Phineas Fletcher

His little son into his bosom creeps, The lively picture of his father’s face.

His life is neither tossed in boisterous seas Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease.

He is as cowardly Who longer fears to live, as he who fears to die.

Who bathes in worldly joys, swims in a world of fears.

In Heaven they scorned to serve, so now in Hell they reign.

When needs he must, yet faintly then he praises; Somewhat the deed, but more the means, he raises: So marreth what he makes, and praising most, dispraises.

Poorly (poor man) he lived; poorly (poor man) he died.

The way to God is by ourselves.

The coward’s weapon, poison.

Only in love they happy prove Who love what most deserves their love.

Love is like linen; often changed, the sweeter.

Beauty when most unclothed is clothed best.

Love’s tongue is in the eyes.

In your deep floods Drown all my faults and fears; Not let His eye See sin, but through my tears.

Drop, drop, slow tears, And bathe those beauteous feet, Which brought from Heaven The news and Prince of Peace.

Thus fell that prince of darkness, once a bright And shining star [...]: To be in Heaven the second he disdains; So now the first in Hell and flames he reigns, Crowned once with joy and light: crowned now with fire and pains.