William Drummond (1585-1649)
The World: A Book to be Read
F this fair volume which we World do call,
If we the sheets and leaves would turn with care
Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare;
Find out His power which wildest arts doth tame,
His providence extending everywhere,
His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
In every page, no period of the same:
But silly we, like foolish children, rest
Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold:
Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is best,
Of the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold:
Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
It is some picture on the margin wrought.
George Wither (1588-1667)
WEET baby, sleep! what ails my dear,
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear,
To hear me sing thy lullaby:
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep:
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blesséd soul, what canst thou fear?
What thing to thee can mischief do?
Thy God is now thy Father dear,
His holy Spouse, thy Mother too.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep:
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;
For whosoever thee offends
By thy Protector threaten'd are,
And God and Angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep:
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.,
When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes He took delight;
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
Are ever precious in His sight.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep:
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was He;
And strength in weakness then was laid
Upon His Virgin Mother's knee,
That power to thee might be convey'd.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep:
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of kings, when He was born,
Had not so much for outward ease:
By Him such dressings were not worn,
Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep:
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord,
Where oxen lay, and asses fed:
Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
easy cradle or a bed.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this,
A promise and an earnest got
Of gaining everlasting bliss,
Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not;
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Inward Comfort
Written during the time of the Author's imprisonment in the Marshalsea
row that my body dead-alive,
Bereaved of comfort, lies in thrall,
Do thou, my soul, begin to thrive,
And unto honey turn this gall;
So shall we both through outward woe,
The way to inward comfort know.
As to the flesh we food do give,
To keep us in this mortal breath:
So souls on meditations live
And shun thereby immortal death;
Nor art thou ever nearer rest,
Than when thou find'st me most opprest.
First think, my soul, if I have foes
That take a pleasure in my care,
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