as they have breath, in links of admiration, love, and zeal, to that dear mother of our common wheel. Even you, fair princess, next our famous queen, I do invite unto this wholesome feast, whose goodly wisdom, though your years be green, by such good works may daily be increased, though your fair eyes far better books have seen, yet being the first fruits of a woman's wit, vouchsafe your favour in accepting it. To all virtuous ladies in general. Each blessed lady that in virtue spends your precious time to beautify your souls, come wait on her whom winged fame attends, and in her hand the book where she enrolls those high deserts that majesty commends. Let this fair queen not unattended be, when in my glass she deigns herself to see. Put on your wedding garments every one, the bridegroom stays to entertain you all. Let virtue be your guide, for she alone can lead you right that you can never fall. And make no stay for fear he should be gone, but fill your lamps with oil of burning zeal, that to your faith he may his truth reveal. Let all your robes be purple scarlet white, those perfect colours purest virtue wore, come decked with lilies that did so delight to be preferred in beauty far before wise Solomon in all his glory-dite, whose royal robes did no such pleasure yield as did the beautyous lily of the field. Adorn your temples with fair Daphne's crown, the never-changing laurel always green, let constant hope all worldly pleasures drown, in wise Minerva's paths be always seen, or with bright Cynthia, though fair Venus frown, with ease up-crown the posts of every door, where sin would riot making virtue poor. And let the muses your companions be, those sacred sisters that on palace wait, whose virtues with the purest minds agree, whose godly labours do avoid the bait of worldly pleasures, living always free from sword, from violence, and from ill report, to those nine worthy's all-fair-mind resort. Anoint your hair with Aaron's precious oil, and bring your palms of victory in your hands, to overcome all thoughts that would defile the earthly circuit of your soul's fair lands. Let no dim shadows your clear eyes beguile, sweet odours, myrrh, gum, aloes, frankincense, present that king who died for your offence. Behold bright titan shining chariots' days, all decked with flowers of the freshest hue, attended on by age, hours, nights, and days, which alters not your beauty, but gives you much more, and crowns you with eternal praise. This golden chariot wherein you must ride, let simple doves and subtle serpents guide. Come swifter than the motion of the sun, to be transfigured with our loving Lord, lest glory and what grace in you begun of heavenly riches make your greatest horde. In Christ all honour, wealth, and beauties won, by whose perfections you appear more fair than Phoebus, if he seven times brighter were.  There shall you find him in those pleasant groves of sweet Elysium by the well of life, whose crystal springs do purge from worldly strife. Thus may you fly from dull and sensual earth, whereof at first your bodies form it were, that new regenerate in a second birth your blessed souls may live without all fear, being immortal, subject to no death, but in the eye of heaven so highly placed, that others by your virtues may be graced.  It is true, I must confess, O noble fame, there are a number honoured by thee, of which some few thou didst recite by name, and wield my muse they should remembered be, wishing some would their glorious trophies frame, which, if I should presume to undertake, my tired hand for very fear would quake. Only by name I will bid some of those that in true honour's seat have long been placed, yea, even such as thou hast chiefly chose, by whom my muse may be the better graced. Therefore, unwilling longer time to lose, I will invite some ladies that I know, but chiefly those as thou hast graced so. To the Lady Lucy, Countess of Bedford Be thinks I see fair virtue ready stand, to unlock the closet of your lovely breast, holding the key of knowledge in her hand, key of that cabin where yourself doth rest. To let him in, by whom her youth was blessed, the true love of your soul, your heart's delight, fairer than all the world in your clear sight. He that descended from celestial glory, to taste of our infirmities and sorrows, whose heavenly wisdom read the earthly story of frail humanity which his godhead borrows. Lo, here he comes all stuck with pale death's arrows, in whose most precious wounds your soul may read salvation, while he, dying Lord, doth bleed. You, whose clear judgment far exceeds my skill, vouch safe to entertain this dying lover, the ocean of true grace, whose streams do fill all those with joy that can his love recover. About this blessed arc bright angels hover, where your fair soul may sure and safely rest, when he is sweetly seated in your breast. There may your thoughts as servants to your heart give true attendance on this lovely guest, while he doth to that blessed bower impart flowers of fresh comforts, deck that bed of rest, with such rich beauties as may make it blessed, and you in whom all rarity is found may be with his eternal glory crowned. To the Lady Anne, Countess of Dorset. To you I dedicate this work of grace, this frame of glory which I have erected. For your fair mind I hold the fittest place where virtue should be settled and protected. If highest thoughts true honour do embrace, and holy wisdom is of them respected, then in this mirror let your fair eyes look to view your virtues in this blessed book. Blessed by our saviour's merits, not my skill, which I acknowledge to be very small, yet if the least part of his blessed will I have performed, I count I have done all. One spark of grace sufficient is to fill our lamps with oil, ready when he doth call to enter with the bridegroom to the feast, where he that is the greatest may be leased. Greatness is no sure frame to build upon, no worldly treasure can assure that place. God makes both even the cottage with the throne, all worldly honours there are counted base. Those he holds dear and reckneth as his own, whose virtuous deeds by his especial grace hath gained his love, his kingdom, and his crown, whom in the book of life he hath set down. Titles of honour which the world bestows to none but to the virtuous belong, as beautyous bowers where true worth should repose, and where his dwelling should be built most strong, but when they are bestowed upon her foes, poor virtues friends endure the greatest wrong, for they must suffer all indignity, until in heaven they better grace it be. What difference was there when the world began? Was it not virtue that distinguished all? All sprang but from one woman and one man, then how doth gentry come to rise and fall? Or who is he that very rightly can distinguish of his birth or tale at all in what mean state his ancestors have been before someone of worth did honour win? Whose successors, although they bear his name, possessing not the riches of his mind, how do we know they spring out of the same true stock of honour, being not of that kind? It is fair virtue, gets a mortal fame, till that doth all love and duty bind. If he that much enjoys doth little good, we may suppose he comes not of that blood. Nor is he fit for honour or command if base affections overrules his mind, or that self-will doth carry such a hand as worldly pleasures have the power to blind. So as he cannot see nor understand how to discharge that place to him assigned, God's stewards must for all the poor provide, if in God's house they purpose to abide. To the Lady Margaret, Countess Dowager of Cumberland Right honourable and excellent lady, I may say with St. Peter, silver nor gold have I none, but such as I have that I give you, for having neither rich pearls of India, nor fine gold of Arabia, nor diamonds of inestimable value, neither those rich treasures, aromatical gums, incense, and sweet odours which were presented by those kingly philosophers to the babe Jesus. I present unto you even our Lord Jesus himself, whose infinite value is not to be comprehended within the weak imagination or wit of man, and as St. Peter gave health to the body, so I deliver you the health of the soul, which is this most precious pearl of all perfection, this rich diamond of devotion, this perfect gold growing in the veins of that excellent earth of the most blessed paradise wherein our second Adam had his restless habitation. The sweet incense, balsams, odours, and gums that flows from the beautiful tree of life sprung from the root of Jesse, which is so super-excellent, that it giveth grace to the meanest and most unworthy hand that will undertake to write thereof. Neither can it receive any blemish thereby, for as a right diamond can lose no wit of his beauty by the black foil underneath it, neither by being placed in the dark, but retains his natural beauty and brightness shining in greater perfection than before. So this most precious diamond, for beauty and riches exceeding all the most precious diamonds and rich jewels of the world, can receive no blemish nor impeachment by my unworthy handwriting. But will with the sun retain his own brightness and most glorious luster, though never so many blind eyes look upon him. Therefore, good madam, to the most perfect eyes of your understanding, I deliver the inestimable treasure of all elected souls, to be perused at convenient times, as also the mirror of your most worthy mind, which may remain in the world many years longer than your honour or myself can live, to be light unto those that come after, desiring to tread in the narrow path of virtue that leads the way to heaven. In which way I pray God send your honour long to continue that our light may so shine before men, that they may glorify your father which is in heaven, and that I and many others may follow you in the same track. So wishing you in this world all increase of health and honour and in the world to come life everlasting, I rest. Recording by Elizabeth Klett Salve Deus Rex Uderum By Amelia Lanier Part II Sif Cynthia is ascended to that rest of endless joy and true eternity, that glorious place that cannot be expressed by any white clad in mortality, in her almighty love so highly blessed and crowned with everlasting sovereignty, where saints and angels do attend her throne, and she gives glory unto God alone. To thee great countess now I will apply my pen to write thy never-dying fame, that when to heaven thy blessed soul shall fly, these lines on earth record thy reverend name. And to this task I mean my muse to tie, though wanting skill I shall that purchase blame. But in dear lady a want of women's wit to pen thy praise, when few can equal it. And pardon, madam, though I do not write those praiseful lines of that delightful place, as you commanded me in that fair night, when shining Phoebe gave so great a grace, presenting paradise to your sweet sight, unfolding all the beauty of her face with pleasant groves, hills, walks, and stately trees, which pleasure with retired minds agrees. Whose eagle's eyes behold the glorious sun of the all-creating providence, reflecting his blessed beams on all by him begun, increasing, strengthening, guiding, and directing all worldly creatures their due course to run, unto his powerful pleasure all subjecting, and thou, dear lady, by his special grace, in these creatures dust behold his face. Whose all-reviving beauty yields such joys to thy sad soul, plunged in waves of woe, that worldly pleasures seems to thee as toys, only thou seeks eternity to know, respecting not the infinite a noise that Satan to thy well-stayed mind can show. Neither can he quench in thee the spirit of grace, nor draw thee from beholding heaven's bright face. Thy mind so perfect by thy maker-framed, no vain delights can harbour in thy heart. With his sweet love thou art so much inflamed, as if the world thou seems to have no part. So love him still, thou needs not be ashamed. Tis he that made thee what thou wert and art, tis he that dries all tears from Orphan's eyes, and hears from heaven the woeful widow's cries. Tis he that doth behold thy inward cares, and will regard the sorrows of thy soul. Tis he that guides thy feet from Satan's snares, and in his wisdom doth thy ways control. He, through afflictions, still thy mind prepares, and all thy glorious trials will enrol, that when dark days of terror shall appear, thou as the sun shall shine, or much more clear. The heavens shall perish as a garment old, or as a vesture by the maker changed, and shall depart as when a scroll is rolled, yet thou shalt from him never be estranged. When he shall come in glory that was sold for all our sins, we happily are changed, who for our faults put on his righteousness, though full off his laws we do transgress. Long mayest thou joy in this almighty love, long may thy soul be pleasing in his sight, long mayest thou have true comforts from above, long mayest thou set on him thy whole delight, and patiently endure when he doth prove, knowing that he will surely do thee right. Thy patience, faith, long suffering, and thy love, he will reward with comforts from above. With majesty and honour is he clad, and decked with lights as with a garment fair. He joys the meek and makes the mighty sad, pulls down the proud, and doth the humble rear. When he sees this bridegroom never can be sad, none lives that can his wondrous works declare, yea, look how far the east is from the west, so far he sets our sins that have transgressed. He rides upon the wings of all the winds, and spreads the heavens with his all-powerful hand. Oh, who can loose when the almighty binds? Or in his angry presence dares to stand? He searcheth out the secrets of all minds, all those that fear him shall possess the land. He is exceeding glorious to behold, ancient of times, so fair, and yet so old. He of the watery clouds his chariot frames, and makes his blessed angels powerful spirits. His ministers are fearful fiery flames, rewarding all according to their merits. The righteous foreign heritage, he claims, and registers the wrongs of humble spirits. Hills melt like wax in presence of the Lord, so do all sinners in his sight abhorred. He in the waters lays his chamber beams, and clouds of darkness compass him about.  Yet on these judgments worldlings never dreams, nor of these dangers never stands in doubt, while he shall rest within his holy hill, that lives and dies according to his will. But woe to them that double-hearted be, who with their tongues the righteous souls do slay, bending their bows to shoot at all they see, with upright hearts their maker to obey, and secretly do let their arrows flee, to wound true-hearted people any way. The Lord will root them out that speak proud things, deceitful tongues are but false slander's wings. For a word are the ungodly from their birth, no sooner born but they do go astray. The Lord will root them out from off the earth, and give them to their enemies for a prey. As venomous as serpents is their breath, with poisoned lies to hurt in what they may be innocent, who as a dove shall fly unto the Lord, that he his cause may try. The righteous Lord doth righteousness allow, his countenance will behold the thing that's just. Unto the mean he makes the mighty bow, and raiseth up the poor out of the dust. Yet makes no count to us, nor when, nor how, but pours his grace on all that puts their trust in him. And never will their hopes betray, nor let them perish, that from mercy pray. He shall within his tabernacle dwell, whose life is uncorrupt before the Lord. Who know untruths of innocence doth tell, nor wrongs his neighbor, nor indeed or word, nor in his malice seems to swell, nor wets his tongue more sharper than a sword, to wound the reputation of the just, nor seeks to lay their glory in the dust. That great Jehovah, king of heaven and earth, will rain down fire and brimstone from above, upon the wicked monsters in their birth, that storm and rage at those whom he doth love. Snares, storms, and tempests he will reign, and death, because he will himself almighty prove. And this shall be their portion they shall drink, that thinks the Lord is blind when he doth wink. Pardon, good madam, though I have digressed from what I do intend to write of thee, to set his glory forth whom thou lovest best, whose wondrous works no mortal eye can see, his special care on those whom he hath blessed from wicked worldlings, how he sets them free, and how such people he doth overthrow in all their ways, that they his power may know. The meditation of this monarch's love draws thee from caring what this world can yield, of joys and griefs both equal thou dost prove. They have no force to force thee from the field. Thy constant faith, like to the turtle dove, continues combat, and will never yield to base affliction, or proud pumps desire, that sets the weakest minds so much on fire. Thou from the court to the country art retired, leaving the world before the world leaves thee. That great enchantress of weak minds admired, whose all bewitching charms so pleasing be to worldly wantons, and too much desire of those that care not for eternity, but yield themselves as praise to lust and sin, loosing their hopes of heaven, hell pains to win. But thou, the wonder of our wanton age, leaves all delight to serve a heavenly king. Who is more wise, or who can be more sage than she that doth affection subject bring, not forcing for the world or Satan's rage, but shrouding under the Almighty's wings, spending her years, months, days, minutes, hours, and doing service to the heavenly powers? Thou, fair example, live without compare, with honors triumphs seated in thy breast. Pale envy never can thy name impair, when in thy heart thou harbors such a guest. Malice must live forever in despair. There's no revenge where virtue still doth rest. All hearts must needs do homage unto thee, in whom all eyes such rare perfection see. That outward beauty which the world commends, is not the subject I will write upon. Whose date expired that tyrant time soon ends, those gaudy colors soon are spent and gone. But those fair virtues which on thee attends are always fresh, they never are but one. They make thy beauty fair to behold, than was that queen for whom proud Troy was sold. As for those matchless colors red and white, or perfect features in a fading face, or due proportion pleasing to the sight, all these do draw but dangers and disgrace. A mind enriched with virtue shines more bright, adds everlasting beauty, gives true grace, frames an immortal goddess on the earth, who though she dies, yet fame gives her new birth. That pride of nature which adorns the fair, like blazing comets to allure all eyes, is but the thread that weaves their web of care, who glories most where most their danger lies, for greatest perils to attend the fair, when men do seek attempt, plot, and devise, how they may overthrow the chastest dame, whose beauty is the white whereat they aim. It was beauty bred in Troy the ten-year strife, and carried Helen from her lawful lord. It was beauty made chaste Lucrice lose her life, for which proud Tarquin's fact was so abhorred. Beauty the cause Antonius wronged his wife, which could not be decided but by sword. Great Cleopatra's beauty and defect did work Octavia's wrongs and his neglects. What fruit did yield that fair forbidden tree, but blood, dishonour, infamy, and shame? Poor blinded queen, couldst thou know better see but entertain disgrace instead of fame? Do these designs with majesty agree? To stain thy blood and blot thy royal name. That heart that gave consent unto this ill did give consent that thou thyself shouldst kill. Fair Rosamond, the wonder of her time, had been much fair had she been not fair. Beauty betrayed her thoughts aloft to climb, to build strong castles in uncertain air. Where the infection of a wanton crime did work her fall, first poison then despair, with double death did kill her perjured soul, when heavenly justice did her sin control. Holy Matilda in a hapless hour was born to sorrow and to discontent. Beauty the cause that turned her sweet to sour, while chastity fought folly to prevent. Lustful King John refused did use his power by fire and sword to compass his content, but friends disgrace nor fathers banishment nor death itself could purchase her consent. Here beauty in the height of all perfection crowned this fair creature's everlasting fame, whose noble mind did scorn the base subjection of fears or favours to impair her name. By heavenly grace she had such true direction to die with honour, not to live in shame, and drink that poison with a cheerful heart that could all heavenly grace to her impart. This grace, great lady, doth possess thy soul, and makes thee pleasing in thy maker's sight. This grace doth all imperfect thoughts control, directing thee to serve thy God aright, still reckoning him, the husband of thy soul, which is most precious in his glorious sight, because the world's delight she doth deny for him, who for her sake vowed safe to die.  These high deserts invites my lowly muse to write of him, and pardon crave of thee, for time so spent I need make no excuse, knowing it doth with thy fair mind agree so well, as thou no labour wilt refuse, that to thy holy love may pleasing be. With death and passion I desire to write, and thee to read, the blessed soul's delight. But my dear muse, now wither wouldst thou fly, above the pitch of thy appointed strain, with Icarus thou seekest now to try, not wax and wings, but thy poor barren brain, which far too weak these silly lines describe, yet cannot this thy forward mind restrain, but thy poor infant verse must soar aloft, not fearing threatening dangers happening aloft. Think when the eye of wisdom shall discover thy weakling muse to fly, that scarce could creep, and in the air above the clouds to hover, when better to were mewed up and fast asleep. They'll think with fate in thou can't snare a cover, but helpless with that poor young lad to weep, the little world of thy weak wit on fire, where thou wilt perish in thine own desire. But yet the weaker thou dost seem to be in sex or sense, the more his glory shines, that doth infuse such powerful grace in thee, to show thy love in these few humble lines, the widow's might with this may well agree, her little all more worth than golden minds, being more dear to our loving Lord, than all the wealth that kingdoms could afford. Therefore I humbly for his grace will pray, that he will give me power and strength to write, that what I have begun so end I may, as his great glory may appear more bright. Yea, in these lines I may no further stray than his most holy spirit shall give me light, that blind weakness be not overbold, the manner of his passion to unfold. In other phrases, then, may well agree with his pure doctrine and most holy writ, that heaven's clear eye and all the world may see, I seek his glory, rather than to get the vulgar's breath the seed of vanity, nor fame's loud trumpet care I to admit, but rather strive in plainest words to show, the matter which I seek to undergo. A matter far beyond my barren skill, to show with any life this map of death, this story that whole worlds with books would fill, in these few lines will put me out of breath to run so swiftly up this mighty hill, I may be hold'd with the eye of faith, but to present this pure unspotted lamb I must confess I far unworthy am. Yet if he pleaseth to illuminate my spirit and give me wisdom from his holy hill, that I may write part of his glorious merit, if he vouchsafe to guide my hand and quill, to show his death by which we do inherit those endless joys that all our hearts do fill, then will I tell of that sad, black-faced night, whose morning mantle covered holy light. End of Part 2 That very night our Saviour was betrayed, o night, exceeding all the nights of sorrow when our most blessed Lord, although dismayed, yet would not he one minute's respite borrow, but to mount olives went, though so afraid, to welcome night and entertain the morrow. And as he oft unto that place did go, so did he now, to meet his long-nourced woe. He told his dear disciples that they all should be offended by him that self-night. His grief was great, and theirs could not be small. To part from him who was their sole delight, St. Peter thought his faith could never fall. No moat could happen in so clear a sight, which made him say, though all men were offended, yet would he never, though his life were ended. But his dear Lord made answer, that before the clock did crow, he should deny him thrice. This could not choose but grieve him very sore, that his hot love should prove more cold than ice. Denying him, he did so much adore. No imperfection in himself he spies, but say it again, with him he'll surely die, rather than his dear master once deny. And all the rest did likewise say the same of his disciples at that instant time. But yet, poor Peter, he was most to blame, that thought above them all, by faith to climb, his forward speech inflicted sin and shame, when wisdom's eye did look and check his crime. Who did foresee and told him it before, yet would he needs avert more and more? Now went our Lord unto that holy place, sweet Gethsemane hallowed by his presence, that blessed garden, which did now embrace his holy corpse, yet could make no defence against those vipers, objects of disgrace, which sought that pure eternal love to quench. Here his disciples willed he to stay, whilst he went further, where he meant to pray. None were admitted with their Lord to go, but Peter, and the sons of Zebedus. To him good Jesus opened all his woe. He gave them leave his sorrows to discuss. His deepest griefs he did not scorn to show these three dear friends, so much he didn't trust. Being sorrowful and overcharged with grief, he told them, yet looked for no relief. Sweet Lord, how could thou thus to flesh and blood communicate thy grief, tell of thy woes? Thou knewst they had no power to do thee good, but were the cause thou must endure these blows, being the scorpion's bread in Adam's mud, whose poisoned sins did work among thy foes, to re-or-charge thy overburdened soul, although the sorrows now they do condole. Yet didst thou tell them of thy troubled state, of thy soul's heaviness unto the death, so full of love, so free were't thou from hate, to bid them stay, whose sins did stop thy breath? When thou wert entering at so straight a gate, yea, entering even into the door of death, thou bits them tarry there, and watch with thee, who from thy precious bloodshed were not free. Bidding them tarry, thou didst further go, to meet affliction in such graceful sort, as might move pity both in friend and foe, thy sorrow such as none could them comport. Such great endurements who did ever know when to the Almighty thou did make resort, and falling on thy face didst humbly pray, if toer his will that cup might pass away. Saying, nor my will but thy will, Lord, be done, when as thou praised an angel did appear from heaven to comfort thee, God's only Son, that thou thy sufferings might the better bear. Being in agony thy glass near run, thou praised more earnestly in so great fear that precious sweat came trickling to the ground, like drops of blood thy senses too confound. Lo, hear his will, not thy will, Lord, was done, and thou content to undergo all pains, sweet Lamb of God, his dear beloved Son, by this great purchase what to thee remains? Of heaven and earth thou hast a kingdom won, thy glory being equal with thy gains, in ratifying God's promise on the earth, made many hundred years before thy birth. But now returning to thy sleeping friends, that could not watch one hour for love of thee, even those three friends which on thy grace depends, yet shut those eyes that should their maker see. What colour, what excuse, or what amends from thy displeasure now can set them free, yet thy pure piety bids them watch and pray, lest in temptation they be led away. Although the spirit was willing to obey yet what great weakness in the flesh was found, they slept in ease whilst thou in pain didst pray. Lo, they sleep and thou in sorrow drowned, yet God's right hand was unto thee a stay, when horror, grief, and sorrow did abound, his angel did appear from heaven to thee, to yield thee comfort in extremity. But what could comfort them thy troubled mind, when heaven and earth were both against thee bent, and thou no hope, no ease, no rest couldst find, but must restore that life which was but lent. Was ever creature in the world so kind, but he that from eternity was sent, to satisfy for many worlds of sin whose matchless torments did but then begin. If one man's sin doth challenge death and hell with all the torments that belong there too, if for one sin such plagues on David fell as grieved him and his seed undo, if Solomon for that he did not well falling from grace did lose his kingdom too, ten tribes being taken from his willful son, and sin the cause that they were all undone. What could thy innocencey now expect, when all the sins that ever were committed were laid to thee, whom no man could detect? Yet far thou wart of man from being pitied, the judge so just could yield thee no respect, nor would one jot of penance be remitted, but greater horror to thy soul must rise. Then heart can think, or any wit devise.  Thou now must leave those friends thou helped so dear, yea, those disciples who did most adore thee, yet in thy countenance doth no wrath appear, although betrayed to those that did abhor thee. Thou didst vouchsafe to visit them again, who had no apprehension of thy pain. Their eyes were heavy and their hearts asleep, nor knew they well what answer than to make thee, yet thou as watchmen haths to care to keep those few from sin that shortly would forsake thee, but now thou bits them henceforth rest and sleep, thy hours come, and they at hand to take thee.  Lo, here thy great humility was found, being king of heaven and monarch of the earth, yet well content to have thy glory drowned, by being counted of so mean a birth. Grace, love, and mercy did so much abound, though entertains the cross even to the death, and names thyself the son of man to be, to purge our pride by thy humility. But now thy friends whom thou didst call to go, heavy spectators of thy hapless case, see thy betrayer whom too well they know, one of the twelve now object of disgrace, a trothless traitor and a mortal foe, with feigned kindness seeks thee to embrace, and gives a kiss whereby he may deceive thee, that in the hands of sinners he might leave thee. Now muster forth with swords, with staves, with bills, high priests and scribes, and elders of the land, seeking by force to have their wicked wills, which thou didst never purpose to withstand. Now thou makest haste unto the worst of ills, and who they seek thou gently dust demand. This didst thou, Lord, to maize these fools the more, to inquire of that thou newest so well before. When low these monsters did not shame to tell, his name they sought, and found, yet could not know, Jesus of Nazareth at whose feet they fell. When heavenly wisdom did descend so low to speak to them, they knew they did not well. Their great amazement made them backward go. Nay, though he said unto them, I am he, they could not know him whom their eyes did see. How blind were they could not discern the light, how dull, if not to understand the truth, how weak, if meekness overcame their might, how stony-hearted, if not moved, to Ruth, how void of pity, and how full of spite, against him that was the Lord of light and truth. Here insolent boldness checked by love and grace, retires, and falls before our maker's face. For when he spake to this accursed crew, and mildly made them know that it was he, presents himself that they might take a view, and what they doubted they might clearly see, name more, to reassure that it was true, he said, I say unto you, I am he. If him they sought, he's willing to obey, only desires the rest might go their way. Thus, with a heart prepared to endure the greatest wrongs impiety could devise, he was content to stoop unto their lure, although his greatness might do otherwise. Here grace was seized on with hands impure, and virtue now must be suppressed by vice. Pure innocence he made of prey to sin, thus did his torments and our joys begin. Here fair obedience shined in his breast, and it suppressed all fear of future pain. Love was his leader unto this unrest, whilst righteousness doth carry up his train. Mercy made way to make us piley blessed, when patience beat down sorrow, fear, and pain. Justice sat looking with an angry brow on blessed misery appearing now. More glorious than all the conquerors that ever lived within this earthly round, more powerful than all kings or governors than ever yet within this world were found, more valiant than the greatest soldiers that ever fought to have their glory crowned, for which of them that ever yet took breath sought to endure the doom of heaven and earth, but our sweet Saviour whom these Jews did name, yet could their learned ignorance apprehend no light of grace to free themselves from blame. Zeal laws religion, now they do pretend against the truth, untruths they seek to frame. Now all their powers, their wits, their strengths they bend against one silly, weak, unarmored man, no resistance makes, though much he can, to free himself from these unlearned men, who called him Saviour in his blessed name, yet far from knowing him their Saviour then, that came to save both them and theirs from blame. Though they retire and fall, they come again to make a sure purchase of their shame. With lights and torches now they find the way to take the shepherd whilst the sheep doth stray. Why should unlawful actions use the light? Unity and darkness seeks to dwell.  Satan comes armed with all the powers of spite, heartens his champions, makes them rude and fell, like ravning wolves to shed his guiltless blood, who thought no harm but died to do them good. Here falsehood bears the show of formal right, base treachery hath got a guard of men. Tyranny attends with all his strength and might to lead the silly lamb to Lion's den. Yet he unmoved in this most wretched plight goes on to meet them, knows the hour and when. The power of darkness must express God's ire, therefore to save these few was his desire. These few that wait on poverty and shame and offer to be shares in his ills, these few that will be spreaders of his fame he will not leave to tyrants wicked wills, but still desires to free them from all blame. Yet fear goes forward, anger, patience kills. A saint is moved to revenge a wrong, and mildness doth what doth to wrath belong. For Peter grieved at what might then befall, yet knew not what to do nor what to think, thought something must be done. Now, if at all, to free his master that he might not drink this poisoned draft far bitterer than Gaul, for now he sees him at the very brink of grisly death, who begins to show his face, clad in all colours of a deep disgrace. And now those hands that never used to fight or draw a weapon in his own defence, too forward is to do his master right, since of his wrongs he feels too true a sense.  So much he hates revenge, so far from hate, that he vouchsafes to heal whom thou dost wound. His paths are peace, with none he holds debate. His patience stands upon so sure a ground to counsel thee, although it comes too late. Nay, to hispose his mercies so abound, that he in pity doth thy will restrain, heals the hurt, and takes away the pain. For willingly he will endure this wrong, although his prayers might have obtained such grace, as to dissolve their plot, though near so strong, and bring these wicked actors in worse case than Egypt's king on whom God's plagues did throng. But that foregoing scriptures must take place, if God by prayers had an army sent of powerful angels, who could them prevent? Yet mighty Jesus meekly asked, Why they with swords and staves do come as to a thief? He, teaching in the temple day by day, none did offend, or give him cause of grief. Now all are forward, glad is he that may give most offence, and yield him least relief. His hateful foes are ready now to take him, and all his dear disciples do forsake him. Those dear disciples that he most did love, and were attendant at his beck and call, when trial of affliction came to prove, they first left him, who now must leave them all. For they were earth, and he came from above, which made them apt to fly and fit to fall. Though they protest, they never will forsake him. They do like men, when dangers overtake them. And he alone is bound to lose us all, whom with unhallowed hands they led along to wicked Caiaphas in the judgment hall, whose studies only hope to do him wrong. High priests and elders, people great and small, with all reproachful words about him throng. False witnesses are now called in a pace, whose trotless tongues must make pale death embrace the beauty of the world, heaven's chiefest glory, the mirror of martyrs, crown of holy saints, love of the almighty, blessed angel's story, water of life which none that drinks it faints, guide of the just where all our light we borrow, mercy of mercies, hearer of complaints, triumph over death, ransomer of sin, falsely accused, now his pains begin. Their tongues do serve him as a passing bell, for what they say is certainly believed. So sound a tale unto the judge they tell, that he of life must shortly be bereaved. Their share of heaven they do not care to sell, so his afflicted heart be thoroughly grieved. But tell his words, though far from his intent, and what his speeches were, not what he meant. That he God's holy temple could destroy, and in three days could build it up again. This seemed to them a vain and idle toy, it would not sink into their sinful brain. Christ's blessed body, all true Christians' joy, should die and in three days revive again. This did the Lord of heaven and earth endure, unjustly to be charged by tongues impure. And now they all do give attentive ear to hear the answer which he will not make. The people wonder how he can forbear, and these great wrongs so patiently can take. But yet he answers not, nor doth he care, much more he will endure for our sake, nor can their wisdoms any way discover who he should be that proved so true a lover. To entertain the sharpest pangs of death and fight a combat in the depth of hell, for wretched worldlings made of dust and earth, whose hardened hearts with pride and malice swell, in midst of bloody sweat and dying breath, he had compassion on these tyrants fell, and purchased them a place in heaven forever, when they his soul and body sought to sever. Sin's ugly mists so blinded had their eyes, that at noon days they could discern no light. These were those fools that thought themselves so wise, the Jewish wolves that did our saviour bite. For now they use all means they can devise to beat down truth and go against all right. Yea, now they take God's holy name in vain to know the truth which truth they do profane. The chiefest hellhounds of this hateful crew rose up to ask what answer he could make against those false accusers in his view, that by his speech they might advantage take. He held his peace, yet knew they said not true. No answer would his holy wisdom make, till he was charged in his glorious name, whose pleasure it was he should endure this shame. Then with so mild a majesty he spake, as they might easily know from whence he came, his harmless tongue doth no exceptions take, nor priests nor people means he now to blame, but answers folly for true wisdom's sake, being charged deeply by his powerful name. Tell of Christ the Son of God he be, who for our sins must die to set us free. To thee, O Caiaphas, doth he answer give, that thou hast said what thou desirest to know, and yet thy malice will not let him live, so much thou art unto thyself a foe. He speaketh truth, but thou wilt not believe, nor can't thou apprehend it to be so, though he expresses glory unto thee, thy hourly eyes are blind and cannot see. Thou rentst thy clothes instead of thy false heart, and on the guiltless layest thy guilty crime. For thou blasphemest, and he must feel the smart, to sentence death thou thinkst it now high time. No witness now thou needst for this foul part, thou to the height of wickedness canst climb, and give offence to the rudor sort to make afflictions, sorrows, follies, sport. Now, when the dawn of day begins to appear, and all your wicked counsels have an end, to end his life that holds you all so dear, for to that purpose did your studies bend. Proud, Pontius Pilate must the matter here, to your untruths his ears he now must lend.  Which, when that wicked Cateph did perceive by whose lewd means he came to this distress, he brought the price of blood he did receive, thinking thereby to make his fault seem less. And with these priests and elders did it leave, confessed his fault wherein he did transgress, but when he saw repentance unrespected, he hanged himself, of God and man rejected. By this example what can be expected from wicked man which on the earth doth live, but faithless dealing, fear of God neglected, who for their private gain cares not to sell the innocent blood of God's most dear elected. As did that Cateph wretch now damned in hell, if in Christ's school he took so great a fall, what will they do that come there not at all? Now Pontius Pilate is to judge the cause of faultless Jesus who before him stands, who neither hath offended prince nor laws, although he now be brought in woeful bands. O noble governor, make thou yet a pause, do not an innocent blood imbrew thy hands, but hear the words of thy most worthy wife, who sends to thee to beg her saviour's life. Let barbarous cruelty far depart from thee, and in true justice take afflictions part. Open thine eyes that thou the truth mayst see. Do not the thing that goes against thy heart. Condemn not him that must thy saviour be, but view his holy life, his good dessert. Let not us women glory in men's fall, who had power given to overrule us all. End of part three Part four of Salve Deus Rex Uderum This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elizabeth Clett. Salve Deus Rex Uderum. By Amelia Lanier. Part four Till now your indiscretion sets us free and makes our former fault much less appear. Our mother Eve, who tasted of the tree, giving to Adam what she held most dear, was simply good, and had no power to see the aftercoming harm did not appear, the subtle serpent that our sex betrayed before our fall so sure a plot had laid. That undiscerning ignorance perceived no guile or craft that was by him intended, for had she known of what we were bereaved, to his request she had not condescended. But she, poor soul, by cunning was deceived, no hurt therein her harmless heart intended, for she alleged God's word which he denies, that they should die but even as gods be wise. But surely Adam cannot be excused, her fault, though great, yet he was most to blame, what weakness offered strength might have refused. Being lord of all the greater was his shame, although the serpent's craft had her abused, God's holy word ought all his actions frame, for he was lord and king of all the earth, before poor Eve had either life or breath. Who, being framed by God's eternal hand, the perfectest man that ever breathed on earth, and from God's mouth received that straight command the breach whereof he knew was present death, yea, having power to rule both sea and land, yet, with one apple, one to lose that breath which God hath breathed in his beauteous face, bringing us all in danger and disgrace. And then, to lay the fault on patience back, that we, poor women, must endure at all, we know right well he did discretion lack, being not persuaded there unto at all. If Eve did err it was for knowledge's sake, the fruit being fair persuaded him to fall, no subtle serpent's falsehood did betray him, if he would eat it, who had power to stay him? Not Eve, whose fault was only too much love, which made her give this present to her dear, that which she tasted he likewise might prove, whereby his knowledge might become more clear. He never sought her weakness to reprove, with those sharp words which he of God did hear, yet men will boast of knowledge, which he took from Eve's fair hand as from a learned book. If any evil did in her remain, being made of him, he was the ground of all. If one of many worlds could lay a stain upon our sex, and work so great a fall to wretched man by Satan's subtle train, what will so foul a fault amongst you all? Her weakness did the serpent's word obey, but you in malice God's dear son betray. Whom, if unjustly you condemn to die, her sin was small to what you do commit. All mortal sins that do for vengeance cry are not to be compared unto it.  Then let us have our liberty again, and challenge to yourselves no sovereignty. You came not in the world without our pain. Make that a bar against your cruelty.  If one weak woman simply offend, this sin of yours hath no excuse nor end. To which, poor souls, we never gave consent, witness thy wife, O pilot, speaks for all. Who did but dream, and yet a message sent, that thou shouldst have nothing to do at all with that just man, which if thy heart relent, why wilt thou be a reprobate with Saul? To seek the death of him that is so good, for thy soul's health to shed his dearest blood. Yea, so thou mayst these sinful people please, thou art content against all truth and right. To seal this act that may procure thine ease, with blood, with wrong, with tyranny and might, the multitude thou seeks to appease by based ejection of this heavenly light, demanding which of these that thou shouldst lose, whether the thief or Christ, king of the Jews. Base Barabbas the thief they all desire, and thou more base than he performs their will, yet when thy thoughts back to themselves retire, thou art unwilling to commit this ill. O, that thou couldst unto such grace aspire, that thy polluted lips might never kill that honour, which right judgment ever graces, to purchase shame, which all true worth defaces. Art thou a judge, and asketh what to do with one in whom no fault there can be found? The death of Christ wilt thou consent unto, finding no cause, no reason nor no ground? Shall he be scurred and crucified too, and must his miseries by these means abound? Yet not ashamed to ask what he hath done, when thine own conscience seeks this sin to shun. Three times thou asketh, what evil hath he done? And sayest thou feinst in him no cause of death, yet wilt thou chasten God's beloved son? Although to thee no word of ill he saith, for wrath must end, what malice hath begun?  Yet, pilot, this can yield thee no content, to exercise thine own authority, but unto Herod he must needs be sent, to reconcile thyself by tyranny. Was this the greatest good injustice meant, when thou perceived no fault in him to be? If thou must make thy peace by virtue's fall, much better it were not to be friends at all. Yet neither thy stern brow, nor his great place, can draw an answer from the holy one. His false accusers, nor his great disgrace, nor Herod's scoffs to him they are all one. He neither cares, nor fears his own ill case, though being despised and mocked of every one. King Herod's gladness gives him little ease, neither his anger seeks he to appease. Yet this is strange, that base impiety should yield those robes of honour which were due, pure white to show his great integrity, his innocencey that all the world might view, perfection's height and lowest penury, such glorious poverty as they never knew, purple and scarlet well might him beseem, whose precious blood must all the world redeem. And that imperial crown of thorns he wore, was much more precious than the diadem of any king that ever lived before, or since his time their honours but a dream, to his eternal glory being so poor, to make a purchase of that heavenly realm, where God with all his angels lives in peace. No griefs, no sorrows, but all joys increase. Those royal robes which they in scorn did give, to make him odious to the common sort, yield light of grace to those whose soul shall live within the harbour of this heavenly port. Much do they joy, and much more do they grieve. His death, their life, should make his foes such sport.  Three fears at once possessed Pilate's heart. The first, Christ's innocencey, which so plain appears. The next, that he which now must feel this smart if God's dear son for anything he hears, but that which proved the deepest wounding dart, is people's threatenings which he so much fears. That he to Caesar could not be a friend, unless he sent sweet Jesus to his end. Now, Pilate, thou art proved a painted wall, a golden sepulcher with rotten bones, from right to wrong, from equity to fall. If none abrade thee, yet the very stones will rise against thee, and in question call his blood, his tears, his sighs, his bitter groans. All these will witness at the latter day, when water cannot wash thy sin away. Canst thou be innocent, that against all right will yield to what thy conscience doth withstand? Being a man of knowledge, power and might, to let the wicked carry such a hand before thy face to blindfold heaven's bright light, and thou to yield to what they did demand? Washing thy hands thy conscience cannot clear, but to all worlds this stain must needs appear.  And now this long expected hour draws near, when blessed saints with angels do condol, his holy march, soft pace, and heavy cheer, in humble sort yield his glorious soul, by his deserts the foulest sins to clear, and in the eternal Book of Heaven to enrol a satisfaction till the general doom of all sins past, and all that are to come. They that had seen this pitiful procession, from Pilate's palace to Mount Calvary, might think he answered for some great transgression, being an odious sort condemned to die, he plainly showed that his own profession was virtue, patience, grace, love, piety, and how by suffering he could conquer more than all the kings that ever lived before. First went the crier with open mouth proclaiming the heavy sentence of iniquity, the hangman next by his base office claiming his right in hell where sinners never die, carrying the nails the people still blaspheming their maker using all impiety, the thieves attending him on either side, the sergeants watching while the women cried. The ice-happy women that obtained such grace from him whose worth the world could not contain, immediately to turn about his face, as not remembering his great grief and pain, to comfort you whose tears poured forth a pace on Flora's banks like showers of April rain, your cries enforced mercy, grace, and love from him whom greatest princes could not move. To speak one word, nor once to lift his eyes unto proud Pilate, no nor hered king by all the questions that they could devise could make him answer to no manner of thing. Yet these poor women, by their piteous cries did move their lord, their lover, and their king to take compassion, turn about, and speak to them whose hearts were now ready to break. Most blessed daughters of Jerusalem, who found such favour in your Saviour's sight, to turn his face when you did pity him, your tearful eyes beheld his eyes more bright, your faith and love unto such grace did climb, to have reflection from this heavenly light.  When spiteful men with torments to depress the afflicted body of this innocent dove, poor women, seeing how much they did transgress by tears, by sighs, by cries in treat, nay prove what may be done among the thickest press. They labour still these tyrant's hearts to move, in pity and compassion to forbear their whipping, spurning, tearing of his hair. But all in vain, their malice hath no end, their hearts more hard than flint or marble stone. Now to his grief his greatness they attend, when he, God knows, had rather be alone. They are his guard, yet seek all means to fend. Well may he grieve, well may he sigh and groan, under the burden of a heavy cross, he faintly goes to make their gain, his loss. His woeful mother waiting on her son, all comfortless in depth of sorrow drowned. Her griefs extreme, although but new begun, to see his bleeding body off she swooned. How could she choose but think herself undone, he dying with whose glory she was crowned? None ever lost so great a loss as she, being son and father of eternity. Her tears did wash away his precious blood, that sinners might not tread in under feet to worship him, and that it did her good upon her knees, although in open street, knowing he was the Jesse flower and bud, that must be gathered when it smelled most sweet.  Most blessed virgin, in whose faultless fruit all nations of the earth must needs rejoice. No creature having sense, though near so brute but joys and trembles when they hear his voice. His wisdom strikes the wisest person's mute, fair chosen vessel, happy in his choice. Dear mother of our Lord, whose reverend name all people blessed call and spread thy fame. For the almighty magnified thee, and looked down upon thy mean estate, thy lowly mind and unstained chastity, did plead for love at great Jehovah's gate, whose sending swift-winged Gabriel unto thee, his holy will and pleasure to relate, to thee most beautyous queen of womankind, the angel did unfold his maker's mind. He thus began, Hail Mary, full of grace, thou freely art beloved of the Lord, he is with thee, behold thy happy case, what endless comfort did these words afford to thee that sauced an angel in the place proclaim thy virtue's worth, and to record thee blessed among women, that thy praise should last so many worlds beyond thy days. Lo! this high measure to thy troubled spirit he doth deliver in the plainest sense, says, thou shouldst bear a son that shall inherit his father David's throne, free from offence, calls him that holy thing, by whose pure merit we must be saved, tells what he is of wence, his worth, his greatness, what his name must be, who should be called son of the most high. He cheers thy troubled soul, bids thee not fear, when thy pure thoughts could hardly apprehend the salutation when he did appear, nor could thou judge where too these words did tend, his pure aspect did move thy modest cheer to muse, yet joy that God vouchsafe to send his glorious angel, who did thee assure to bear a child, although a virgin pure. Nay more, thy son should rule and reign for ever, yea, of his kingdom there should be no end, over the house of Jacob, heaven's great giver would give him power, and to that end did send his faithful servant Gabriel to deliver to thy chaste cares no word that might offend, but that this blessed infant born of thee, thy son, the only son of God, should be. When, on the knees of thy submissive heart, thou humbly didst demand, how that should be? Thy virgin thoughts did think none could impart this great good happened blessing unto thee, far from the desire of any man thou art, knowing not one thou art from all men free, when he to answer this thy chaste desire gives thee more cause to wonder and admire, that thou a blessed virgin shouldst remain, yea, that the holy ghost should come on thee a maiden mother, subject to no pain, for highest power should overshadow thee, could thy fair eyes from tears of joy refrain when God looked down upon thy poor degree, making thee servant, mother, wife, and nurse to heaven's bright king, that freed us from the curse. Thus being crowned with glory from above, grace and perfection, resting in thy breast, thy humble answer doth approve thy love, and all these sayings in thy heart doth rest, thy child a lamb, and thou a turtle dove, above all other women highly blessed, to find such favour in his glorious sight, in whom thy heart and soul do most delight. What wonder in the world more strange could seem, than that a virgin should conceive and bear within her womb a son, that should redeem all nations on the earth, and should repair our old decays, who in such high esteem should prize all mortals, living in his fear, as not to shun death, poverty, and shame, to save their souls and spread his glorious name, and partly to fulfil his father's pleasure, whose powerful hand allows it not so strange, if he vouchsafe the riches of his treasure, pure righteousness to take such ill exchange, on all iniquity to make a seizure, giving his snow-white weed for hours and change, our mortal garments in scarlet dye, to base a robe for immortality. Most happy news, that ever yet was brought, when poverty and riches met together. The wealth of heaven in our frail clothing wrought salvation by his happy coming hither, mighty messiahs, whose so dearly bought us slaves to sin, far lighter than a feather, tossed to and fro with every wicked wind, the world the flesh or devil gives to blind. Who on his shoulders are black sins doth bear, to that most blessed yet a cursed cross, for fastening them he ridds us of our fear. Yea, for our gain he is content with loss, our ragged clothing scorns he not to wear, though foul, rent, torn, disgraceful, rough, and gross, spun by that monster sin, and weaved by shame, which grace itself disgraced with impure blame. How can't thou choose, fair virgin, then but mourn, when this sweet offspring of thy body dies, when thy fair eyes beholds his body torn, the people's fury hears the women's cries, his holy name profaned.  Now Simon of Sirony passeth them by, whom they compel sweet Jesus cross to bear to Golgotha.  There must our Lord for present death prepare. This sacred blood must grace that loathsome field, to purge more filth than that foul place could yield. For now arrived unto this hateful place, in which his cross erected needles must be, false hearts and willing hands come on apace, all pressed to ill and all desire to see, graceless themselves still seeking to disgrace, bidding him if the Son of God he be to save himself if he could others save, with all the probrious words that might deprave. His harmless hands unto the cross they nailed, and feet that never trod in sinner's trace. Between two thieves, unpittied, unbewailed, save of some few possessors of his grace, with sharpest pangs and terrors thus the paled, stern death makes way that life might give him place.   Anguish and pain do all his senses drown, while they his holy garments do divide. His bowels dry, his heart full fraught with grief, crying to him that yields him no relief. This with the eye of faith thou mayst behold, dear spouse of Christ, and more than I can write, and hear both grief and joy thou mayst unfold, to view thy love in this most heavy plight.   No joy, grief, pain, life, death was like to this, whose infinite dolors wrought eternal bliss. What creature on the earth did then remain, on whom the horror of this shameful deed did not inflict some violent touch or strain, to see the Lord of all the world to bleed? His dying breath did rend huge rocks entwain, the heavens betook them to their morning weed, the sun grew dark and scorned to give them light, who durst eclipse a glory far more bright. The moon and stars did hide themselves for shame, the earth did tremble in her loyal fear, the temple veil did rent to spread his fame, the monuments did open everywhere, dead saints did rise forth of their graves, and came to diverse people that remained there within that holy city, whose offence did put their maker to this large expense. Things reasonable and reasonless possessed the terrible impression of this fact, for his oppression made them all oppressed, when with his blood he sealed so fair an act, in restless misery to procure our rest, his glorious deeds that dreadful prisons sacked. When death, hell, devils, using all their power, were overcome in that most blessed hour.  Oh, wonder, more than man can comprehend, our joy and grief both at one instant framed, compounded, contraries contend each to exceed, yet neither to be blamed. Our grief to see our Saviour's wretched end, our joy to know both death and hell he tamed, that we may say, O death, where is thy sting? Hell yield thy victory to thy conquering king. Ken Stoney Hart's refrain from shedding tears to view the life and death of this sweet saint, his austere course in young and tender years, when great endurements could not make him faint, his wants, his pains, his torments, and his fears, all which he undertook without constraint, to show that infinite goodness must restore, what infinite justice looked for, and more. Yet had he been but of mean degree, his sufferings had been small to what they were. Mean minds will show of what mean moulds they be, small griefs seem great, yet you stuth make them bear. But, ah, it is hard to stir a sturdy tree. Great dangers hardly puts great minds in fear. They will conceal their griefs which might he grow in their stout heart they overflow. If then an earthly prince may ill endure the least of those afflictions which he bear, how could this all-commanding king procure such grievous torments with his mind to square, legions of angels being at his lure? He might have lived in pleasure without care. None can conceive the bitter pains he felt when God and man must suffer without guilt. Take all the sufferings thoughts can think upon, in every man that this huge world hath bred. Let all those pains and sufferings meet in one, it are they not a might to that he did endure for us?  Lo! here was glory, misery, life and death, and union of contraries did accord. Gladness and sadness here had one birth, this wonder wrought the passion of our Lord. He suffering for all the sins of the earth, no satisfaction could the world afford. But this rich jewel which from God was sent, to call all those that would in time repent. Which I present, dear lady, to your view, upon the cross deprived of life or breath, to judge if ever lover were so true, to yield himself unto such shameful death, now blessed Joseph doth both beg and sue, to have his body who possessed his faith, and thinks if he this small request obtains, he wins more wealth than in the world remains. Thus honorable Joseph is possessed of what his heart and soul so much desired, and now he goes to give that body rest, that all his life with griefs and pains was tired. He finds a tomb, a tomb most rarely blessed, in which was never creature yet interred. There this most precious body he encloses, embalmed and decked with lilies and with roses. Lo! here the beauty of heaven and earth is laid, the purest colors underneath the sun. But in this place he cannot long be stayed. Glory must end what horror hath begun. For he the fury of the heavens obeyed, and now he must possess what he hath won. The fairies do with precious balms attend, but being come, they find it to no end. For he is risen from death to eternal life, and now those precious ointments he desires are brought unto him by his faithful wife, the Holy Church, who in these rich attires of patience, love, longsuffering, void of strife, humbly presents these ointments he requires, the oils of mercy, charity and faith. She only gives that which no other hath. These precious balms do heal his grievous wounds, and water of compunction washeth clean the sores of sinners, which in our souls abounds. So fair no scar is ever seen, yet all the glory unto Christ redounds. His precious blood is that which must redeem, those well may make us lovely in his sight, but cannot save without his powerful might. This is that bridegroom that appears so fair, so sweet, so lovely in his spouse's sight, that unto snow we may his face compare, his cheeks like scarlet, and his eyes so bright as purest doves that in the rivers are, washed with milk, to give them more delight. His head is likened to the finest gold, his curled locks so beautyous to behold. Black as a raven in her blackest hue, his lips like scarlet threads, yet much more sweet than is the sweetest honey-dropping dew. Or honeycombs, where all the bees do meet. May he is constant, and his words are true, his cheeks are beds of spices, flowers sweet, his lips like lilies, dropping down pure mirth, whose love, before all worlds, we do prefer. Ah, give me leave, good lady, now to leave this task of beauty which I took in hand. I cannot wait so deep. I may deceive myself before I can attain the land. Therefore, good madam, in your heart I leave his perfect picture, where it still shall stand, deeply engraved in that holy shrine, environed with love and thoughts divine. There may you see him as a God in glory, and as a man in miserable case. There may you read his true and perfect story, his bleeding body there you may embrace, and kiss his dying cheeks with tears of sorrow, with joyful grief you may entreat for grace, and all your prayers and your alms-deeds may bring to stop his cruel wounds that bleeds. Often times hath he made trial of your love, and in your faith hath took no small delight by crosses and afflictions he doth prove. Yet still your heart remaineth firm and right, your love so strong as nothing can remove, your thoughts being placed on him both day and night, your constant soul doth lodge between her breasts, this sweet of sweets in which all glory rests. Sometime he appears to thee in shepherd's weed, and so presents himself before thine eyes, a good old man that goes his flock to feed. Thy color changes, and thy heart doth rise, Thou callst, he comes, thou findst his he indeed, thy soul conceives that he is truly wise, Nay more, desires that he may be the book, whereon thy eyes continually may look. Sometime imprisoned, naked, poor, and bare, full of diseases, impotent, and lame, blind, deaf, and dumb, he comes unto his fare, to see if yet she will remain the same.  Yea, thou bestowest all pains, all cost, all care, that may relieve him and his health prepare. These works of mercy are so sweet, so dear to him that is the Lord of life and love, that all thy prayers he vouchsafes to hear, and sends his holy spirit from above. Thy eyes are opened, and thou ceased so clear, no worldly thing can thy fair mind remove. Thy faith, thy prayers, and his special grace, doth open heaven where thou beholst his face. These are those keys St. Peter did possess, which with a spiritual power are given to thee, to heal the souls of those that do transgress by thy fair virtues, which if once they see unto the like they do their minds address, such as thou art, such they desire to be. If they be blind, thou givest to them their sight. If deaf or lame, they hear, and go upright. Yea, if possessed with any evil spirits, such power thy fair examples have obtained to cast them out, applying Christ's pure merits, by which they are bound and of all hurt restrained. If strangely taken, wanting sense or wits, thy faith applied unto their souls so pained, healeth all griefs, and makes them grow so strong, as no defects can hang upon them long. Thou being thus rich, no riches dost respect, nor dost thou care for any outward show. The proud that fair virtues rules neglect, desiring place thou fittest them below. All wealth and honour thou dost quite reject, if thou perceived that once it proves a foe, to virtue, learning, and the powers divine, thou mayst convert, but never will incline to foul disorder or licentiousness. But in thy modest veil dost sweetly cover the stains of other sins, to make themselves that by this means thou mayst in time recover those weak lost sheep that did so transgress, presenting them unto thy dearest lover, that when he brings them back unto his fold, in their conversation then he may behold thy beauty shining brighter than the sun, thine honour more than ever monarch gained, thy wealth exceeding his that kingdoms won, thy love unto his spouse, thy faith unfaigned, thy constancy in what thou hast begun, till thou his heavenly kingdom have obtained, respecting worldly wealth to be but dross, which, if abused, doth prove the owner's loss. Great Cleopatra's love to Antony can no way be compared unto thine. She left her love in his extremity, when greatest need should cause her to combine her force with his to get the victory. Her love was earthly, and thy love divine. Her love was only to support her pride, humility, thy love, and thee doth guide. That glorious part of death which last she played, to appease the ghost of her deceased love, had never needed, if she could have stayed when his extremes made trial, and did prove her leaden love unconstant and afraid. Their wicked wars the wrath of God might move to take revenge for chaste Octavia's wrongs, because she enjoys what unto her belongs. No, Cleopatra, though thou wert as fair as any creature in Antony's eyes, yea, though thou wert as rich, as wise, as rare as any pen could write, or wit devise, yet with this lady can't thou not compare, whose inward virtues all thy worth denies. Yet thou a black Egyptian dost appear, thou false, she true, and to her love more dear. She sacrifices to her dearest love with flowers of faith and garlands of good deeds. She flies not from him when afflictions prove. She bears his cross and stops his wounds that bleeds. She loves and lives chaste as the turtle dove. She attends upon him, and his flock she feeds. Yea, for one touch of death which thou didst try, a thousand deaths she every day doth die. Her virtuous life exceeds thy worthy death. Yea, she hath richer ornaments of state, shining more glorious than in dying breath thou didst, when either pride or cruel fate did work thee to prevent double death. To stay the malice, scorn, and cruel hate of Rome, that joy to see thy pride pulled down, whose beauty wrought the hazard of her crown. Good madam, though your modesty be such not to acknowledge what we know and find, and that you think these praises over much which do express the beauty of your mind, yet pardon me, although I give a touch unto their eyes, that else would be so blind as not to see thy store and their own wants, from whose fair seeds of virtue spring these plants. And know, when first into this world I came, this charge was given me by the eternal powers, the everlasting trophy of thy fame, to build and deck it with the sweetest flowers that virtue yields. Then, madam, do not blame me, when I show the world but what is yours, and deck you with that crown which is your due, that of heaven's beauty, earth, may take of you. Though famous women elder times have known, whose glorious actions did appear so bright, that powerful men by them were overthrown, and all their armies overcome in fight, the Scythian women by their power alone put King Darius unto shameful flight, all Asia yielded to their conquering hand, great Alexander could not their power withstand. Whose worth, though written lines of blood and fire, is not to be compared unto thine. Their power was small to overcome desire, or to direct their ways by virtue's line.  Wise Deborah, that judged Israel, nor Valiant Judith cannot equal thee. Unto the first, God did his will reveal, and gave her power to set his people free. Yea, Judith had the power likewise to quell proud holy fairness, that the just might see what small defense vain pride and greatness hath against the weapons of God's word and faith. But thou far greater war dost still maintain, against that many-headed monster's sin, whose mortal sting hath many thousands slain, and every day fresh combats do begin. Yet cannot all his venom lay one stain upon thy soul, thou dost the conquest win, though all the world he daily doth devour, yet over thee he never could get power. For that one worthy deed by Deborah done, thou hast performed many in thy time, for that one conquest, that fair Judith won, by which she did the steps of honor climb, thou hast the conquest of all conquests won, when to thy conscience hell can lay no crime. For that one head that Judith bear away, thou takes'd from sin a hundred heads a day. Though virtuous Hester fasted three-day space, and spent her time in prayers all that while, that by God's power she might obtain such grace, that she and hers might not become a spoil to wicked Haman, in whose crabid face was seen the map of malice, envy, guile. Her glorious garments though she put apart, so to present a pure and single heart to God, in sackcloth, ashes, and with tears. Yet must fair Hester needs give place to thee, who hath continued days, weeks, months, and years in God's true service, yet thy heart being free from doubt of death and any other fears, fasting from sin, thou praised thine eyes may see him that hath possession of thine heart, from whose sweet love thy soul can never part. His love, not fear, makes thee to fast and pray. No kinsman's countal needs thee to advise. The sackcloth thou dost wear both night and day is worldly troubles, which thy rest denies.  Yachim's wife, that fair and constant dame, who rather chose a cruel death to die, than yield to those two elders void of shame, when both at once her chastity did try, whose innocence he bear away the blame, until the Almighty Lord had hurt her cry, and raised the spirit of a child to speak, making the powerful judged of the weak. Although her virtue do deserve to be rich by that hand that never purchased blame, in holy writ where all the world may see her perfect life and ever honored name, yet was she not to be compared to thee, whose many virtues do increase thy fame, for she opposed against old doting lust, who with life's dangers she did fear to trust. But your chaste breath guarded with strength of mind, hates the embracements of unchaste desires. You loving God, live in yourself, confined from unpure love, your purest thoughts, retires. Your perfect sight could never be so blind to entertain the old or young desires of idle lovers, which the world presents, whose base abuses worthy minds prevents. Even as the constant laurel, always green, no parching heat of summer can deface, nor pinching winter ever yet was seen, whose nipping frosts could wither or disgrace. So you, dear lady, still remain as queen, subduing all affections that are base, unalterable by the change of times, not following, but lamenting others' crimes. No fear of death or dread of open shame hinders your perfect heart to give consent, nor loathsome age, whom time could never tame from ill designs, where too their youth was bent. But love of God, care to preserve your fame, and spend that precious time that God hath sent in all good exercises of the mind, where too your noble nature is inclined. That Ethiopian queen did gain great fame, who from the southern world did come to see great Solomon, the glory of whose name had spread itself o'er all the earth, to be so great that all the princes did there came, to be spectators of his royalty. And this fair queen of Sheba came from far to reverence this new appearing star, from the utmost part of all the earth she came, to hear the wisdom of this worthy king, to try if wonder did agree with fame, and many fair rich presence did she bring. Yea, many strange, hard questions she did frame, all which were answered by this famous king. Nothing was hid that in her heart did rest, and all to prove this king so highly blessed. Here majesty with majesty did meet. Wisdom to wisdom yielded true content. One beauty did another beauty greet. Bounty to bounty never could repent. Here all distaste is trodden under feet. No loss of time where time was so well spent in virtuous exercises of the mind, in which this queen did much contentment find. Spirits affect where they do sympathize. Wisdom desires wisdom to embrace. Virtue covets her like, and doth devise how she her friends may entertain with grace. Beauty sometimes is pleased to feed her eyes, with viewing beauty in another's face. Good and bad in this point to agree, that each desireth with his like to be. And this desire did work a strange effect, to draw a queen forth of her native land, not yielding to the niceness and respect of woman kind. She passed both sea and land all fear of danger she did quite neglect. Only to see, to hear, and understand, that beauty, wisdom, majesty and glory that in her heart impressed his perfect story. This fair map of majesty and might was but a figure of thy dearest love, born to express that true and heavenly light that doth all other joys imperfect prove. If this fair earthly star did shine so bright, what doth that glorious sun that is above? Who wears the imperial crown of heaven and earth, and made all Christians, blessed in his birth? If that small sparkle could yield so great a fire as to inflame the hearts of many kings, to come to see, to hear, and to admire his wisdom tending but to worldly things, then much more reason have we to desire that heavenly wisdom which salvation brings. The sun of righteousness that gives true joys, when all they sought for were but earthly toys. No travels ought the affected soul to shun, that this fair heavenly light desires to see. This king of kings to whom we all should run, to view his glory and his majesty. He without whom we had all been undone. He that from sin and death hath set us free, and overcome Satan, the world, and sin, that by his merits we those joys might win. Prepared by him whose everlasting throne is placed in heaven above the starry skies, where he that set was like the jasper stone, who rightly knows him shall be truly wise. A rainbow round about his glorious throne. Nay more, those winged beasts so full of eyes that never cease to glorify his name, who was and will be, and is now the same. This is that great almighty Lord that made both heaven and earth, and lives for evermore. By him the world's foundation first was laid. He framed the things that never were before. The sea within his bounds by him is stayed. He judgeth all alike both rich and poor. All might, all majesty, all love, all law remains in him that keeps all worlds in awe. From his eternal throne the lightning came. Thunderings and voices did from thence proceed, and all the creatures glorified his name. In heaven, in earth, and seas they all agreed, when lo that spotless lamb so void of blame, that for us died, whose sins did make him bleed. That true physician that so many heals, opened the book, and did undo the seals.  This is that cornerstone that was forsook, who leaves it, trusts but to uncertainty. This is God's son, in whom he is well pleased, his dear beloved, that his wrath appeased. He that had power to open all the seals, and summon up our sins of blood and wrong. He unto whom the righteous souls appeals, that have been martyred, and do think it long. To whom in mercy he his will reveals, that they should rest a little in their wrong, until their fellow-servant should be killed, even as they were, and that they were fulfilled. Pure-thoughted lady, blessed be thy choice of this almighty everlasting king. In thee his saints and angels do rejoice, and to their heavenly Lord do daily sing thy perfect praises in their loudest voice, and all their harps and golden vials bring, full of sweet odours, even thy holy prayers unto that spotless lamb that all repairs. Of whom that heathen queen obtains such grace, by honouring but the shadow of his love, that great judicial day to have a place, condemning those that do unfaithful prove. Among the hapless, happy is her case, that her dear saviour spake for her behove, and that her memorable act should be writ by the hand of true eternity. Yet this rare phoenix of that worn-out age, this great majestic queen that comes short of thee, who to an earthly prince did then engage her heart's desires, her love, her liberty, acting her glorious part upon a stage of weakness, frailty, and infirmity, giving all honour to a creature, due to her creator, whom she never knew. But lo! a greater thou hast sought and found than Solomon in all his royalty, and unto him thy faith most firmly bound to serve and honour him continually, that glorious God, whose terror doth confound all sinful workers of iniquity, him hast thou truly served all thy life, and for his love lived with the world at strife. To this great Lord, though only art affected, yet came he not in pomp or royalty, but in an humble habit, base, dejected, a king, a god, clad in mortality. He hath thy love, thou art by him directed, his perfect path was fair humility, who, being monarch of heaven, earth, and seas, endured all wrongs, yet no man did displease. Then how much more art thou to be commended, that seeks thy love in lowly shepherd's weed? A seeming tradesman's son, of none attended, save of a few in poverty and need? Poor fisherman that on his love attended, his love that makes so many thousands bleed, thus did he come to try our faiths the more, possessing worlds yet seeming extreme poor. The pilgrims' travels on the shepherd's cares he took upon him to enlarge our souls. What pride hath lost humility repairs, for by his glorious death he us in rolls, in deep characters, writ with blood and tears, upon those blessed everlasting scrolls. His hands, his feet, his body, and his face, whence freely flowed the rivers of his grace. Sweet holy rivers, pure celestial springs, proceeding from the fountain of our life. Swift sugared currents that salvation brings, clear crystal streams, purging all sin and strife. Fair floods, where souls do bathe their snow-white wings, before they fly to true eternal life. Sweet nectar and ambrosia, food of saints, which whoso tasteth never after faints. This honey-dropping dew of holy love, sweet milk, wherewith we weaklings are restored, who drinks thereof a world can never move, all earthly pleasures are of them abhorred. This love made martyrs many deaths to prove, to taste his sweetness whom they so adored, sweetness that makes our flesh a burden to us, knowing it serves but only to undo us. His sweetness sweetened all the sour of death, to faithful Stephen his appointed saint, who by the rivers stones did loose his breath, when pained nor terrors could not make him faint. So was this blessed martyr turned to earth, to glorify his soul by death's attained. This holy saint was humbled and cast down, to win in heaven an everlasting crown. Whose face replete with majesty and sweetness, did as an angel unto them appear. That sat in council hearing his discreetness, seeing no change or any sign of fear. But with a constant brow did there confess Christ's high desserts, which were to him so dear. Yea, when these tyrants' storms did most oppress, Christ did appear to make his grief the less. For being filled with the holy ghost, up unto heaven he looked with steadfast eyes, where God appeared with his heavenly host in glory to his saint before he dies. Although he could know earthly pleasures boast, at God's right hand sweet Jesus he aspires, bids them behold heaven's open, he doth see the Son of Man at God's right hand to be.  Keeping up joys where sorrows most were rife, such sweetness could not choose but be embraced. The food of souls, the spirit's only treasure, the paradise of our celestial pleasure. This Lamb of God, who died and was alive, presenting us the bread of life eternal, his bruised body powerful to revive our sinking souls out of the pit infernal. For by this blessed food he did contrive a work of grace, by this his gift external with heavenly manna, food of his elected, to feed their souls of whom he is respected. This wheat of heaven the blessed angel's bread, wherewith he feeds his dear adopted heirs, sweet food of life that doth revive the dead, and from the living takes away all cares. To taste this sweet St. Lawrence did not dread, the broiling gridiron cooled with holy tears, yielding his naked body to the fire, to taste this sweetness, such was his desire.  The princes of the apostles were so filled with the delicious sweetness of his grace, that willingly they yielded to be killed, receiving deaths that were most vile and base, for his name's sake, that all might be fulfilled. They with great joy all torments did embrace, the ugliest face that death could ever yield, could never fear these champions from the field. They still continued in their glorious fight against the enemies of flesh and blood, and in God's law did set their whole delight, suppressing evil and directing good. Not sparing kings in what they did not write, their noble acts they sealed with dearest blood. One chose the gallows that unseemly death, the other by the sword did lose his breath.  Lo, madam, here you take a view of those whose worthy steps you do desire to tread, decked in those colors which our Saviour chose, the purest colors both of white and red, their freshest beauties would I feign disclose, by which our Saviour most was honoured, but my weak muse desireth now to rest, folding up all their beauties in your breast, whose excellence hath raised my sprites to write, of what my thoughts could hardly apprehend. Your rarest virtues did my soul delight, great lady of my heart. I must commend you that appear so fair in all men's sight. On your deserts my muses do attend.  All what I am, I rest at your command. End of Part 5 Part 6 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elizabeth Clett. Salve Deus Rex Euderum by Emilia Lanier Part 6 The Description of Cookham Farewell, sweet Cookham, where I first obtained grace from that grace where perfect grace remained, and where the muses gave their full consent, I should have power the virtuous to content, where princely pallet willed me to indict the sacred story of the soul's delight. Farewell, sweet place where virtue then did rest, and all delight did harbour in her breast. Never shall my sad eyes again behold those pleasures which my thoughts did then unfold. Yet you, great lady, mistress of that place, from whose desires did spring this work of grace, felt safe to think upon those pleasures past as fleeting worldly joys that could not last, or as dim shadows of celestial pleasures which are desired above all earthly treasures. O how, me thought, against you thither came, each part did seem some new delight to frame! The house received all ornaments to grace it, and would endure no fouliness to deface it. The walks put on their summer liveries, and all things else did hold like similes. The trees with leaves with fruits with flowers clad embraced each other, seeming to be glad, turning themselves to beautyous canopies, to shade the bright sun from your brighter eyes. The crystal streams with silver spangles graced, while by the glorious sun they were embraced. The little birds in chirping notes did sing to entertain both you and that sweet spring, and Philamella, with her sundry lays, both you and that delightful place did praise. O how, me thought, each plant, each flower, each tree set forth their beauties then to welcome thee! The very hills right humbly did descend when you to tread upon them did intend, and as you set your feet they still did rise, glad that they could receive so rich a prize. The gentle winds did take delight to be among those woods that were so graced by thee, and in sad murmur uttered pleasing sound, that pleasure in that place might more abound. The swelling banks delivered all their pride, when such a phoenix once they had aspired. Each arbor, bank, each seat, each stately tree, thought themselves honoured in supporting thee. The pretty birds would oft come to attend thee, yet fly away for fear they should offend thee. The little creatures in the borough by would come abroad to sport them in your eye, yet fearful of the bow in your fair hand would run away when you did make a stand. Now let me come unto that stately tree, wherein such goodly prospects you did see, that oak that did in height his fellow's pass, as much as lofty trees, low growing grass, much like a calmly cedar, straight and tall, whose beautyous stature far exceeded all. How often did you visit this fair tree, which seeming joyful in receiving thee, would like a palm tree spread his arms abroad, desirous that you should there make a bowed, whose fair green leaves much like a calmly veil, defended Phoebus when he would assail, whose pleasing bows did yield a cool, fresh air, joying his happiness when you were there. Where being seated you might plainly see hills, veils, and woods, as if on bended knee they had appeared your honour to salute, or to prefer some strange unlooked-for suit, all interlaced with brooks and crystal springs, a prospect fit to please the eyes of kings, and thirteen shires appeared all in your sight, Europe could not afford much more delight. What was there then but gave you all content, while you the time and meditation spent, of their creator's power which there you saw, in all his creatures held a perfect law, and in their beauties did you plain describe his beauty, wisdom, grace, love, majesty. In these sweet woods how often did you walk, with Christ and his apostles there to talk, placing his holy writ in some fair tree, to meditate what you therein did see. With Moses did you mount his holy hill, to know his pleasure and perform his will, with lovely David did you often sing, his holy hymns to heaven's eternal king, and in sweet music did your soul delight to sound his praises morning, noon, and night. With blessed Joseph you did often feed your pined brethren when they stood in need, and that sweet lady sprung from Clifford's race, of noble Bedford's blood, fair stream of grace, to honourable Dorset now espoused, in whose fair breast true virtue then was housed. What delight did my weak spirits find in those pure parts of her well-framed mind, and yet it grieves me that I cannot be near unto her, whose virtues did agree with those fair ornaments of outward beauty, which did enforce from all both love and duty. Unconstant fortune thou art most to blame, who casts us down into so low a frame, where our great friends we cannot daily see, so great a difference is there and to agree. Many are placed in those orbs of state, partners in honour so adorn by fate, nearer in show yet farther off in love, in which the lowest always are above. But whither am I carried in conceit, my wit too weak to constour of the great? Why not, although we are but born of earth, we may behold the heavens despising death, and loving heaven that is so far above, may in the end vouchsafe us entire love. Therefore, sweet memory, do thou retain those pleasures past which will not turn again. Remember, beautyous Dorset's former sports, so far from being touched by ill reports, wherein myself did always bear heart, while Reverend Love presented my true heart. Those recreations let me bear in mind which her sweet youth and noble thoughts did find, whereof deprived I ever more must grieve, hating, blind, fortune, careless to relieve. And you, sweet cook'em, whom these ladies leave, I now must tell the grief you did conceive at their departure, when they went away, how everything retained a sad dismay. Nay long before, when one an inkling came, we thought each thing did unto sorrow frame. The trees that were so glorious in our view, forsook both flowers and fruit when once they knew of your depart, their very leaves did wither, changing their colours as they grew together. But when they saw this had no power to stay you, they often wept, though speechless, could not pray you, letting their tears in your fair bosoms fall, as if they said, Why will ye leave us all? This being vain, they cast their leaves away, hoping that pity would have made you stay. Their frozen tops, like ages' hoary hairs, shows their disasters languishing in fears.   Yet did I see a noble, grateful mind, requiting each according to their kind, forgetting not to turn and take your leave of these sad creatures, powerless to receive your favour, when with griefs you did depart, placing their former pleasures in your heart, giving great charge to noble memory, there to preserve their love continually. But specially the love of that fair tree, that first and last you did vouch safe to see, in which it pleased you oft to take the air, with noble dorset, then a virgin fair, where many a learned book was read and scanned to this fair tree, taking me by the hand. You did repeat the pleasures which had passed, seeming to grieve that they could no longer last.  Scorning a senseless creature should possess so rare a favour, so great happiness. No other kiss it could receive from me, for fear to give back what it took of thee. So I, ingrateful creature, did deceive it, of that which you vouch safe in love to leave it. And though it oft had given me much content, yet this great wrong I never could repent, but of the happiest made it most forlorn, to show that nothing's free from fortune's scorn, while all the rest with this most beautiest tree made their sad consort sorrow's harmony. The flowers that on the banks and walks did grow, crept in the ground the grass did weep for woe. The winds and water seemed to chide together, because you went away they knew not wither. And those sweet brooks that ran so fair and clear, with grief and trouble wrinkled did appear. Those pretty birds that won'ted were to sing, now neither sing nor chirp nor use their wing. But with their tender feet on some bare spray, warble forth sorrow and their own dismay. Fair Philemella leaves her mournful ditty, drowned in dead sleep, yet can procure no pity. Each arbor, bank, each seat, each stately tree, looks bare and desolate now, for want of thee. Turning green tresses into frosty gray, while in cold grief they wither all away. The sun grew weak, his beams no comfort gave, while all green things did make the earth their grave. Each briar, each bramble when you went away, caught fast your clothes, thinking to make you stay. Delightful echo won'ted to reply to our last words, did now for sorrow die. The house cast off each garment that might grace it, putting on dust and cobwebs to deface it. All desolation then there did appear, when you were going whom they held so dear. This last farewell to Cookham here I give, when I am dead thy name in this may live, wherein I have performed her noble haste, whose virtues lodge in my unworthy breast, and ever shall so long as life remains, tying my heart to her by those rich chains. Finis To the doubtful reader Gentle reader, if thou desire to be resolved why I give this title, Salve Deus recs you dar'em, know for certain that it was delivered unto me in sleep many years before I had any intent to write in this manner, and was quite out of my memory, until I had written the Passion of Christ, when immediately it came into my remembrance, what I had dreamt long before, and thinking at a significant token, that I was appointed to perform this work, gave the very same words I received in sleep as the fittest title I could devise for this book. End of Part 6 End of Salve Deus recs you dar'em, by Emilia Lanier