Works

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones; come, and buy:
If so be you ask me where
They do grow? I answer, there
Where my Julia's lips do smile;
There's the land, or cherry-isle;...

Give house-room to the best; 'tis never known
Virtue and pleasure both to dwell in one.

Thou gav'st me leave to kiss,
Thou gav'st me leave to woo;
Thou mad'st me think, by this
And that, thou lov'dst me too.

But I shall ne'er forget
How, for to make thee merry,...

To all our wounds here, whatsoe'er they be,
Christ is the one sufficient remedy.

Come guard this night the Christmas-Pie,
That the thief, though ne'er so sly,
With his flesh-hooks, don't come nigh
To catch it

From him, who all alone sits there,...

Christ never did so great a work but there
His human nature did in part appear;
Or ne'er so mean a piece but men might see
Therein some beams of His Divinity:
So that in all He did there did combine...

One birth our Saviour had; the like none yet
Was, or will be a second like to it.

Christ took our nature on Him, not that He
'Bove all things loved it for the purity:
No, but He dress'd Him with our human trim,
Because our flesh stood most in need of Him.

Christ, He requires still, wheresoe'er He comes
To feed or lodge, to have the best of rooms:
Give Him the choice; grant Him the nobler part
Of all the house: the best of all's the heart.

Christ was not sad, i' th' garden, for His own
Passion, but for His sheep's dispersion.

Justly our dearest Saviour may abhor us,
Who hath more suffered by us far, than for us.

Thy former coming was to cure
My soul's most desp'rate calenture;
Thy second advent, that must be
To heal my earth's infirmity.

Christ, when He hung the dreadful cross upon,
Had, as it were, a dereliction
In this regard, in those great terrors He
Had no one beam from God's sweet majesty.

For punishment in war it will suffice
If the chief author of the faction dies;
Let but few smart, but strike a fear through all;
Where the fault springs there let the judgment fall.

Kings must not only cherish up the good,
But must be niggards of the meanest blood.

Though from without no foes at all we fear,
We shall be wounded by the clothes we wear.

Away with silks, away with lawn,
I'll have no scenes or curtains drawn;
Give me my mistress as she is,
Dress'd in her nak'd simplicities;
For as my heart e'en so mine eye
Is won with flesh, not drapery.

Those garments lasting evermore,
Are works of mercy to the poor,
Which neither tettar, time, or moth
Shall fray that silk or fret this cloth.

He that ascended in a cloud, shall come
In clouds descending to the public doom.

Bell-man of night, if I about shall go
For to deny my Master, do thou crow!
Thou stop'st Saint Peter in the midst of sin;
Stay me, by crowing, ere I do begin;
Better it is, premonish'd, for to shun...