Strength stoops unto the grave:
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate:
Earth still holds ope her gate.
Come, come, the bells do cry;
I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

Wit with his wontonness,
Tasteth death's bitterness.
Hell's executioner

Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply:
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us!

Haste therefore each degree
To welcome destiny:
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage.
Mount we unto the sky;
I am sick, I must die.

Lord have mercy on us!

Thomas Campion (1567?-1619)

O come quickly!

EVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,

NEVE

Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more, Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:

O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise, Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes: Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessèd only see:

O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!

Awake, awake! thou heavy

A

sprite

WAKE, awake! thou heavy sprite
That sleep'st the deadly sleep of sin!
Rise now and walk the ways of light,
'Tis not too late yet to begin.

Seek heaven early, seek it late:
True Faith finds still an open gate.

Get up, get up, thou leaden man!
Thy track to endless joy or pain,
Yields but the model of a span:

Yet burns out thy life's lamp in vain !
One minute bounds thy bane or bliss:
Then watch and labour while time is.

Anonymous

Song of Mary the Mother of

H

Christ

IERUSALEM, my happy home,
When shall I come to thee?

When shall my sorrows have an end,

Thy joys when shall I see?

O happy harbour of the Saints!
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In thee no sorrow may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil.

There lust and lucre cannot dwell,
There envy bears no sway:
There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,
But pleasure every way.

Thy walls are made of precious stones,
Thy bulwarks diamonds square;
Thy gates are of right orient pearl,
Exceeding rich and rare.

Thy turrets and thy pinnacles
With carbuncles do shine:
Thy very streets are paved with gold
Surpassing clear and fine.

Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem,
Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see!

Thy gardens and thy gallant walks

Continually are green ;

There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers

As nowhere else are seen.

Quite through the streets, with silver sound, The flood of Life doth flow;

Upon whose banks on every side

The wood of Life doth grow.

There trees for evermore bear fruit,
And evermore do spring;
There evermore the angels sit,
And evermore do sing.

Our Lady sings Magnificat
With tones surpassing sweet;
And all the virgins bear their part,
Sitting about her feet.

Hierusalem, my happy home,

Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see!

Anonymous

The Coming of the King

ET if His Majesty, our sovereign lord
Should of his own accord

YT

Friendly himself invite,

And say 'I'll be

your guest to morrow night,' How should we stir ourselves, call and command

All hands to work! Let no man idle stand.